The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Alhambra, by Albert F. Calvert.

taste with himself, who ruined the little architectural gem. The ruin yet offers a specimen of minute and beautiful tarkish—stucco-work—that even the lovely examples of the Alhambra itself cannot surpass. An illustration at p. 445, from a drawing of about the year 1830, ’ere the spoiler came, will give an idea of the departed beauty of the jewelled building.

APPENDIX.

Moresco-Spanish Ballads.

Selected from the Translations of John Gibson Lockhart.

LOCKHART’S intention was to furnish the English reader with some notion of that old Spanish minstrelsy preserved in the different Cancioneros and Romanceros of the Sixteenth Century; he owns, however, than only a Spaniard can achieve for his native chansons what Percy, Ellis, or Ritson has done for English ballads. Until such a Spanish editor arises, it seems impossible to determine to what period the composition of the oldest Spanish ballads now extant ought to be referred.

The first collection of romantic Spanish ballads, that of Ferdinand de Castillo, was published so early as 1510; and, as the title of the book declares that the volume contains the ancient and modern songs of the Troubadours of Spain, it is clear that a certain number of the pieces were then considered ancient. There are not wanting circumstances which would seem to establish for many of the Spanish ballads a claim to antiquity much higher than is to be inferred from this date; for, in the General Chronicle of Spain, which was compiled in the fourteenth century at the instance of Alfonso the Wise, allusions are constantly made to the popular songs of the minstrels, or Joglares. One thing is certain, that the Spaniards are in possession of the oldest, as well as the largest, collection of popular ballad poetry, properly so called, than is to be found in the literature of any other European nation; and Lockhart very pertinently puts the enquiry, “Had there been published at London, in the reign of our eighth Henry, a vast collection of English ballads about the wars of the Plantagenets, what illustration and annotation would not that collection have received ere now?”

It is fair, perhaps, to conclude that a great and remarkable influence was exerted over Spanish thought and feeling—and, therefore, over Spanish language and poetry—by the influx of those Oriental tribes who occupied, for long centuries, the fairest provinces of Spain; particularly when it is remembered that the Christian youth studied freely and honourably at the feet of Jewish and Mohammedan philosophers.

Throughout the oldest Spanish ballads there breathes a spirit of charity towards their Moorish enemies, for, in spite of adverse faith, in spite of adverse interests, they had much in common. Loves, and sports—nay, sometimes their haughtiest recollections—were in common; and even their heroes were the same: Bernardo del Carpio, Fernan Gonzalez, the Cid himself, had, at some period of their lives, fought beneath the standard of the Crescent, and the minstrels of either nation had equal pride in the celebration of their prowess. Even in the ballads most exclusively devoted to the records of feats of Spanish heroism, it is quite common to find some handsome compliment paid to the Moors. And when, at a later period, the conquest of Granada had mingled the Spaniards with the persons and manners of the Moors, the Spanish ballad-mongers still celebrated the achievements of their Saracen rivals; and the compliment towards “the Knights of Granada, gentlemen, albeit Moors,”

Caballeros Granadinos
Aunque Moros hijos d’algo,

The ballads of Moorish origin are rather of the romantic than the historical class. They were sung in the villages of Andalusia in either language, but to the same tunes, and listened to with equal pleasure by Mussulman and Christian. In these strains, says Lockhart, whatever merits or demerits they may possess, they present a lively picture of the life of the Arabian Spaniard. We see him as he was in reality, “like steel among weapons—like wax among women.”

There came, indeed, a time when the fondness of the Spaniards for their Moorish ballads was made a matter of reproach; but this was not till long after the period when Spanish bravery had recovered the last fragments of the Peninsula from the Moslem.

The greater part of the Moorish ballads refer to the period immediately preceding, and at the time of the downfall of the throne of Granada. The amours of that splendid court; the bull fights, and other spectacular displays in which its lords and ladies delighted no less than those of the Christian courts of Spain; the feuds of the two great families of the Zegris and the Abencerrages, which contributed so largely to the ruin of the Moorish cause; and the incidents of the last war, in which the power of the Moslem was entirely overthrown by the arms of Ferdinand and Isabella.

The ballad, composed on the departure from Granada of the Moors, is a specimen of romantic minstrelsy which has never depended on historic truth. The allusion in the third stanza to the old white beard of the Moorish king seems to favour the conjecture that “Muley Hasen,” and not his son Boabdil, surrendered the keys of the fortress.

