The Key. - A Moorish Romance.

"On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key 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 sherbt he sips;     But, spite of lulling vapor     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 yore     That crooked blade has spilt!     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 thunder cloud     The sunny land of Spain!     No strife of glorious Chivalry,     For honor'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 fathers 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     And old and massive Key!     A massive Key of curious shape,     And dark with dirt and rust,     And well three weary centuries     The metal might encrust!     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 accross 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 Valor, 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 Valor 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 sowed     The Saracen shall reap!     Well may he vow to spurn the Cross     Beneath the Arab hoof,     And plant the Crescent yet again     Above th' Alhambra's roof -     When those from whom St. Jago's name     In chorus once arose,     Are shouting Faction's battle-cries,     And Spain forgets to "Close!"     Well may he swear his ataghan     Shall rout the traitor swarm,     And carve them into Arabesques     That show no human form -     The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds     Invite the savage Moor,     And tempt him with the ancient Key     To seek the ancient door!