THE MAID OF ARRAGON.

THE MAID OF ARRAGON . OH , ye ! whose sympathetic hearts are form'd To woe responsive , and whose trem'lous nerves Vibrate to Sorrow's mournful airs — attend ! Not you , ye gay ! not you , ye vacant crouds ! Who labour through the pleasures of the world , Nor feel existence when they cease t'impel ; I call not you ! — for , oh , your callous bosoms Fell Dissipation steels , and robs your minds Of the sweet energies bestow'd by Heaven : But , come , ye few ! who love the lonely hour ; Who know the sense refin'd , the charming agony , Which Pity gives the hallow'd hearts she fills ; To you I call ! oh , come , and trace with me ( Whilst glitt'ring Hesperus holds high his torch ) The mazy windings of yon solemn wood . Behold the lawn , which opens on the left , With crocus border'd , aromatic thyme , And ev'ry fragrant shrub that tempts the bee Down from the liquid air , to bathe in sweets . The op'ning wicket of that humble cot , By slow degrees , moves gently on its hinge : And now , with cautious tread , the soft OSMIDA , Looking a blessing on her slumb'ring Sire , The threshold quits ; when , from his short repose , Aged ALMANZOR starts : — Where art thou , Child ? Where is my darling ? Oh ! return , OSMIDA ! Why wilt thou wander in Night's chilly air , And trust thy bosom to its piercing dews ? Return , my Child ! th' unpitying winds will shake Thy tender frame . — The night is calm , my Father ! Scarcely a zephyr moves the restless aspin ; And the clear moon , with soft inviting beam , Looks through the foliage of the lofty pines . A moment let me breathe the balmy air ! Confin'd beneath the cottage roof by fear , And more confin'd by duteous cares for thee , All day I live immur'd . Then let me now Taste Nature's blessings — exercise and air . Heaven guard my Child ! But soon return , OSMIDA ; And downy sleep shake slumbers on thy pillow ! OSMIDA quits the cot , and bends her steps Towards the margin of a neighb'ring lake : But not its lucid bosom tempts her steps , Nor moon inviting through the lofty pines , Nor balmy air , nor healthful exercise ; Ah , no ! — it is to breathe her bosom'd anguish , Where Grief , though audible , wastes her sad voice In ambient air — not torturing the ear Of the rever'd ALMANZOR , Sire belov'd ! Bending to earth , with eyes that penetrate The glowing canopy of heaven ; in sounds More mournful than the widow'd stock-dove's plaints — Tender as youthful mother's lulling song , She thus address'd Omnipotence divine : Oh , Thou ! in whose eternal , boundless sight , The woes , or happiness , that overpower The mind of finite man , seem but as drops , That in the vast abyss unite their littleness , To form one mighty whole — to Thee I pray ! Not for myself I pray , but for my Father ; For him whose care-worn heart , drooping , oppress'd , And torn with barbed griefs , seems torn from thee . His soul her wonted confidence forsakes ; He falls from thee ; he leans not on the rock , The sacred rock , by which alone he stands — And quitting , sinks to measureless despair . Oh , Thou , accept my humble heart for his ! Hear , hear ALMANZOR , in OSMIDA's voice ! 'Tis he implores . Bless , comfort , heal his griefs ; And to thyself attach his sorrow-tempted heart ! Next for my Country , Heav'n , oh , hear my pray'r ! Behold her struggles with a pitying eye ! Drive from thy temple-gates the mocking infidel ! Restore thy altars ! Send — The pious Virgin's voice , with terror choak'd , Unfinish'd left her pray'r . Forth , from the shade Of the surrounding thicket , rush'd a Knight , In shining armour clad , borne on a steed Who seem'd to scorn the earth , his light heel pass'd , As though his element had been the air : Swift , as the breath of fierce Euroclydon He bore his master to the spangled lake , Whose borders , by OSMIDA's knee still press'd , In thousand glowing colours bloom'd around her , In thousand scents perfum'd the tranquil air . Light vaulting on the ground , the Knight approach'd , And in such courteous phrase address'd the Maid , That half her terrors ended with his words . Leave me , Sir Knight ! with firmness she reply'd ; And as she spoke , her voice , though sweet , express'd A custom to command . Leave me , Sir Knight ! This solitude is to Misfortune sacred ; None ever tread these unfrequented wilds , But those to whom the door of sweet Society , And Friendship's holy gate , are shut forever . And can the social door , and Friendship's gate , To thee oppose their brazen locks ? O Heaven ! The peopled world thy angels have sorsook , And here in deserts dwell — in human form , But in celestial beauty ! Tell me , Virgin ! — For sure the awe , with which thy eye inspires , Bespeaks thy vestal state — tell me , fair Maid ! What ills , what sore affliction , thee have driven To seek , in these sequester'd shades , felicity By man refus'd ? My sorrows , gentle Knight ! I dare not whisper to the speechless air — Still less intrust them to a stranger's ear : Yet , from your courtesy , I must demand My solitude again ; and , as you hope For blessing from the Pow'r who hears my voice , Swear never to divulge , that in these glades A Maid you found — by outward beauty grac'd , But whose sad heart , Sorrow hath call'd her own , And stern Affliction long enroll'd a sister ! The Stranger paus'd : and then , as if to win Her confidence , and woo her from reserve By frank example , thus the Nymph address'd : To whom should I reveal this bless'd abode ? Whose feet conduct to violate your haunts ? I , who , like you , by keen misfortunes press'd , Seek shelter from the world ; and even now Forsake my native skies ; quit Gallia's shores , Her purple vineyards leave , her fertile meads , Her ever blooming fields — all these I quit — For these , to wretched hearts , bloom , swell , and fertilise , in vain . Unhappy Youth ! breath'd forth the sad OSMIDA ; And is Affliction's appetite so vast , That daily victims can't allay her rage ? But , gentle Knight ! where will your journey end ? What Porter waits to hear your bugle sound , And ope the gates , with welcome in his face To greet his honour'd Lord's expected guest ? Alas ! sweet Maid ! no hospitable gate DE COURCI seeks ; no welcome waits his steps : To Eastern climes I bend my weary course ; — Jerusalem the home which ends my progress . There let me bear your woes . Instruct me , Lady ! That at the Holy Sepulchre your name May animate my pray'rs ; that there your griefs May , sanctify'd , ascend the porch of heav'n , And , in their stead , soft peace , and blooming joy , Return into your breast . That duty pass'd , My sword shall lend its vigour to the cause — The sacred cause , which arms our Christian legions , And drains our cities of their val'rous Knights . OSMIDA's eye , beaming with new-born hope , And gratitude awak'd , shot forth her thoughts , Ere from her vermeil lips these accents stole — In breath more fragrant than an Eastern morn : Wilt thou remember me at Zion's gate ? And shall my sorrows from the holy cave , In which the Saviour drew his second breath , Ascend to the Almighty's throne ? — Again She stopp'd , and check'd her growing frankness . The Stranger saw instinctive prudence rise , And fear'd to give the virtue time to act . Yes , he rejoin'd , with zeal more pure and ardent Than converts feel , who , at the holy altar , Bewail a life of curst idolatry , Will I your sorrows pour , in that bless'd spot Where Sorrow surely cannot plead in vain . Struck with the piety which deck'd his words , Yet doubting still , the timid , trusting Virgin , In silence , with herself thus cogitates : A Christian Knight he is , and with his life Now hast'ning to support the Christian cause . Oceans and continents will soon divide us : Why then the knowledge of my woes with-hold , When bless'd Benevolence demands the tale ? Then , turning to the Stranger , meekly said — Such kind persuasion confidence demands ; Yet patience will you need , whilst I relate Events so strong , they fitter would become A manly tongue . Of battles I must speak , Of falling kingdoms , and victorious arms . These