There was crying in Granada when the sun was going down—
Some calling on the Trinity—some calling on Mahoun!
Here passed away the Korán—there in the Cross was borne—
And here was heard the Christian bell, and there the Moorish horn;

Te Deum Laudamus! was up the Alcala sung:
Down from th’ Alhambra’s minarets were all the crescents flung;
The arms thereon of Aragon they with Castile’s display;
One king comes in in triumph—one weeping goes away!

Thus cried the weeper, while his hands his old white beard did tear,
“Farewell, farewell, Granada! thou city without peer!
Woe, woe thou pride of heathendom! seven hundred years and more
Have gone since first the faithful thy royal sceptre bore!

“Thou wert the happy mother of a high renownéd race;
Within thee dwelt a haughty line that now go from their place;
Within thee fearless knights did dwell, who fought with mickle glee
The enemies of proud Castile—the bane of Christientie!

“The mother of fair dames wert thou, of truth and beauty rare,
Into whose arms did courteous knights for solace sweet repair;
For whose dear sakes the gallants of Afric made display
Of might in joust and battle on many a bloody day!

“Here gallants held it little thing for ladies’ sake to die,
Or for the Prophet’s honour, and pride of Soldanry:
For here did valour flourish, and deeds of warlike might
Ennobled lordly palaces, in which was our delight.

“The gardens of thy Vega, its fields and blooming bowers—
Woe, woe! I see their beauty gone, and scatter’d all their flowers
No reverence can he claim, the king that such a land hath lost
On charger never can he ride, nor be heard among the host;
But in some dark and dismal place, where none his face may see,
There, weeping and lamenting, alone that king should be!”

Thus spake Granada’s king as he was riding to the sea,
About to cross Gibraltar’s Strait away to Barbary:
Thus he in heaviness of soul unto his queen did cry.—
(He had stopp’d and ta’en her in his arms, for together they did fly).

“Unhappy king! whose craven soul can brook”—(she ’gan reply)
“To leave behind Granada—who hast not heart to die—
Now for the love I bore thy youth, thee gladly could I slay!
For what is life to leave when such a crown is cast away?”

The Catholic zeal of Ferdinand and Isabella was gratified by the external conversion at least of great part of the Moors of Granada; but the inhabitants of the Sierra of Alpujarra, to which the remnant of the Moors had retired, resisted every effort of the priests who were sent among them, so that the order for baptism was at length enforced by arms. These Moorish mountaineers resisted strenuously, but were at length subdued, and, in great part, extirpated. Amongst many severe losses sustained by the Spanish forces in this guerilla warfare, was that recorded in the following ballad. The tragic story has been made familiar to English readers by the Bishop of Dromore’s exquisite version of “Rio Verde! Rio Verde!”

Fernando, king of Aragon, before Granada lies,
With dukes and barons many a one, and champions of emprise;
With all the captains of Castile that serve his lady’s crown,
He drives Boabdil from his gates, and plucks the Crescent down.

The Cross is rear’d upon the towers, for our Redeemer’s sake!
The king assembles all his powers, his triumph to partake;
Yet at the royal banquet, there’s trouble in his eye—
“Now speak thy wish, it shall be done, great king!” the lordings cry.

Then spake Fernando: “Hear, grandees! which of ye all will go,
And give my banner in the breeze of Alpujar to blow?
Those heights along, the Moors are strong; now who, by dawn of day,
Will plant the Cross their cliffs among, and drive the dogs away?”

Then champion on champion high, and count on count doth look;
And falt’ring is the tongue of lord, and pale the cheek of duke;
Till starts up brave Alonzo, the knight of Aguilar,
The lowmost at the royal board, but foremost still in war.

And thus he speaks: “I pray, my lord, that none but I may go:
For I made promise to the queen, your consort, long ago,
That ere the war should have an end, I, for her royal charms,
And for my duty to her grace, would show some feat of arms!”

Much joy’d the king these words to hear—he bids Alonzo speed;
And long before the revel’s o’er the knight is on his steed;
Alonzo’s on his milk-white steed, with horsemen in his train,
A thousand horse, a chosen band, ere dawn the hills to gain.

