THE KEY, A MOORISH ROMANCE. "On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the keys of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning, and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra."-SCOTT'S TRAVELS IN MOROCCO AND ALGIERS. "Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?"-SANCHO PANZA. THE Moor leans on his cushion, One hand is on his pistol, yore His brows are knit, his eyes of jet And gleam with fatal flashes His jaws are set, and through his teeth As if about to raise the shout Of Victory or Death! For why? the last Zebeck that came Such tidings unto Tunis brought The cruel jar of civil war, The sad and stormy reign, That blackens like a thundercloud The sunny land of Spain! No strife of glorious Chivalry, But Christians shedding Christian blood A war of horrid parricide, Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs" That worry one another. 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 And those who pined in Barbary And proud Mohammed Ali sit "Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like Up springs the swarthy Moor, Across the hall, till from the wall, A massive Key of curious shape, And well three weary centuries That ancient Key, so quaint to see, 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 pass'd; O will it ever, ever ope Three hundred years and fifty-two 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, 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 No longer to one battle cry 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 The fleets decline, the merchants pine And gold is scant; and Alicante Is seal'd by strict blockade! The loyal fly, and Valour falls, 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 sow'd Well may he vow to spurn the Cross |