strains accord not with a female voice ; Yet will I strive to nerve my thoughts and language , And raise my fancy to the lofty theme . But not alone of war shall I discourse , Of meeting armies , or contending states . — Here on this sloping bank , Sir Knight , repose ; And I a tale — for Pity — will unfold , Were Pity's tears innum'rous as the sands . The Knight , with token of respect , obey'd . OSMIDA , with the grace of sweet reserve , At gentle distance , near the moss-grown roots Of an expanding beech , a Wood-nymph seem'd — A woodland goddess ! and her grassy seat Chaste Dian's rural throne . Grave Recollection On her sweet features spread an air compos'd ; Whilst in Night's zenith — 'midst her radiant court , The crystal Moon seem'd fix'd in still attention : The silent waters of the lake more silent flow'd : The Zephyrs , drawing close their silken wings , In soft subjection held the rustling branches : The wheeling bat far off her circles draws ; Whilst the Night's sweet musician still'd her song , To learn a sadder note — from fair OSMIDA . All thus in silence wrapt , the thoughtful Maid , With tone sedate , begins the promis'd tale . This happy clime — this Arragonian realm , Had late a Monarch , whom her Sons rever'd ; — As King rever'd him , as a Father lov'd : He lov'd his People , knew no care but theirs ; And the fond blessings , which they gave his name , Blunted the thorns a diadem conceals . Peace , in this happy reign , her throne establish'd , And brought her proper blessings in her train ; Fair Commerce wav'd her pennons in our ports ; The fertile plough subdu'd our sterile fields ; Our granaries , like those of Egypt , drew From neighb'ring countries , riches and renown . The cottage Peasant , round his well-fill'd board , Saw thankful faces and contented hearts : No iron taxes grip'd his pallid frame , Nor tore the morsel from his children's mouths : Blithe as the morn he rose to healthful labour , And hail'd , with joy , th'approach of festive eve . Such once the favour'd lot of envied Arragon . Her fame , her riches , spreading to the East , Entic'd the Moors from their polluted home : Sudden their prows invade our peaceful seas ; — Sudden the bold Barbarians croud our shores ; Defenceless hamlets turn unnatural beacons , And blaze the woe-fraught tidings through the land . Like a night-torrent , fierce , uncheck'd , they come With devastation at their coursers heels ; Death , rapine , ruin , mark their dreadful progress , And reach the bulwarks of the royal city . Deep consternation spreads through ev'ry street ; Th'affrighted virgins to the temples run ; The mother grasps her child , and shrieking flies ; Whilst husbands , fathers , brothers , all in arms , Chide the dear mourners who retard their speed , Snatch last adieus , and rush upon the walls . But from the walls , what image strikes the view ! A turban'd phalanx on the hill appear'd , Rapid descending to the plain below . Upon the right advanc'd a mighty column , Of armed chariots form'd — so thickly set With scythes , and swords , and barbed spears , each seem'd A steely porcupine ; whose burnish'd quills , Catching the rays of the meridian sun , Gleam'd back upon the town refulgent horror . Upon the left hand mov'd the tawny marksmen , Whose ebon bows , and quivers richly stor'd , They sung , were given by Death — unerring archer ! The dreadful pomp descended to the plain , Fix'd their bold standards , and entrenchments form'd , — Whilst our scar'd citizens observ'd their works , Like trembling birds , who , looking from their nests Upon the charming cockatrice , behold Inevitable fate . But black despair , That first enerv'd , next lent their courage fury : Lead us ! they cry'd — lead to the Moorish camp ! What are their numbers , single as they come ? With us , our parents , children , lovers , laws , Religion , liberty — all join the battle , — Brace our firm arms , and give ten thousand points , Ten thousand deaths , to ev'ry Christian sword . This holy rage , like sparks electric , flew From man to man . Each urg'd his valiant friend , To save their city , matrons , daughters , wives , — As if on each their preservation hung . Scarce could the pious King restrain their ardor , So sure they seem'd of conquest and revenge . But he , who knew that from th'almighty arm Their foes' destruction only could proceed , The gates of every temple open threw , And , with humiliation deep , repair'd Before the sacred altar of our God . The soldiers , citizens , the nobles croud , And ev'ry holy roof grew instant vocal . Prostrate and weeping , they implor'd the High For Gideon's sword , and mighty Joshua's arm . " Shield us ! " they cry'd — " Oh , save thy faithful people ! Nor give us to the mockers , for a scorn ! Omnipotence ! preserve us from the yoke The foe prepares for our devoted necks ! Humble the boasters , who repose their strength , Not on thy arm , but in their own frail numbers ! To Thee ! O God of Battles ! we appeal . Hear , hear our voice ! " — When lo ! from Heaven's bright concave , In gracious intimation , that their prayers , Wafted by guardian spirits , reach'd the throne , A mighty peal of thunder rapt their ears , And purple lightnings quiver in the sky . The Arragons , with hopes thus sanctified , Rush'd from the temples , like impetuous flames ; — Or like fierce tigers , who their destin'd prey At distance see ; and pant , and foam , and rage , With pride of certain conquest . But their prince Strove this incautious ardor to restrain . — All-bounteous Heav'n , he cry'd , by means , not miracles , Decides the fate of armies , and of kings . Let prudent foresight , then , direct your aims , Lest rashness blights the harvest of your courage ! The haughty Moors , contemptuous of our strength , Doubtless expect to see our opening gates Receive them , masters , at the trumpet's signal : To aid their blindness , we will offers make , Of terms too humble for a state in freedom , And yet too high for Conqu'rors to accept . Then , in the night's meridian , when no star , With tell-tale beams upon our polish'd mail , Shall shew us to the watchful centinel , — Then will we rouse the lion from his den , And prove our courage worthy of our cause . The humming notes of growing apprchation , Like distant thunder , gaining on the ear , Broke forth at once into applausive shouts . Live ! live the King ! re-echoed ev'ry mouth ; O guard my People ! said the heart-touch'd King . The heralds sent , and their misleading terms , To blind , with fears unfelt , the Moorish camp , All now prepare , for the wish'd hour of onset . The sounding anvils beat their clanging music ; Peace-rusted swords regain their edge and polish ; The nervous archer tries his idle bow , And gives new plumage to his missile darts . The matrons , virgins , catch the martial fire : These songs prepare , these rosy garlands twine , To greet , on their return , the conqu'ring heroes . Yet , 'mongst the virgins , one sad heart was found ; 'Twas in the bosom of the royal Princess . Her vows , her plighted troth , had long been given To young MONTENOS , Duke Medina's Heir . He , only he , could melt her icy breast ; — None could so well deserve an untouch'd heart . His mind , more noble than his princely birth , Lent glory to his name : matchless his form ! As poets feign celestial Virtue wears , When visible to man . Oh ! wonder not , The Princess lov'd with strength no common flame Could have inspir'd ! Her soul was full of love : She liv'd , she breath'd , she thought , but for MONTENOS . Ten thousand terrors now besieg'd her soul ; Ten thousand nothings , which her fancy drest In colour , substance , circumstance , and form . Yet , from her lover , 'twas her care to hide The tender weakness which her heart confest . Shall I , she cry'd , a mighty kingdom's heir , Shew terrors that the humbler maids despise ? My Country rocks upon a precipice . — Go then , MONTENOS ! prop her falling state ! Repel th'invader ! tread on Slav'ry's neck ! And 'mongst her dear preservers be thou Chief ! The shades of eve advance , and from the camp The