The Christian And The Moor-A Legend Of Granada Poem by Peter John Allan

Before Granada's fated walls the Christian legions
stand,
A numerous and a valiant-but why a sullen band?
The politic, wise Ferdinand's injunctions they obey-
No battle with the Paynim host to wage on all that day.

And vainly ride the haughty Moors, and dare them to
the fight,
With many a bitter taunting jest, and many jereed's
flight;
The hardy warriors of Castile more dread those mock-
ing glances
Than all the men of Heathendom, and all their sharpest
lances,

Thus to be ranged in war's array, with swords upon
their thighs,
Compell'd to keep them in their sheaths-the foe before
their eyes;
The eager vet'rans chafe and fume, impatient of delay,
Yet will not, e'en for combat's sake, their sovereign
disobey.

And ever on their Arab steeds the Infidels sweep by,
Now, darting on-now, wheeling swift, like swallows
in the sky;
They call on many a gallant Don, by title and by name,
To break a single spear with them for love of knightly
fame.

Now, sudden from Granada's gates, there roll'd a ribald
crowd,
Around a single horseman huge, with declamations
loud;
And as the charger nearer came, its rider well they
knew-
'Twas Tarfe, as brave a Moorish knight as falchion ever
drew.

The giant heathen was encased in mail from head to
heel
Of sable hue; his scimitar, of true Damascus steel,
Was in a silken baldric hung, his spear was in the rest,
And on before the Spanish lines his steed he dauntless
press'd.

A sudden execration flies at once along the van,
A cry of horror and of rage, sent forth from man to
man-
For, fastened to his courser's tail, a crumpled scroll was
seen,
Inscribed with holy Mary's name-heaven's chaste and
honoured queen.

Each Christian warrior's heart is full of deep and
deadly ire;
The hand that grasps the dagger's hilt proclaims the
soul's desire
To grapple with the impious wretch, who dares all
Heaven defy-
Revenge that bitter blasphemy, or in the effort die.

The youthful Garcilaso has sought the sovereign's tent,
And for a boon, before the throne, an humble suppliant
bent-
'Grant, Sire,' he said, 'thy royal leave, this Tarfe
my blade shall feel;
Once, ere he die, before the cross the boastful Moor
shall kneel.'

King Ferdinand this answer made, 'Go forth, my
gallant knight,
And may the holy Mother still protect thee in the fight;
Our fervent prayer shall be put up to Heaven's throne
for thee, [shield to be.'
Go forth, and may the Lord of hosts vouchsafe thy

And now he mounts his gallant steed, a Flemish
buckler rears, [spears,
And chooses from a shining pile the toughest of the
A cross is on his breast-plate, traced in lines of bloody
hue,
That sign full well becomes a breast so faithful and
so true.

So forth he spurs against the foe, the Moor beholds
him nigh,
And couching firm his fatal lance, and shouting loud
the cry,
'Allah, il Allah!' on he comes; so sweeps the
pois'nous breath
Over the desert's barren sands, the simoon's blast of
death.

Thy meet-the spears are splintered both to shivers
with the shock,
As waves that burst in froth and foam upon some
rugged rock.
At once their glittering blades flash forth like meteors
of the night,
And hand to hand with mighty blows they urge the
fatal fight.

Stroke upon stroke each stoutly dealt, and blood began
to flow;
When Tarfe at Garcilaso aimed a fierce and deadly
blow.
He saw, and swiftly shrank aside. The steel descend-
ing cleav'd
His courser's head, and unto earth the horse and rider
heav'd.

Tarfe saw his Christian foe lie stretch'd, the slaughter'd
steed beside;
And now, to give the fatal thrust, he swift dismounting
hied.
His arm is raised dire death to deal, when thus he
mocking cries,
'Behold, Sir Knight! your holy cross beneath the
crescent lies.'

The words recall'd his fleeting breath, and nerv'd his
arm anew,
With sudden spring he from his breast the vaunting
heathen threw;
His poniard flashes to the skies, and now-how dark
its dye,
And Heaven to the Christian knight has given the
victory.

The sun-burnt foreheads of Castile with joy exulting
glow,
And the dark brows of many a Moor grow darker
still with woe.
Alhama mourns her fearless Tarfe, for ever snatch'd
away,
While Christendom the victory hails with a loud and
joyous lay.