LITMIR.BIZ

      Mosada. [alone] Three times the roses have grown less and less,

      As slowly Autumn climbed the golden throne

      Where sat old Summer fading into song,

      And thrice the peaches flushed upon the walls,

      And thrice the corn around the sickles flamed,

      Since 'mong my people, tented on the hills,

      He stood a messenger. In April's prime

      (Swallows were flashing their white breasts above

      Or perching on the tents, a-weary still

      From waste seas cross'd, yet ever garrulous)

      Along the velvet vale I saw him come:

      In Autumn, when far down the mountain slopes

      The heavy clusters of the grapes were full,

      I saw him sigh and turn and pass away;

      For I and all my people were accurst

      Of his sad God; and down among the grass

      Hiding my face, I cried long, bitterly.

      Twas evening, and the cricket nation sang

      Around my head and danced among the grass;

      And all was dimness till a dying leaf

      Slid circling down and softly touched my lips

      With dew as though 'twere sealing them for death.

      Yet somewhere in the footsore world we meet

      We two before we die, for Azolar

      The star-taught Moor said thus it was decreed

      By those wan stars that sit in company

      Above the Alpujarras on their thrones,

      That when the stars of our nativity

      Draw star to star, as on that eve he passed

      Down the long valleys from my people's tents,

      We meet – we two.

      How merry all these are

      Among the fruit. But yon, lame Cola crouches

      Away from all the others. Now the sun —

      A-shining on the little crucifix

      Of silver hanging round lame Cola's neck —

      Sinks down at last with yonder minaret

      Of the Alhambra black athwart his disk;

      And Cola seeing, knows the sign and comes.

      Thus do I burn these precious herbs whose smoke

      Pours up and floats in fragrance o'er my head

      In coil on coil of azure.

      [Enter Cola.] All is ready.

      Cola. Mosada, it is then so much the worse.

      I will not share your sin.

      Mosada. It is no sin

      That you shall see on yonder glowing cloud

      Pictured, where wander the beloved feet

      Whose footfall I have longed for, three sad summers —

      Why these new fears?

      Cola. The servant of the Lord,

      The dark still man, has come, and says 'tis sin.

      Mosada. They say the wish itself is half the sin.

      Then has this one been sinned full many times,

      Yet 'tis no sin – my father taught it me.

      He was a man most learned and most mild,

      Who, dreaming to a wondrous age, lived on

      Tending the roses round his lattice door.

      For years his days had dawned and faded thus

      Among the plants; the flowery silence fell

      Deep in his soul, like rain upon a soil

      Worn by the solstice fierce, and made it pure.

      Would he teach any sin?

      Cola. Gaze in the cloud

      Yourself.

      Mosada. None but the innocent can see.

      Cola. They say I am all ugliness; lame-footed

      I am; one shoulder turned awry – why then

      Should I be good? But you are beautiful.

      Mosada. I cannot see.

      Cola. The beetles, and the bats,

      And spiders, are my friends, I'm theirs, and they are

      Not good; but you are like the butterflies.

      Mosada. I cannot see! I cannot see! but you

      Shall see a thing to talk on when you're old,

      Under a lemon tree beside your door;

      And all the elders sitting in the sun,

      Will wondering listen, and this tale shall ease

      For long, the burthen of their talking griefs.

      Cola. Upon my knees I pray you, let it sleep,

      The vision.

      Mosada. You're pale and weeping, child.

      Be not afraid, you'll see no fearful thing.

      Thus, thus I beckon from her viewless fields —

      Thus beckon to our aid a Phantom fair

      And calm, robed all in raiment moony white.

      She was a great enchantress once of yore,

      Whose dwelling was a tree-wrapt island, lulled

      Far out upon the water world and ringed

      With wonderful white sand, where never yet

      Were furled the wings of ships. There in a dell