subtle messengers return — return With insult loaded , and contemptuous threats . No less the Moors demand than general vassalage ; That conquer'd Arragon — so proud their style ! Should yield them homage , and perpetual tribute . A day they grant us to resolve on slavery , — To turn apostates , and revolt from Heaven , Or see our towers extended in the dust . No terms or messengers they will receive ; But open'd gates , and crescents on our spires , The answer they expect . This lofty menace Less with surprise than anger was receiv'd ; — It spoke the spirit of the fierce invaders . Some hours — tremendous pause ! were yet to pass Between this period , and that meant for action : Gloomy suspence sat brooding o'er the army , And hid , not damp'd , the ardor of their courage . All , self-collected , seem'd retir'd within , And the full mind had render'd language mute . At this grand moment , when no thought of aid , — Of human aid , had glanc'd across the soul , In from the Western gate — like bees returning From their diurnal circuit — rush'd amain Ten thousand sons of war . At this bless'd sight , Such transport seiz'd the citizens , and troops , It seem'd triumphant holiday , and joy Would even in frolic sport — so sudden the effect . To Leon's King we ow'd this grateful succour : He heard the Moors were hov'ring on our coasts , And , as a Christian king , the cause adopted . But now the streets , choak'd up with armed men , Pour back their warriors through the Western portal : There , in the marshy vale , that to the North Extends its rich campaign , the army grew In form . Pardon if I , a simple Maid , Cannot relate , Sir Knight ! in artful terms , How , in what order grew . I have not skill To use the phrases chance hath giv'n mine ear . Were I to speak of flank , and rear , and van , You'd find my tongue to wild confusion lead . — Learn then but this : the King the centre kept ; MONTENOS , stately pine ! led on the front . The Stranger bow'd reply , in mute respect . OSMIDA , gently pausing , thus resum'd : The tender Twilight , which till now had look'd With timid eye upon the martial plain , Withdrew her beam , to follow distant day : Night , oft invok'd , advanc'd her ebon standard , To which all Nature yields well-pleas'd obeisance : But iron War , scornful of Nature's laws , Makes Rest his captive , and the ear of Silence Frequent invades , whilst from the throne of Night , Coëval pow'r ! she rules the drowsy world . So now through Arragonia's streets , his march — Unmeasur'd by the drum's imperious notes , In aweful pomp he takes . Balconies crouded Show'r down their blessings as the soldiers pass , Whilst thousand voices spend themselves in pray'r , And thousand ardent eyes appeal to Heaven . At length arriv'd towards the Eastern towers , The army made a momentary halt . When , lo ! the holy Prelate , with a train Of cloister'd saints , barefooted , rob'd in white , And holding each a crucifix , advanc'd . Ye more than warriors , said the Man of God , Ye Christian soldiers , think whose sword you bear ! The barb'rous nations of the earth , whose ears Were never blest with sounds of Gospel Truths , Have yet atchiev'd such wondrous deeds in arms , As will convey their names , with glory deck'd , To the remotest age in Time's dark womb . A thousand nations have for freedom fought , A thousand others for revenge have arm'd , And giv'n destruction to th'offending foe : To save their matrons from the brutal rape , Their daughters from Pollution's arms , have sent Victorious myriads to th'imbattled field . All these you fight for ; but you fight for MORE — — You fight for CHRIST . See here ! behold your Saviour ! Torn on the racking cross ! These wounds for you Were given . This blood — this sacred blood ! for you Gush'd forth , and mingled with corruption . Go then ! Bleed , agonize , and die for Him ! Rapt Seraphims Are now preparing your celestial crowns : — Go and atchieve them ! Choirs of holy angels Now tune their golden harps , and hymns prepare To greet ye conqu'rors in the gates of Heaven : — Go ! blessed soldiers — Go ! The Father ceas'd . From ev'ry mouth burst forth — as if one soul , One voice , through all the army reign'd — " We go ! " Inspir'd thus by the Priest's heroic charge , Each seem'd to press to be the earliest victim ; Their souls on fire , were eager to depart The earthly sphere , and seise on their immortal crowns . Thus rapt , the soldiers pass ; and through the gates , Like mists exhaling from the earth's moist bosom , Spread on the surface of the hostile plain . The gates shut close their wide-extended jaws , — Shut close for ever , on the valiant youths , Whose feet now leave them — to return no more : But they , by other hopes than life inspir'd , March on ; whilst Night her curtain closer draws To hide their progress from the watchful foe . In vain the night her sable curtain draws , And bids the stars keep hoodwink'd in their course ; For faithless Echo to the Moorish guard Betray'd the distant sound of pacing steps . From guard to guard the hasty signals fly , And shoot like meteors through the dark expanse . The Infidels , alarm'd , seem all in motion , Whilst the faint quiv'ring lights , that lately serv'd To guide the hunters in their dang'rous chace , Now blaze and multiply , till all the camp A vast illumination seems , that gilds With dreadful splendor the surrounding gloom . Our troops , undaunted , quicken as they tread , And hasty marching grows to eager speed . To arms ! to arms ! the scar'd besiegers cry . Your arms are here ! th'advancing foe replies , — Thirsting to drench their swords in Moorish blood ! Silence , no longer useful , now gives way To all the dreadful din that battle loves . The haughty trumpet , and the vig'rous drum , With the shrill fife's acuter voice , accord To summon valour in the fearfull'st heart . The Moors rush forth , impetuous and confus'd . No orders thought on , and no orders heard : Some to the trench , some to the chariots fly To buckle to the shafts the frighted horses : — The restive steeds reject th'accustom'd yoke , Dash their fierce leaders wildly to the earth , Then , plunging , bound along the beamy plain . Our troops had gain'd the ditch , and to the beards Of the besiegers — now besieg'd , advanc'd , Ere the first panic left their courage calm — The battlo's fury in an instant spreads , And all its horrors rage mature at once . The bows are useless ; throat to throat they fight ; — Foes mix with foes , ranks press on hostile ranks , Till each are lost , and form one dreadful whole . Death never triumph'd as he triumph'd now ; — With hasty victims never was so gorg'd : He who is killing , by another's slain ; And he , in finishing his blow , partakes The fate he gives . Scarce had the armies join'd Ere thousand souls had pass'd th'eternal bourn : On ev'ry side bulwarks of dead appear — Torrents of reeking gore . The blood of Moors And Christians forms one common flood , and rolls Its heavy tide in stagnant streams along . Say , Stranger , hast thou seen the warlike sports . Yearly presented in our vast Steccado ? Superior to the rest , the Bull-fight claims Glorious pre-eminence . Forth from their dens The bellowing monsters rush , and the earth rings Beneath their haughty hooss . The ireful foam Runs from their churning jaws ; their burnish'd horns Now rase the earth , now proudly tost in air , Challenge the waiting warriors to the combat : The waiting warriors , ardent for the sign , Dart on their foes : the lordly beasts evade The well-aim'd spear , and , clad in native might , Scorn the bright corslet and the nodding helm : Onward they rush — whilst deathful fury bursts In livid sparkles from their blood-red eyes ; They gore the gen'rous steeds , their riders crush , Or send them clashing through the dusty air . Throughout the concave , sound the eager plaudits , And boist'rous admiration speaks the joy : At length the fav'rite bull — he whom the keepers , For fire and strength , superior to the rest , Had long mark'd out , is loos'd upon the plain : All marvels cease the instant he appears ; And what seem'd wondrous but a moment since , Has now no tongue to speak the mighty act — So much beyond all thought his deeds excell The glorious devastation of his peers . Just so MONTENOS shone among the heroes Whose bitter chastisement the Moors endured . Where'er he mov'd , destruction mark'd his progress , And death seem'd couchant on his pond'rous axe . The Night , so dreadful ! lengthen'd out her hours , As though she staid to view the battle's conflict , Or hide its horrors from the springing day . At length the glowing portals of the East Disclos'd the Morn — in splendor she arose ; But , as if grief-struck at the murd'rous scene , Her face in humid clouds she instant wrapt , And seem'd to weep in drops of sacred pity . Yet Conquest ceas'd not , with her vig'rous arm , To plant her banners o'er the reeking field : — For us her banners wav'd — for us she triumph'd , And Vict'ry sung loud Iö's for the Christians . The Moor , now seeing that his scatter'd host Had their chief leaders lost — their numbers wasted , Like sifted corn before the driving tempest , For quarter calls . His troops , upon their knees , Yield up their arms , and Mahomet invoke , To screen his worshipers from dreaded vengeance ; But Christian soldiers war not for revenge , Nor know to trample on a vanquish'd foe . Their homage is accepted , and their chiefs , With low'ring fronts , and hearts by malice gnaw'd , Follow the victors in their march triumphant . Strait to the city-gates they bend their course , Where from the walls the holy priests had watch'd The issue of the fight . There too , the Princess — In horrors exquisite ! had pass'd the night . Judge then her rapture , her exalted joy , When she beheld , on their victorious march , Betroth'd MONTENOS , and her royal Sire ! Forth to the plain — heedless of form , she rush'd : Her Virgins follow'd , and the rev'rend Priests , Led by the holy Bishop , form'd her train . The day — as if she bore an active part In all th'events her teeming hours brought forth — Chac'd the dark clouds , unveil'd her radiant face , And gave new glories to the scene she view'd . The King approach'd — the Princess , at his feet , Ador'd the mighty arm which thus restor'd him , Loaded with laurels , from the deathful field : Her valiant Lover , leading in his hand The Moorish Prince , with eager pace advanc'd , To claim his share of her enraptur'd welcome . Receive , he cry'd , a conquest which your eyes , And not my sword , atchiev'd . Inspir'd by you , Who could resist my arm ? This princely foe , Who wonders acted , and whose arm deserv'd A righteous cause ; by you , bright maid , subdu'd , Your victim I present . The sullen Prince Scarce deign'd to lift his eye ; when , with a grace No fancy can pourtray , the gallant youth Made to his mistress this heroic gift . Oh fatal present ! gift replete with woes ! Why did not heaven in its mercy send Its winged shafts , and at that instant strike The royal Maid , where , fix'd with joy , she stood ! Then had her breast , untorn with throbbing anguish , Sunk peacefully — alas ! where roves my tongue ! Let me , in order , lead you to the sequel . It needless were my story to prolong In painting scenes your fancy will supply : The joyful entry , and triumphant feasts , Devout processions , and heroic sports , All these are fruitful themes , and would demand A time the waning night denies . In brief , The captive Prince a mighty ransom offer'd , With league of amity and lasting peace . The terms accepted , gallies were dispatch'd To bring the barter'd price of his redemption . Mean while he join'd the games , and seem'd to lose His barb'rous roughness in the toils of pleasure . Alas ! in other toils his mind was caught ; The Princess seem'd too lovely to ZORADOR , Whose sensual soul she touch'd with fiercest passion . He dared to speak of love , and to herself Vaunt his bold hopes ; whilst he beheld approach The day , which was to join in nuptial bands The Royal Maiden and her lov'd MONTENOS : The marriage sports already were prepar'd , And yet the Moor , audacious ! talk'd of love . — Repuls'd with just disdain , he to the King His love-sick tale , with sullen port , address'd : I am not used , he cried , to offer crowns , And have them spurn'd , like vulgar lovers' toys . Give me your Daughter ! I'll give her a throne : Dominions she shall have , to which your Arragon , With all its boasted fields , and blushing vineyards , Seems but a fertile spot ; so vast the country Whose sceptre I command ! The King's firm answer Shew'd the proud Infidel , his suit was vain ; And , that a Christian Princess , to a subject More fitly would be match'd , than with the Monarch Of wide-stretch'd continents — whose wretched Sons Were taught to scorn the doctrines of a CHRIST . ZORADOR's fury to such transports grew At this destruction of his hopes , he seem'd No longer man — His eye-balls glar'd with madness ; His foamy rage — like a tempestuous sea Lashing her shores in vain — spar'd not himself : His beard in frightful fragments strew'd the floor ; Whilst his inflated bosom rack'd within , Without resounded from his barb'rous blows . He curs'd , blasphem'd , and wept : his strength exhausted Left him at length , as though a wakeful sleep Had seis'd his faculties , and numb'd the fire Which fill'd his torrid veins . His slaves , who oft Beheld their lord a victim to himself , Bore to his couch the prostrate harmless tyrant ; And there , with trem'lous lutes and vocal harmony , In sweet enchantment woke him from his trance . His haughty soul , that scorns all other laws , Will yield to music all her boist'rous passions — Hang on each strain , melt at each magic note , And transient virtues catch from trilling airs . Compos'd , at length , or masking what he felt , Again ZORADOR sought the pensive King ; Pardon , he cry'd , Oh Prince ! a wretch undone ! Forgive the frenzy of a heart unsteel'd By disappointment's shocks . Nurs'd by prosperity , By fortune follow'd , I had learnt — fond man ! That fate , that earth , that heaven , for me combin'd , And from misfortune hallow'd my encircled head . Your powerful arms , O King of Arragon ! First taught ZORADOR that he was a man ; And now your Daughter's still more powerful eyes Have taught ZORADOR , that he is a slave . Master and tyrant of a thousand beauties , Who court my passions , live for my delight , I breath'd , unknowing that I had a heart , Till cruel love , wrapt in Despair's wild torments , Gave all its nerves a sense of curst existence ! I love — with agony — with madness , love ! Oh , spare me then the horror of a sight My fiery brain splits but to think on ! Save , — Father of her whose charms thus abject make me , Save from the tortures of her marriage rites , The heart which burns and wastes with hopeless ardors ! The ling'ring moon has number'd all the hours That I allotted for my fleet's return : Soon as the eastern wind invades their canvass , The bellying sails will whiten all your channel , And their red streamers blush along your shores . My ransom paid , I quit these hostile walls , — Where my lost peace will stay enchain'd for ever . Then , whilst I bear my woes to distant seas , Then may the spousals be triumphant sung , And not one wretch remain to curse the sound . Here ceas'd ZORADOR ; whilst the melting King , Unable to withstand a claim so urg'd , Granted his royal suitor all he ask'd . The Moor , impress'd with thankfulness , retir'd , And the good Monarch gave Medina's Heir Command to curb his warm , impetuous wishes , Until his rival sought his native skies . The shifting winds soon wafted to our ports The Moorish squadron . To the capital The fleeter camels bore the various treasures Meant for redemption of their captive Prince . Stuffs , ingots , ivory , form'd their precious burden ; Carpets of Persia , hangings wrought with gold , Muscovian sables , scarves enrich'd with pearl ; Silk robes , by Grecian damsels taught to glow In flowers of vivid tints , and buds so prompt , They seem'd to blow beneath the gazer's eye ; Sabres with glitt'ring hilts of curious art , And