They ride along the darkling ways, they gallop thro’ the night;
They reach Nevada ere the cock hath harbinger’d the light;
But ere they’ve climb’d that steep ravine, the east is glowing red,
And the Moors their lances bright have seen, and Christian banners spread.

Beyond the sands, between the rocks, where the old cork-trees grow,
The path is rough, and mounted men must singly march and slow;
There, o’er the path, the heathen range their ambuscado’s line,
High up they wait for Aguilar, as the day begins to shine.

There, nought avails the eagle-eye, the guardian of Castile,
The eye of wisdom, nor the heart that fear might never feel,
The arm of strength, that wielded well the strong mace in the fray,
Nor the broad plate, from whence the edge of faulchion glanced away.

Not knightly valour there avails, nor skill of horse and spear;
For rock on rock comes rumbling down from cliff and cavern drear;
Down—down like driving hail they come, and horse and horsemen die;
Like cattle whose despair is dumb when the fierce lightnings fly.

Alonzo, with a handful more, escapes into the field,
There, like a lion, stands at bay, in vain besought to yield;
A thousand foes around are seen, but none draw near to fight;
Afar, with bolt and javelin, they pierce the steadfast knight.

A hundred and a hundred darts are hissing round his head;
Had Aguilar a thousand hearts, their blood had all been shed;
Faint, and more faint, he staggers upon the slippery sod,
At last his back is to the earth, he gives his soul to God!

With that the Moors plucked up their hearts to gaze upon his face,
And caitiffs mangled where he lay the scourge of Afric’s race;
To woody Oxijera then the gallant corpse they drew,
And there, upon the village green, they laid him out to view.

Upon the village-green he lay, as the moon was shining clear,
And all the village damsels to look on him drew near;
They stood around him all a-gaze, beside a big oak-tree,
And much his beauty they did praise, tho’ mangled sore was he.
Now, so it fell, a Christian dame, that knew Alonzo well,
Not far from Oxijera did as a captive dwell,
And hearing all the marvels, across the woods came she,
To look upon this Christian corpse, and wash it decently.

She look’d upon him, and she knew the face of Aguilar,
Although his beauty was defac’d with many a ghastly scar,
She knew him, and she cursed the dogs that pierced him from afar,
And mangled him when he was slain—the Moors of Alpujar.

The Moorish maidens, while she spake, around her silence kept,
But her master dragged the dame away—then loud and long they wept;
They washed the blood, with many a tear, from dint of dart and arrow,
And buried him near the waters clear of the brook of Alpujarra.

Gazul is the name of one of the Moorish heroes who figure in the “Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.” The following is one of many ballads in which the dexterity of Moorish cavaliers in the Bull-fight is described. The reader will observe that the shape, activity, and resolution of the animal destined to furnish the amusement of the spectators, are enlarged upon, just as the qualities of a modern racehorse might be amongst ourselves—nor is the bull without his name. The day of the Baptist is a festival of the Mussulmans, as well as amongst Christians:

King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound,
He hath summon’d all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains around;
From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil,
They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel.

’Tis the holy Baptist’s feast they hold in royalty and state,
And they have closed the spacious lists, beside the Alhambra’s gate;
In gowns of black with silver laced, within the tented ring,
Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed, in presence of the King.

Eight Moorish lords of valour tried, with stalwart arm and true,
The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through;
The deeds they’ve done, the spoils they’ve won, fill all with hope and trust
Yet, ’ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all have bit the dust!

Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour,
Make room, make room for Gazul!—throw wide, throw wide the door!
Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still! more loudly strike the drum!
The Alcaydé of Algava to fight the bull doth come.

And first before the King he passed, with reverence stooping low,
And next he bowed him to the Queen and th’ Infantas all a-rowe;
Then to his lady’s grace he turned, and she to him did throw
A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow.

With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand,
Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta’en his stand;
And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye,
But firmly he extends his arm—his look is calm and high.

Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on,
He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejón;
Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow,
He blindly totters and gives back across the sand to go.

“Turn, Gazul, turn!” the people cry: the third comes up behind,
Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind;
The mountaineers that lead the steers without stand whispering low,
“Now thinks this proud Alcaydé to stun Harpado so?”

From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil,
From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill;
But where from out the forest burst Xarama’s waters clear,
Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer.

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil,
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil.
His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow;
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe.

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near,
From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear;
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree,
Whereon the monster’s shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see,

His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night,
Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might;
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock,
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcaydé’s shock.

