The Two Moorish Knights

Upon two mares both strong and fleet,
White as the cygnet's snowy wing,
Beneath Granada's arching gate
Passed Tarfe and Belchite's King.

Like beauty marks the dames they serve;
Like colors at their spear-heads wave;
While Tarfe kneels at Celia's feet,
The King is Dorelice's slave.

With belts of green and azure blue
The gallant knights are girded fair;
Their cloaks with golden orange glow,
And verdant are the vests they wear.

And gold and silver, side by side,
Are glittering on their garment's hem;
And, mingled with the metals, shine
The lights of many a costly gem.

Their veils are woven iron-gray,
The melancholy tint of woe--
And o'er their heads the dusky plumes
Their grief and desolation show.

And each upon his target bears
Emblazoned badges, telling true
Their passion and their torturing pangs,
In many a dark and dismal hue.

The King's device shines on his shield--
A seated lady, passing fair;
A monarch, with a downcast eye,
Before the dame is kneeling there.

His crown is lying at her feet
That she may spurn it in disdain;
A heart in flames above is set;
And this the story of his pain.

"In frost is born this flame of love"--
Such legend circles the device--
"And the fierce fire in which I burn
Is nourished by the breath of ice."

Upon her brow the lady wears
A crown; her dexter hand sustains
A royal sceptre, gilded bright,
To show that o'er all hearts she reigns.

An orb in her left hand she bears,
For all the world her power must feel;
There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame
Halts with her foot the whirling wheel.

But Tarfe's shield is blank and bare,
Lest Adelifa should be moved
With jealous rage, to learn that he
Her Moorish rival, Celia, loved.

He merely blazons on his targe
A peaceful olive-branch, and eyes
That sparkle in a beauteous face,
Like starlets in the autumn skies.

And on the branch of olive shines
This legend: "If thy burning ray
Consume me with the fire of love,
See that I wither not away."

They spurred their horses as they saw
The ladies their approach surveyed;
And when they reached their journey's end
The King to Dorelice said:

"The goddesses who reign above
With envy of thy beauty tell;
When heaven and glory are thy gifts,
Why should I feel the pangs of hell?

"Oh, tell me what is thy desire?
And does heaven's light more pleasure bring
Than to own monarchs as thy slaves,
And be the heiress to a king?

"I ask from thee no favor sweet;
Nor love nor honor at thy hand;
But only that thou choose me out
The servant of thy least command.

"The choicest nobles of the realm
The glory of this office crave;
The lowliest soldier, with delight,
Would die to prove himself thy slave.

"Each life, each heart is at thy feet;
Thou with a thousand hearts mayst live;
And if thou wouldst not grant my prayer,
Oh, take the warning that I give.

"For there are ladies in the court
To my desires would fain consent,
And lovely Bendarrafa once
These jealous words but lately sent:

"'Those letters and those written lines,
Why dost thou not their sense divine?
Are they not printed on thy heart
As thy loved image is on mine?

"'Why art thou absent still so long?
It cannot be that thou art dead?'"
Then ceased the King and silent stood,
While Tarfe to his Celia said:

"Celestial Celia be thy name;
Celestial calm is on thy brow;
Yet all the radiance of thy face
Thy cruelty eclipses now.

"A witch like Circe dost thou seem;
For Circe could o'ercloud the sky;
Oh, let the sun appear once more,
And bid the clouds of darkness fly!

"Ah, would to God that on the feast,
The Baptist's consecrated day,
I might my arms about thee fling
And lead thee from thy home away.

"Yet say not that 'tis in thy power
To yield or all my hopes to kill;
For thou shalt learn that all the world,
In leaguer, cannot bend my will.

"And France can tell how many a time
I fought upon the tented field,
And forced upon their bended knee
Her loftiest paladins to yield.

"I vanquished many a valiant knight
Who on his shield the lilies bore;
And on Vandalia's plain subdued
Of Red Cross warriors many a score.

"The noblest I had brought to yield
Upon Granada's gory plain,
Did I not shrink with such vile blood
The honor of my sword to stain."

At this the trumpets called to arms;
Without one farewell word each knight
Turned from the lady of his heart
And spurred his steed in headlong flight.