scymeters whose sheaths di'monds illum'd , And sanguine rubies dy'd ; all these were borne In pompous march , through Saragossa's streets ; Whilst haughty coursers , from Arabia's hills , Champing gold bits , adorn'd with sumptuous housings , — Or bearing Turkish tents of gaudy drapery , Shut , from the wonder-loving croud , the long procession . And now approach'd the joyful , wish'd-for morn , Whose breath upon our happy plains the Moors Were doom'd to leave . ZORADOR , with such port As disappointment gives to tumid spirits , Made to the King and Princess his adieus . He left the city with a train of slaves , Shedding profusely , as they pass'd along , Rich showers of gold upon the gaping rabble , — Whose venal voice pierc'd Heaven with " Live ZORADOR ! Soon as the tidings of the Moors' departure Our speedy couriers brought , the word was given To make all ready for the royal marriage . Raptur'd MONTENOS , madd'ning with his bliss , Could scarce support the intermediate hours That led , with lagging steps , the nuptial morn . The nuptial Morn arriv'd — rous'd from her slumbers By the shrill voice of silver clarions , join'd By the soft hautboy , the seducive lute , And sweeter pipe of choral maids , symphonious . Forth from the palace to the church , through streets With carpets laid , and myrtle garlands hung , The glad procession led its length'ning train . The King , beneath his canopy of state , Preceded by his guards , first object mov'd : Next to his suite the Princess , blushing , follow'd ; Her train upheld by twenty noble maids , Whose beauty , in their snowy robes , seem'd chastity Incarnate . Next , at distance — as of rank That yet allow'd not of a royal state , MONTENOS walk'd , succeeded by the court . The King had almost reach'd the holy portals , When from the croud a youth advanc'd , who caught Each wond'ring eye . His face , a mask — design'd For youthful beauty , hid . His airy form Seem'd worthy such a face . His habit tissue , Emboss'd with purple studs . His flowing hair With knots of pearl was ty'd , and on his head A garland bloom'd . An iv'ry flute he held , Through which he breath'd such melting , touching , strains , That Harmony herself had staid to listen . As he approach'd , the soldiers clear'd his way , Till in the front before the guards he stood . The Princess came , whilst he , with rev'rence low , And softer breathings , seem'd to great her presence . She pass'd ; the Bridegroom came — in quicker notes He bad his music flow ; and , forward stepping , Offer'd , with courteous air , the tuneful pipe . MONTENOS , smiling , stretch'd his hand , when — horror ! His breast receiv'd the flute , which hid a poniard — — A second blow , ere thought could be recall'd ; The third , the murd'rer on himself bestow'd , And welt'ring dropt into the arms of Death . Astonishment usurp'd each vital faculty , And rooted all who saw the bloody deed . The Bridegroom , sinking on th'assassin's corps , Rous'd from their trance his horror-struck attendants ; Whilst the chill sounds of Death ! Montenos ! Murder ! Fled to the wretched Maid — almost a wife . Not daring to demand the cause ; her pulse , Stopt by congealing fear , forbore its office , And a kind stupor hid her from her woes . Back to the palace , now , the dying Bridegroom , By Knights in hymeneal robes was borne , Whilst others dragg'd his murd'rer's mangled corps , To search for motives to the cruel deed . His mask unclasp'd , disclos'd a well-known face — A mute he was , and in ZORADOR's train . A fiend-like scroll , conceal'd within his vest , Develop'd all the murd'rous hell-born project . These were its words : " 'Tis not the slave , but I , Who give the blow . Vengeance , if not my love , Shall be appeas'd . Learn , King of Arragon ! Learn both to know and dread the scorn'd ZORADOR ! " Such were the lines which bore the stamp of fate . The lovely victim of the Moor's revenge , Breath'd not a word , but strain'd his beamless eye To find the object that his heart's last pulse Ador'd — not seeing her , they seem'd to shut All others out — and Death , with hasty seal , Clos'd their dim lids in everlasting sleep . Here paus'd the Virgin , as immers'd in thought ; The story , fraught with woe , had cast a shade Of deeper sorrow o'er her pensive brow : Her lab'ring bosom sent forth heavy sighs , And her sad mind seem'd lost in one idea . The Knight , who eager grew to know the tale She promis'd of herself , presum'd at length To bring her recollection to the point ; At which her rosy lips their portal clos'd , And ceas'd to charm him with their touching accents . I will not , Stranger ! said the fair narrator , Tax your attention with events unneedful , The Court's distress , the sorrow of the King , The Bride's , th'unwedded Bride's , forlorn distraction . Long tedious months led round their joyless suns , Ere comfort beam'd upon her widow'd heart ; Nor then , till , at the tomb of her lost Lord , Her solemn vows she made , never to hear A lover's soothing tale ; but , in virginity Perpetual , wait the hour that should unite Her faithful spirit with her murder'd Lord's . This duty paid , a dawn , like that of peace , By soft degrees illum'd the mourner's mind . The Court , prompt in expedients to divest Misfortune of her stings , ransack'd all pleasures , Invented fresh delights , new joys invok'd , For their sweet antidotes to pois'nous grief . Thus had two years their slow-revolving hours Brought to the great account ; when from the east A dark portentous cloud , lab'ring with ills , Pregnant with thousand woes , obscur'd th'horizon . ZORADOR — he whose soul from inmost hell Was sent to scourge the earth — not glutted yet With all the horrid joys that wait on vengeance , Not yet forgiving our triumphant arms , Which shear'd the laurels his whole life had reap'd , — Again came pouring , like a mighty deluge , To overwhelm the land in lasting ruin . He came . — Why should I lengthen out my tale ? Our nation's force , oppos'd to the Moor's army , Was kindling torches to obscure the sun . Again we saw them hover on the hill : Again we saw — like famine-bringing locusts , Their hosts descend , and spread upon the plain . No parly , as at first , they would allow : Their batt'ring-rams the messengers they us'd ; — Arrows and catapults , their killing words . A dreadful day our troops sustain'd the siege , And fill'd the breaches with their slaughter'd foes . At length , a billet on a javelin's point The ramparts pass'd , denouncing rape and sackage , If stubbornly our citizens delay'd To own ZORADOR conqueror and king . The threat effected all the Moor had hop'd , And Arragon's grey Monarch was abandon'd By those whose rights he'd guarded with his blood , — By those his smiles had cherish'd , and his honours grac'd . The throneless Sov'reign , when he saw his gates Open their faithless jaws t'admit the foe , Rush'd , in distraction , to his Daughter's chamber : Fly ! let us instant fly ! he gasping said ; The Moors have vanquish'd , and my Child's a slave . Their standards now insult our conquer'd streets , And curst ZORADOR will not long delay , Within my palace walls t'assert his rights . Come then , my Daughter ! lest dishonour find thee , And kill they parent with a thousand deaths ! The Princess , whom affliction had subdu'd , And taught a firmness stranger to her years , Grasp'd her lov'd Father's hand — Lead me , she cry'd , Where Providence ordains ! my duteous steps Shall ever follow yours , soften your path , And chear , to life's last sigh , your rugged journey . A golden casket , as she spoke , she seiz'd , That held , till now , a hoarded useless treasure ; And through the galleries , with breathless haste , And step precipitate , follow'd the King , — Unknowing to what corner of the earth To point their feet , or whom they should intrust With their advent'rous flight . A faithful Lord , In this sad exigence , with cordial words , The royal fugitives thus met and cheer'd . " O Sire ! from Arlos take the only duty That stormy fate now suffers him to pay : My horses wait , close to the garden walls , With