The Lovers Of Antequera

The brave Hamete reined his steed and from the crupper bent,
To greet fair Tartagona, who saw him with content,
The daughter of Zulema, who had many a foe repelled
From the castle on the hill, which he in Archidora held;
For six-and-thirty years he kept the Christian host at bay,
A watchful warden, fearless of the stoutest foes' array.
And now adown the well-known path, a secret path and sure,
Led by the noble lady, hurried the gallant Moor.
The sentinels beneath the wall were careless, or they slept;
They heeded not Hamete as down the slope he crept.
And when he reached the level plain, full twenty feet away,
He hobbled fast his courser, lest he should farther stray.
Then to the Moorish lady he turned, as if to speak,
Around her waist he flung his arms and kissed her on the cheek.
"O goddess of my heart," he said, "by actions I will prove,
If thou wilt name some high emprise, how faithful is my love!
And in Granada I am great, and have much honored been,
Both by the King Fernando and Isabel his Queen.
My name is high, my lineage long, yet none of all my line
Have reached the pitch of glory which men allow is mine.
Narvarez is a knight of name, in love and arms adept,
In Antequera's castle he well the marches kept.
Jarifa was a captive maid, he loved Jarifa well,
And oft the maiden visited within her prison cell.
And, if the thing with honor and virtuous heart may be,
What he did with Jarifa, that would I do with thee."
A star was shining overhead upon the breast of night,
The warrior turned his course, and led the lady by its light.
They reached the foot of one tall rock, and stood within the shade,
Where thousand thousand ivy leaves a bower of beauty made.
They heard the genet browsing and stamping as he fed,
And smiling Love his pinions over the lovers spread.
But ere they reached the pleasant bower, they saw before them stand,
Armed to the teeth, with frowning face, a strange and savage band.
Yes, seventy men with sword in hand surrounded dame and knight,
The robbers of the mountain, and they trembled at the sight!
With one accord these freebooters upon Hamete fell,
Like hounds that on the stag at bay rush at the hunter's call,
Burned the Moor's heart at once with wrath, at once with passion's flame,
To save the life and, more than life, the honor of his dame.
Straight to his feet he sprung and straight he drew his mighty sword,
And plunged into the robber crowd and uttered not a word.
No jousting game was e'er so brisk as that which then he waged;
On arm and thigh with deadly blow the slashing weapon raged;
Though certain was his death, yet still, with failing heart, he prayed
That till his lady could escape, that death might be delayed.
But, in the dark, a deadly stone, flung with no warning sound,
Was buried in his forehead and stretched him on the ground.
The breath his heaving bosom left and, from his nerveless hand,
The sword fell clattering to the ground, before that bloody band.
And when the damsel saw herself within those caitiffs' power,
And saw the city mantled in the darkness of the hour,
No grief that ever woman felt was equal to her pain,
And no despair like that of hers shall e'er be known again.
Those villains did not see those locks, that shone like threads of gold;
Only the summer sunlight their wondrous beauty told.
They did not mark the glittering chain of gold and jewels fine,
That in the daylight would appear her ivory throat to twine.
But straight she took the scimitar, that once her lover wore,
It lay amid the dewy grass, drenched to the hilt in gore.
And, falling on the bloody point, she pierced her bosom through,
And Tartagona breathed her last, mourned by that robber crew.
And there she lay, clasping in death her lover's lifeless face,
Her valor's paragon, and she the glass of woman's grace.
And since that hour the tale is told, while many a tear-drop falls,
Of the lovers of the vega by Antequera's walls.
And they praise the noble lady and they curse the robber band,
And they name her the Lucretia of fair Andalusia's land.
And if the hearer of the tale should doubt that it be true,
Let him pass along the mountain road, till Ronda comes in view,
There must he halt and searching he may the story trace
In letters that are deeply cut on the rocky mountain's face.