The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewelled hilt-
O! much of gore in days of yore
That crooked blade has split!

His brows are knit, his eyes of jet
In vivid blackness roll,

And gleam with fatal flashes

Like the fire-damp of the coal;

His jaws are set, and through his teeth He draws a savage breath,

As if about to raise the shout

Of Victory or Death!

For why

the last Zebeck that came

And moored within the mole

Such tidings unto Tunis brought

As stir his very soul

The cruel jar of civil war,

The sad and stormy reign,

That blackens like a thunder-cloud

The sunny land of Spain!

No strife of glorious Chivalry,
For honor's gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;

But Christians shedding Christian blood
Beneath the olive's branch!

A war of horrid parricide,

And brother killing brother;

Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs,'

But let them bite and tear and fight;
The more the Kaffers slay,

The sooner Hagar's swarming sons
Shall make the land a prey!

The sooner shall the Moor behold
The Alhambra's pile again,

And those who pined in Barbary
Shall shout for joy in Spain;

The sooner shall the Crescent wave
On dear Granada's walls,

And proud Mohammed Ali sit
Within his father's halls!

"Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like
Up springs the swarthy Moor,
And, with a wide and hasty stride,
Steps o'er the marble floor;

Across the hall, till from the wall.
Where such quaint patterns be,
With eager hand he snatches down
An old and massive key!

A massive key of curious shape,
And dark with dirt and rust,
And well three weary centuries.

The metal might incrust!

For since the king Boabdil fell
Before the native stock,

That ancient key, so quaint to sec,

Hath never been in lock.

Brought over by the Saracens

Who fled across the main,
A token of the secret hope
Of going back again;

From race to race, from hand to hand,
From house to house, it passed;
O, will it ever, ever ope
The palace gate, at last?

Three hundred years and fifty-two
On post and wall it hung-

Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny

The Prophet's will accords:

The time is come to scour the rust,

And lubricate the wards.

For should the Moor with sword and lance

At Algesiras land,

Where is the bold Bernardo now

Their progress to withstand?

To Burgos should the Moslem come,
Where is the noble Cid

Five royal crowns to topple down,

As gallant Diaz did?

Hath Xeres any Pounder now,

When other weapons fail,

With club to thrash invaders rash,

Like barley with a flail?

Hath Seville any Perez still,

To lay his clusters low,

And ride with seven turbans green

Around his saddle-bow?

No! never more shall Europe see

Such heroes brave and bold,

Such valor, faith, and loyalty,

As used to shine of old!

No longer to one battle-cry
United Spaniards run,

And with their thronging spears uphold

The Virgin and her Son!

From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay

Internal discord dwells,

And Barcelona bears the scars

Of Spanish shot and shells.

The fleets decline, the merchants pine

For want of foreign trade;

And gold is scant; and Alicante

Is sealed by strict blockade!

The loyal fly, and valor falls,

Opposed by court intrigue;

But treachery and traitors thrive,
Upheld by foreign league;

While factions seeking private ends

By turns usurping reign

Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor

Exulting point to Spain !

Well may he cleanse the rusty key

With Afric sand and oil,

And hope an Andalusian home

Shall recompense the toil!

Well may he swear the Moorish spear
Through wild Castile shall sweep,

And where the Catalonian sowed
The Saracen shall reap!

Well may he vow to spurn the Cross

Beneath the Arab hoof,

And plant the Crescent yet again

Above the Alhambra's roof,

When those from whom St. Jago's name
In chorus once arose

Are shouting faction's battle-cries,
And Spain forgets to "Close!"

Well may he swear his ataghan
Shall rout the traitor swarm,
And carve them into arabesques

That show no human form

The blame be theirs whose bloody feuds
Invite the savage Moor,

And tempt him with the ancient key
To seek the ancient door!

SONNETS.

TO THE OCEAN.

SHALL I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,

Sending my clay below, my soul above,

Whilst roared thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth?
Yet didst thou ne'er restore my fainting health?
Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, didst thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me? -
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!
Coblentz, May, 1835.