THE MOORISH BARQUE. LICOSA, 'tis a lovely thought That roams thy rocky steep, Where palms and wild pomegranates wrought Sweet shades for summer sleep; And blossom'd aloes rear'd the head Like guardians of the grove, To shield it from intrusive tread I dream upon the dawn serene, I saw by cleft and rude ravine Thy bird-nets waving in the wind, And weary wings far o'er the sea From burning suns and barren sands, Faint flutter to a worse decree I would I could recall as well The long wild lay, that rose and fell 'Twas but the tale so often told Bold peasant youth, fair vintage maid, By vine-clad rock, or orange dell, Of toiling side by side. 'Twas eve; and one had gained his prayer Of toil to take the double share Beneath the sultry ray; And one had chased the lonely hour 'Twas gentle eve, the task was done, And now, like wild-dove on the wing, He sought the smile his pains had won, Beside the star-lit spring, And swifter still his course he took, Such weary hours unseen— And as he went he thought how oft, When waves were calm, and zephyrs soft, The stranger sail would linger there For water from the fountain fair, And fancy wilder grew On all that savage hands might dare, When hovering on the outward breeze, Behold the falcon of the seas- A moment, and he reached the grot Where she had lain, but lay not now; And broken wreath, and true love knot, And footmarks by the fountain plot, Full plainly spoke the maiden's lot The prize of yonder prow! His thrill was like the lightning shock, A bound, and he hath cleared the rock, And o'er the tide behold him take His pathway in the pirate's wake. Far, far away from bower and beach His desperate course he bore, 'Till gasping swimmer ne'er might reach Its rock of safety more.— On, on he went, and onward, too, The barque was lessening from his view, Till pitying zephyrs seemed to grow All breathless at the sight of woe, And the fleeting sail And a voice of wail Came o'er the deep A voice, with Heaven's especial charm, His hand is on the pirate's stern. His piteous plaint hath brought The Pagan band, unused to burn 'I am a peasant," thus he spake, I have no hope but her ye take, No ransom but my prayer. Then think upon my fate forlorn, And take, oh take, these limbs outworn, Nor listen to my grief with scorn, Because ye do not share. O'er captives from the cruel mart, How dear the office to sustain Toil, sorrow, poverty, or pain, With love's confiding heart How dear the wedded hopes that thrall They listened to the suppliant's prayer, And raised him to the deck, To marvel that a maid so fair Clung round a Christian neck. And then the breeze, which late was spent, Still sailing to the low lament 66 Of joy's untimely wreck. Oh whither, whither, dost thou rove Beneath the midnight sky? And wherefore hast thou stolen the love Of peasant poor as I? "Take back, take back my promised bride, Weak hands for toil hath she, And I will work the double tide, And bless thee on my knee!" |