Mosada: A dramatic poem

Scene III

The dungeon of the Inquisition. The morning of the Auto-da-Fe

dawns dimly through a barred window. A few faint stars

are shining. Swallows are circling in the dimness without

Mosada. Oh! swallows, swallows, swallows, will ye fly
This eve, to-morrow, or to-morrow night
Above the farm-house by the little lake
That's rustling in the reeds with patient pushes,
Soft as a long dead footstep whispering through
The brain. My brothers will be passing down
Quite soon the cornfield, where the poppies grow,
To their farm-work; how silent all will be.
But no, in this warm weather, 'mong the hills,
Will be the faint far thunder-sound as though
The world were dreaming in its summer sleep;
That will be later, day is scarcely dawning.
And Hassan will be with them – he was so small,
A weak, thin child, when last I saw him there.
He will be taller now – 'twas long ago.

The men are busy in the glimmering square.
I hear the murmur as they raise the beams
To build the circling seats, where high in air
Soon will the churchmen nod above the crowd.
I'm not of that pale company whose feet
Ere long shall falter through the noisy square,
And not come thence – for here in this small ring,
Hearken, ye swallows! I have hoarded up
A poison drop. The toy of fancy once,
A fashion with us Moorish maids, begot
Of dreaming and of watching by the door
The shadows pass; but now, I love my ring,
For it alone of all the world will do
My bidding.

[Sucks poison from the ring.]

Now 'tis done, and I am glad
And free – 'twill thieve away with sleepy mood
My thoughts, and yonder brightening patch of sky
With three bars crossed, and these four walls my world,
And yon few stars, grown dim like eyes of lovers
The noisy world divides. How soon a deed
So small makes one grow weak and tottering.
Where shall I lay me down? That question is
A weighty question, for it is the last.
Not there, for there a spider weaves her web.
Nay here, I'll lay me down where I can watch
The burghers of the night fade one by one,
… Yonder a leaf
Of apple blossom circles in the gloom,
Floating from yon barred window. New comer,
Thou'rt welcome. Lie there close against my fingers.
I wonder which is whitest, they or thou.
'Tis thou, for they've grown blue around the nails.
My blossom, I am dying, and the stars
Are dying too. They were full seven stars;
Two only now they are, two side by side.
Oh! Allah, it was thus they shone that night,
When my lost lover left these arms. My Vallence,
We meet at last, the ministering stars
Of our nativity hang side by side,
And throb within the circles of green dawn.
Too late, too late, for I am near to death.
I try to lift mine arms – they fall again.
This death is heavy in my veins like sleep.
I cannot even crawl along the flags
A little nearer those bright stars. Tell me,
Is it your message, stars, that when death comes
My soul shall touch with his, and the two flames
Be one? I think all's finished now and sealed.

[After a pause enter Ebremar.]

Ebremar. Young Moorish girl, thy final hour is here,
Cast off thy heresies and save thy soul
From dateless pain. She sleeps —

[Starting.]

Mosada – thou —
Oh God! – awake, thou shalt not die. She sleeps.
Her head cast backward in her unloosed hair.
Look up, look up, thy Vallence is by thee.
A fearful paleness creeps across her breast
And out-spread arms.

[Casting himself down by her.]

Be not so pale, dear love.
Oh! can my kisses bring a flush no more
Upon thy face. How heavily thy head
Hangs on my breast. Listen, we shall be safe.
We'll fly from this before the morning star.
Dear heart, there is a secret way that leads
Its paven length towards the river's marge,