Now stops the drum; close, close they come; thrice meet, and thrice give back;
The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger’s breast of black;
The white foam of the charger on Harpado’s front of dun;
Once more advance upon his lance—once more, thou fearless one!

Once more, once more! in dust and gore to ruin must thou reel!
In vain, in vain thou tearest the sand with furious heel!
In vain, in vain, thou noble beast! I see, I see thee stagger,
Now keen and cold thy neck must hold the stern Alcaydé’s dagger!

They have slipped a noose around his feet, six horses are brought in,
And away they drag Harpado with a loud and joyful din;
Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow,
Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low.

The following exquisitely tender ballad has been often imitated by modern poets:

“Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town!
From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing,
And the dulcet lute doth speak between the trumpet’s lordly blowing;
And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere,
And the tall, tall plume of our cousin’s bridegroom floats proudly in the air;
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down:
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town!

“Arise, arise Xarifa! I see Andalla’s face—
He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace;
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquivir,
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never,

Yon tall plume waving o’er his brow, of purple mixed with white,
I guess ’twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night:—
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down:
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town!

“What aileth thee, Xarifa? what makes thine eyes look down?
Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town?
I’ve heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth,
Andalla rides without a peer, ’mong all Granada’s youth;
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow:—
Then rise, oh! rise, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down;
Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town!”

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down,
Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town;
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove,
And though her needle press’d the silk, no flower Xarifa wove;
One bonny rosebud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh;
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye.
“No, no!” she sighs; “bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down,
To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town!”

“Why rise ye not, Xarifa? nor lay your cushion down?
Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town?
Hear, hear the trumpet, how it swells, and how the people cry!
He steps at Zara’s palace-gate—why sit ye still?—oh, why?”

“At Zara’s gate stops Zara’s mate; in him shall I discover
The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover?
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down,
To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town!”

“My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they’ve dropped into the well,
And what to say to Músa, I cannot, cannot tell;”
’Twas thus, Granada’s fountain by, spoke Albuharez’ daughter—
“The well is deep—far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water;
To me did Músa give them, when he spake his sad farewell,
And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.

“My ear-rings! my ear-rings!—they were pearls, in silver set,
That, when my Moor was far away, I ne’er should him forget;
That I ne’er to another tongue should list, nor smile on other’s tale,
But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale,
When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well,
Oh! what will Músa think of me!—I cannot, cannot tell!

“My ear-rings! my ear-rings!—he’ll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere;
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well;
Thus will he think—and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

“He’ll think, when I to market went, I loitered by the way;
He’ll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say;
He’ll think some other lover’s hand among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed;
He’ll think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in—and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

“He’ll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same;
He’ll say, I loved, when he was here, to whisper of his flame,
But, when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Músa, and cared not for his token.
My ear-rings! my ear-rings! oh, luckless, luckless well!
For what to say to Músa, alas! I cannot tell.

“I’ll tell the truth to Músa—and I hope he will believe,
That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve:
That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone,
His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone;
And that my mind was o’er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies near my heart, as they lie in the well!”

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred,
At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard;
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow,
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe!
“What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief comes here bewailing?”
“A tower is fallen, a star is set!—Alas! alas for Celin!”
Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw;
Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go;
In gloomy lines they mustering stand, beneath the hollow porch,
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch;
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,
For all have heard the misery.—Alas! alas for Celin!

Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Ben-cerraji’s blood—
’Twas at the solemn jousting—around the nobles stood;
The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair
Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share;
But now the nobles all lament—the ladies are bewailing—
He was Granada’s darling knight.—Alas! alas for Celin!

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two,
With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view;
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil,
Between the tambour’s dismal strokes take up their doleful tale;
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing,
And all the people, far and near, cry—“Alas! alas for Celin!”

Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall,
The flower of all Granada’s youth, the loveliest of them all:
His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail;
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing,
Its sound is like no earthly sound—Alas! alas for Celin!

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door;
One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore;
Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew
Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue;
Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing,
From door and lattice high and low—“Alas! alas for Celin!”

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry—
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazing eye:
’Twas she that nursed him at her breast—that nursed him long ago;
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know!
With one deep shriek, she thro’ doth break, when her ears receive their wailing,
“Let me kiss my Celin ere I die.—Alas! alas for Celin!”

APPENDIX.

Index.