trusty knights to guide you to my castle . Dreading the worst , I had prepar'd this refuge , When the fell Moor began his fierce assault . For me , I'll stay and greet , with smiles deceitful , ZORADOR , whom I hate , to ward , if possible , What further ills his malice may devise . " The King embrac'd , with servent gratitude , The noble youth — and follow'd where he led . There a close chariot , harness'd and attended , Waited to bear them from the dang'rous spot . The flying steeds seem'd conscious of their office , And instant cleft the air with eagle swiftness . Mean while the Moorish troops rush'd through the gates , And on our bulwarks fix'd their haughty standards . No terms the citizens obtain'd , but those Of vassalage and uncondition'd slavery ; Whilst their chief officers were instant sworn To be allegiant to the swarthy Infidel . Mean time , with speed , towards the royal palace , As to his home , ZORADOR bent his course ; Vaunting , that now the Christian King should , kneeling , Ask him to wed the Daughter whom he woo'd With offer'd thrones , and was , with scorn , rejected . But , when he found no Sov'reign to insult , No Princess to affront with odious passion , His furious transports made a thousand victims . The Nobles' houses were with strictness search'd : The churches , monast'ries , were all defil'd By the unhallow'd infidels , in vain . Three days the search continu'd , when the Moor , Foaming with disappointed pride , made oath , That , if the Princess in eight days appear'd not , The convents-walls should to the ground be ras'd , And their pure vestals sate his savage soldiers . These dreadful tidings to the King and Princess The faithful ARLOS sent . " My castle walls , " He said , " no longer will protect my Sov'reign . The church itself will aid the keen pursuit , — Deeming it better that one royal Maid Should feed the lust of a detested tyrant , Than that their holy virgins should become The prey of the licentious soldiery . Fly then , my Prince ! The loyal Knight , whose hand Presents this testimony of my faith , Will to a secret spot ( where he himself Asylum found ) attend your wand'ring steps ; — Not wand'ring long ! for surely Heav'n , that tries The virtue which it loves , will reconduct you To your lost people's arms , and rightful throne . " The darkest robe of night o'erspread the hemisphere , When at the castle GONZALES arriv'd . The royal pair , in humble weeds disguis'd , Instant forsook the hospitable roof , And sought untravell'd wilds , and gloomy deserts . The spirits of the King , weigh'd down with sorrow , Had sunk beneath accumulated ills , Had not wise Heav'n endu'd his Daughter's mind With strength to bear her griefs , and chear her Father's . With tender talk the tedious way she shorten'd ; And , when exhausted Nature ask'd recruit , Hymn'd him to sleep beneath umbrageous trees . A whole day's sun beheld her duteous cares : The moon arose , and still they journey'd on ; But the succeeding sun , with earliest beam , Guided the travellers to a forest's verge . Here GONZALES the steeds unrein'd , and drove , In envied freedom , to a neighb'ring mountain , Lest their betraying hoofs should guide pursuers To the asylum of the hunted King . In the wood's centre they a cottage found , Form'd , by Misfortune's hand , of humble clay : Two rooms it had , in each a rustic bed ; For stately chairs , a bench ; a rough-hewn table , That ne'er with other dainties had been fill'd , Than labour cull'd from the surrounding herbs ; Or from the vines — that in the desert air , With their delicious burdens long had swell'd , Nor found one tempted hand to ease the load . Such the retreat the fugitives had found . Adieu to gilded roofs , and chorded minstrelsy ! Adieu to greatness , and unhealthful pomp ! The winds now rustle through their straw-crown'd cot , And birds , with wild-note sweet , compose their concert ! Full seven slow moons have turn'd their monthly orbs , Since GONZALES the cottage left , and since No human sound , but their own pensive tones , Have reach'd the Princess and her Father's ears . What can I more ? If my eventful tale Hath touch'd the chords of pity in your heart , And swell'd the sympathetic tear — soft tribute ! By gentle minds , to sorrow ever paid , — Know , 'tis no stranger's woes I have related ; I am the object of my own sad story — It is the Princess speaks — Enough ! exclaim'd The Knight , springing with ardor from the bank , Enough ! our prize is found ! and wealth and rank , And bright ZULEDA's smiles , are now DE COURCI's ! Thus speaking , to his lips he fix'd a bugle , Whose piercing sounds ten thousand echoes bore On airy wings , through the surrounding woods . The signal heard , six Moors obey'd its voice , And spurr'd their horses headlong through the glades . For these OSMIDA stay'd not . The false Knight No sooner spoke his joy , than , like a fawn Who from the neighb'ring thicket hears the voice . Of the fierce wolf — she bounding left her seat , And fled to safer shades . A starting star Less rapid cleaves the air , when Ethiop Night Shews on her wanton breast his lucid trail . Meanwhile , the royal cottager , whom Sleep , Spight of his cares , had woo'd to her embrace , Broke from her tempting arms . He call'd OSMIDA . List'ning in vain , to hear her cheering voice , He started from his couch , and , rob'd in haste , Rush'd forth to seek her in her fav'rite haunts : Darting his fearful eye across the lawn On which their cottage stood , close on its edge , — Panting and breathless he beheld his darling . With all the little strength that age had left , He hasten'd to receive her . What his dread ! When at his feet he saw the Princess drop , Exclaiming , as she fell , in fainting voice , Father ! ALMANZOR ! King ! — The fear-struck Monarch , Unable from the mossy grass to raise Its lovely burden , sinking by her side , Strove by his tears , and fond paternal voice , To rouse her torpid sense , and wake her soul . Not guessing at th'extremity of woe , Which soon must burst upon his hoary head , He thought some frightful reptile had surpris'd , And chill'd , with female fears , her tim'rous mind . But , oh ! how short a while his fate allow'd This soft delusion ! Through the night's still air The sound of human voices , and the clank Of iron hoofs , reveal'd a scene at once , That almost shook his soul from her frail tenement . The Gallic leader of the Moorish band , ( And sure no soil but Gallia's could produce A Knight thus treach'rous , thus completely form'd To guide a project hatch'd in nether hell ! ) Mark'd with his eye OSMIDA's flying course . Courage ! he cry'd — as the base slaves advanc'd : All our past trouble , and our long fatigues , This happy hour repays . OSMIDA's found ! Found at the instant that my famish'd hopes Scarce lent a ray to guide me in the chace . When , through the tissu'd thicket , to my eye The friendly moon reveal'd her , hope prophetic Call'd her OSMIDA — yet my eager tongue I dar'd not with that hope intrust , lest Fear Should draw her veil upon the dangerous truth . In prayer she was employ'd ; which instant taught me That piety must be the bait to snare her , — So won her confidence , and read her heart . Allah be prais'd ! rejoin'd a bearded Infidel , Freedom is ours — ZORADOR's favour thine ! But , Christian , art thou sure thou hast beheld ALMANZOR's Daughter ? One fair maid , alas ! We have already to our master borne For her he sought , and scarce with life escap'd , So fierce and rageful was ZORADOR's anger ! The Princess , self-acknowledg'd , said the Knight , Fled from this spot , scar'd at my bugle's sound . A cottage , somewhere in the sombrous forest , Conceals the trembler , and her aged Sire . I mark'd the road she took , and now will guide you To those who will not hail us — welcome guests . Thus speaking , he push'd onwards through the wood , And soon espy'd the little peaceful dwelling , In which , for seven long months , the exil'd King Had sigh'd his anguish to the passing winds . Upon the earth they saw the hoary Monarch , Supporting on his knee the drooping