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,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapour
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger
And is busy with the lock-
The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell'd hilt-
Oh! much of gore in days of
That crooked blade has spilt!

yore

His brows are knit, his eyes of jet
In vivid blackness roll,

And gleam with fatal flashes
Like the fire-damp of the coal;

His jaws are set, and through his teeth
He draws a savage breath,

As if about to raise the shout

Of Victory or Death!

For why? the last Zebeck that came
And moor'd within the Mole,

Such tidings unto Tunis brought
As stir his very soul-

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,
For honour's gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;

But Christians shedding Christian blood
Beneath the olive's branch!

A war of horrid parricide,
And brother killing brother;

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
Th' Alhambra's pile again;

And those who pined in Barbary
Shall shout for joy in Spain—
The sooner shall the Crescent wave
On dear Granada's walls;

And proud Mohammed Ali sit
Within his father's halls!

"Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like

Up springs the swarthy Moor,
And, with a wide and hasty stride,
Steps o'er the marble floor;

Across the hall, till from the wall,
Where such quaint patterns be,
With eager hand he snatches down
An old and massive Key!

A massive Key of curious shape,
And dark with dirt and rust,

And well three weary centuries
The metal might incrust!
For since the King Boabdil fell
Before the native stock,

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
The Palace gate at last?

Three hundred years and fifty-two
On post and wall it hung—
Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny
The Prophet's will accords:

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,
Where is the noble Cid

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
Such Heroes brave and bold,
Such Valour, Faith, and Loyalty,
As used to shine of old!

No longer to one battle cry
United Spaniards run,

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
Of Spanish shot and shells.

The fleets decline, the merchants pine
For want of foreign trade;

And gold is scant; and Alicante

Is seal'd by strict blockade!

The loyal fly, and Valour falls,
Opposed by court intrigue;
But treachery and traitors thrive,
Upheld by foreign league;

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
The Saracen shall reap!

Well may he vow to spurn the Cross
Beneath the Arab hoof,