head Of his unhappy child : his hands were clasp'd , And rais'd towards that Heav'n which now allow'd Sorrow to drain her vial on his brow . This moving picture , e'en DE COURCI's eye Could scarcely see , with pity unsuffus'd . Skill'd in deceit , and hiding a bad heart With all the polish learnt in faithless courts , He , with an air so meek , approach'd ALMANZOR , As though he sought him only to bewail The sad events that shut him from the world . The King , perhaps , had yielded for a moment To the delusive hope his look inspir'd , Had not the group of Moors — who yet approach'd not , Explain'd the dreadful purport of the visit . Unhappy Monarch ! said the soft-tongued Knight , Much it afflicts me that my barb'rous fortune , From all ZORADOR's court , DE COURCI chose T'explore the sacred spot of your retirement . Had not the tyrant at his hateful nod Devoted Moors enough , and callous slaves , Us'd to the work of infamy and guilt , But I , a Christian knight , must be selected , To guide an enterprise so curst ? — Oh Fate ! Thou never loadedst me with ills till now ! The King , experienc'd in mankind , saw through The thin disguise of this most florid speech : He saw the serpent in the spicy shrub ; — He saw the villain in the gentle eye . Not deigning a reply , he bent his head O'er the reviving Princess . Oh , OSMIDA ! Exclaim'd th'afflicted Prince , thy beating pulse , Thy dear returning breath is now unwelcome . Rather I'd see those eyes for ever clos'd , This flutt'ring heart fixt by Death's potent voice , Than thus receive thee back again to life . The royal Virgin's scarce-recover'd faculties Announc'd themselves in fears : " Oh ! let us fly , My Father ! — let us fly ! " she murmur'd forth : " We are pursu'd — the Knight ! the wiley Knight ! " Pursued , indeed ! replied the weeping King ; Pursued and caught . O ! my heart's dear OSMIDA ! They have us in their toils — we're lost ! we're lost ! Rous'd at this dreadful sound , the waken'd Princess , Starting , threw round her eyes — they met DE COURCI's ! A grave-sent spectre , in the deep of night , Scarce gives such horror to the shrinking sinner , As did DE COURCI's form , to shock'd OSMIDA . Speechless , she hid her face , and clasp'd her father ; Who strove t'inspire a calm his heart disown'd . The polish'd villain , who the blackest crimes With impoliteness could not stain , withdrew , That the bewailing mourners , unrestrain'd , Might pour their anguish in each other's breast . — Vain were the task , to paint th'impassion'd scene Which grief , and fear , and thousand racking thoughts , With glowing horrors , all conspir'd to fill . The courteous Knight , observing where he stood , That the first torrent of their grief was spent , Ventur'd again t'approach the wretched pair . Pardon , illustrious Prince ! he cried , the slave , Whom harsh necessity , alas ! compels To stop your converse with your beauteous Daughter . ZORADOR — he , who knows no law but will , The smallest breach of whose commands , the rack , Or more inevitable death awaits — — Ordain'd , that soon as your retreat was found , A moment to delay should not be giv'n ; But instant ! maugre circumstance , or tears , That we should bear to their forsaken home Th'unwilling Princess , and her royal Sire . Now , if it please you , we must leave this desert , For haunts more fitted to your royal rank . This mock'ry of respect , return'd the King , To those whom you command , adds points to insult . Our masters you ; then treat us as your slaves ! The only boon I can descend to ask , Is , that my Daughter , in this fatal journey , May not be torn from me . From thee ! ah , no , Precipitant exclaim'd the royal Maid . Together let us go , whate'er our fate ! Still let my filial voice my Father cheer , And pierce the night of his collected sorrows ! DE COURCI seem'd to pause , when strait a Moor , Of port superior to the rest , thus answer'd — It is our Sovereign's will , that you , fair Lady ! Should hold no converse with your princely Sire , 'Till your arrival in your native city . Doubt not , but then , each boon you ask , and all Your fruitful fancy can devise , our master , Gracious to charms like yours , will grant with rapture . When Beauty sues , he knows not to deny . What then will be your Beauty's pow'r ? You — The King , impatient and enrag'd , broke in Upon the Moor . Cease , Saracen ! he cried , Nor dare thus violate my Daughter's ears ! Or thou shalt find , that in a desert , old , — Unarm'd , ALMANZOR is a King . Lead on ! And since high Heav'n ordains , thy impious Master Should hold the balance of our fate , obey His harsh command ! tear us asunder ! yes ! Drag from the old man's heart , the last sole joy His woes had left to save him from despair . Plunge me at once in horror's deep abyss . Not long — not long , my friends , will you afflict me . A show'r of tears , that down his furrow'd cheeks Upon the bosom of OSMIDA fell , Ended a speech — which men steel'd by long use Against the touching voice of heav'n-born pity , Could not unsoften'd hear ; but strove to palliate To their own hearts , in coarse-spun sophistry , The baseness of their voluntary task . Sprightly Aurora looking through the clouds , Which blush'd with pleasure at her near approach , Chas'd from the hemisphere the pale-ey'd moon , — Who had so sweetly shone , she seem'd 'till now The morning's counterfeit . But Oh ! to mis'ry Whether the pale-ey'd Moon , or sprightly Morn , Or Sun refulgent leads the passing hours ; All , all alike , they undistinguish'd roll , One cheerless chaos , one impervious gloom . If to DE COURCI , and the wond'ring Moors , OSMIDA lovely seem'd — how lovely now ! When bright'ning day disclos'd her to their view , One blaze of charms — charms of that tender cast , Which sorrow did not sully , but become ! Her polish'd form was graceful as the antelope's ; Her air majestic , as the sailing eagle's — When 'mongst the fleecy clouds he gently waves , And views high Skiddaw , like a shrub below . Her face a Raphael would have caught , to form A young Madonna , bending o'er her Child With brow serene , and love-distilling eyes . Her locks — such locks as Nature only gives Once in an age , to perfect some rare beauty , Seem'd like a golden veil — part hung before , Shading a polish'd neck ; which look'd , between The burnish'd threads , like purest ivory Through gilded net-work : part the Zephyrs snatch'd , Playing enamour'd in the beauteous toils : The rest in dropping ringlets fell behind , And kiss'd the foldings of her flowing robe . Such was the Princess ; whom a Moor now seiz'd , And on DE COURCI's steed securely fix'd . A silken sash , held by the treach'rous Knight , Pass'd through OSMIDA's girdle , and enchain'd The mourning Virgin , and her deadliest foe . Upon another steed was plac'd ALMANZOR , Behind a guiding Moor . This was the state The kingdom's Monarch , and the kingdom's Heir , Were now constrain'd to use . No pompous guards , No blessing populace , no proud grandees , Their steps attend ; — but oh ! how small that grief , Weigh'd with the horrid fears , the tort'ring doubts , Which fill their bosoms , and absorb their thoughts ! The leafy desert — which so long had seem'd A cheerless prison to th' illustrious pair — They quit , with aching hearts , and heavy sighs . Its solitary shades — how welcome , now ! Its humble turf-form'd cot , its devious glades , Its choral groves , they would with rapture greet , And hail them , as the dear abodes of Peace . But these they have for ever — ever left ; And soon the forest's verdant roof grows dun Upon the distant eye . The eager Moors , With spur and slacken'd reins , kept pouring on , Leaving whole leagues obscur'd with floating dust . The royal Prisoners , scarcely with a glance , Can speak a thought , much less converse , and share , With kind participance , each other's woe . Thus they continued through untrodden wilds , Whose savage echoes never yet had learnt To imitate the cordial voice of man : — The churning boar , and howling midnight wolves , Had taught them all the language that they knew . At length the Sun , behind the western mountains , Hid his pervading eye : the humid Eve Led on her deep'ning shades , to quench the thirst , The fev'rish orb had left , on plants and flow'rs . The Moors now strain their wistful eyes , To meet some woodland , or some shelt'ring cave , In which to court their strength-restoring sleep . The last they found — it seem'd t'have been the haunt Of fierce banditti — or more peaceful home Of some sequester'd hermit ; for its floor The chissel's edge had smooth'd , and its low roof Was rudely fashion'd to a semi-dome . Here the sad trav'lers were allow'd the rest Which through the fervid day they'd ask'd in vain . The Princess , whose soft limbs were not inur'd To such extreme fatigue , sunk lifeless down , Soon as her feet had touch'd the solid earth . The aged King , with scarce more strength , approach'd To catch his falling Child — The flinty floor Receiv'd them both — OSMIDA and her Sire . With care officious , the attending slaves The duties of humanity perform'd . The Princess they recover'd ; and a spot , With their own garments , spread , to form a seat Less rig'rous than the rock , for its high inmates . Parch'd corn , sun-candied grapes , and racy wine , They plac'd , respectfully , before the King : Exhausted Nature crav'd the cordial draught ; Whilst to her Sire's request OSMIDA yielded , And of the patriarchal feast partook . DE COURCI and the Moors dar'd not resign Their heavy lids to sleep , but in rotation . Two , the cave's entrance guarded ; and the third , Plac'd near ALMANZOR , interruption gave , Whene'er the royal Parent and his Child Strove to beguile the melancholy hours With such sad converse as their griefs allow'd . This had ZORADOR order'd , lest OSMIDA Should from her Father catch more fortitude T'oppose his furious passion , than he thought A female could possess . Celestial chastity He held a phantom bred from Custom's laws , And that the magic of licentious love Could melt its airy form — for now he meant T'assert a conqu'ror's rights , and place the Princess — Not on a Throne , but 'mongst his fav'rite slaves , And make her Sov'reign of his loose seraglio . Constrain'd to silence ; Sorrow's blest physician Stole by degrees upon their aching eyes . O soft enchanter , Sleep ! why did Idolaters Ne'er build thee temples ? Thee , whose sweet dominion Boundless extends , wherever Nature breathes ! Thee , in whose arms Anguish forgets her throbs ; Chill Want , the nipping blast ; and wild Despair Finds gleams of comfort — I sing Paeans to thee , Sleep ! Scarce had the mettled coursers of the Morn Brought her gay chariot to th'horizon's edge , And coif'd the mountains with her ruddy gold , — Ere prompt DE COURCI , and the watching Moors , Flew to caparison their grazing steeds . Returning quick , they rous'd their torpid fellows , And last awak'd OSMIDA and the King . What an awakening ! Touch not , O my pen ! Upon the catching theme ! Of woe enamour'd , Thou'lt hang too long upon the tears , the sighs , The grief-fraught words , with which they hail'd the day . — Events more active ask thy little skill . Some hours they had pursu'd their steady course , When , from a coppice bord'ring on the road , An armed troop rush'd forth . So quick their motion , DE COURCI's band , ere they beheld their danger , Were in a circle drawn — more dreadfully portentous , Than wand of witch or wizard ever form'd . The gallant Knight , who at his girdle wore Unwilling beauty , seem'd at once the object . Three vizor'd warriors at his stirrups stood ; Two held their lances to his throat ; the third Destroy'd the magic zone which held the Princess , And snatch'd her instant from DE COURCI's side . With such dispatch was this atchievement made , The Knight had scarcely drawn to save his prize , Ere he beheld her ravish'd from his arms — And at a distance from th'astonish'd troop . Turning , with fury , on his foes — who thus Had all his splendid hopes reft from his heart , He rais'd his arm , and aim'd a pond'rous sword , Where guiltless it could not have fall'n ; when instant His unpois'd body , with Herculean force , Was to the earth propell'd : breathless he lay , And trampling steeds soon fix'd him to the spot , From whence th'unhappy youth ne'er rose again . The Moors , undaunted at their leader's fate , Sustain'd th'assailant's shock , as if resolv'd Their pris'ners and their lives should both be lost , Or undivided kept . Two forc'd their way Towards the spot where , guarded by her Knight , The Princess stood ; three of the foe pursu'd , And made the path which led to her , the road To death inglorious . The remaining Saracens Fought as those fight , who , knowing they must die , Resolve the victors shall buy conquest dearly . But he who at his crupper held the King , More fiercely than the rest — more madly fought . His fellows too hemm'd in the struggling Monarch ; And , turning to the Prince their horses haunches , Form'd with their spears a threat'ning glory round him . When he who held him — watching for the moment , Broke from the rest , and on the distant winds Seem'd borne away . The demon who presides O'er evil acts , and aids the deeds that most Partake of Hell — surely his steed impell'd , And brac'd his sinews with unnatural vigor . His fiery eye , darting o'er hills and plains , Scarcely outstripp'd his hoofs ; the vales , the woods , His glance devour'd , were in an instant left Behind his feath'ry heels , that onward prest — Whilst the pursuing , stretching , mad'ning foe , Beheld new hills , new plains , new woods , arise Between their coursers and their ravish'd Prince . Meanwhile OSMIDA , in amazement lost , Beheld herself unchain'd , and yet not free . Those who had held her pris'ner , she saw slain ; But who are these , who risk , thus gallantly , Their lives for her and the dethroned King ? Perchance new masters ; perhaps again they're slaves . Scarce had this question , in her whirl of thought , Had time to firm itself , ere at her side She saw the noble ARLOS . — Hence ! vain fears . The magic touch of hope her bosom swell'd , And confidence chac'd ev'ry doubt away . Raising the snowy veil which hid her face , She beam'd a smile upon the loyal Knight , That in his mind o'erpaid ten thousand dangers . Fly , my best ARLOS ! said the charming maid , ( As at her feet he knelt ) and save the King ! See where he sits , unarm'd , amidst his foes ! Were he in safety , all my thoughts were peace . The Knight up-springing , staid not to reply , But instant hors'd , spurr'd onward to his troop : His troop he join'd , but not till the rich prize He flew to save , was ravish'd from his hopes . Three of the band he instantly dispatch'd , To stop the progress of the flying Saracen . The few remaining Moors , urg'd by despair , Still madly fought , preferring present death To the slow tortures , which they knew their Tyrant Would fail not to inflict , on those who lost The beauteous object of his brutal love . Their wish they soon receiv'd , and their freed spirits Sought the eternal shores . The Princess now Remain'd sole object of the cares of ARLOS . With eager speed he sought the trembling maid , Who saw her Parent borne o'er distant wilds , And in that sight lost ev'ry new-born comfort . Her tears bedew'd the senseless earth ; her cries Rent Heaven , and her unconscious feet mov'd quick Towards the course , in which she saw her Father . ARLOS , in soothing terms , implor'd the fair-one To moderate her grief . Doubtless , he cried , The gallant youths , who now pursue the Moor , Will not pursue the flying slave in vain . They know the mazy roads — each devious path , Each secret turning — and will meet the villain When least he can suspect his danger . Now , Sweet Princess ! to my castle let me lead you . There , if not happier , yet at least securely Your tears you may indulge , and feed your sorrows . Scarce sensible to what was urg'd , OSMIDA Allow'd herself once more upon a steed To be replac'd : her horseman , noble ARLOS ; Who through morasses , underwoods , and roads Almost impervious , brought his royal ward In safety to