Mosada: A dramatic poem

Where lies a shallop in the yellow reeds.
Awake, awake, and we will sail afar,
Afar along the fleet white river's face —
Alone with our own whispers and replies —
Alone among the murmurs of the dawn.
Among thy nation none shall know that I
Was Ebremar, whose thoughts were fixed on God,
And heaven, and holiness.

Mosada. Let's talk and grieve,
For that's the sweetest music for sad souls.
Day's dead, all flame-bewildered, and the hills
In list'ning silence gazing on our grief.
I never knew an eve so marvellous still.

Ebremar. Her dreams are talking with old years. Awake,
Grieve not, for Vallence kneels beside thee —

Mosada. Vallence,
'Tis late, wait one more day; below the hills
The foot-worn way is long, and it grows dark.
It is the darkest eve I ever knew.

Ebremar. I kneel by thee – no parting now – look up.
She smiles – is happy with her wandering griefs.

Mosada. So you must go; kiss me before you go.
Oh! would the busy minutes might fold up
Their thieving wings that we might never part.
I never knew a night so honey sweet.

Ebremar. There is no leave taking. I go no more.
Safe on the breast of Vallence is thy head
Unhappy one.

Mosada. Go not. Go not. Go not.
For night comes fast; look down on me, my love,
And see how thick the dew lies on my face.
I never knew a night so dew-bedrowned.

Ebremar. Oh! hush the wandering music of thy mind.
Look on me once. Why sink your eyelids so?
Why do you hang so heavy in my arms?
Love, will you die when we have met? One look
Give to thy Vallence.

Mosada. Vallence – he has gone
From here, along the shadowy way that winds
Companioning the river's pilgrim torch.
I'll see him longer if I stand out here
Upon the mountain's brow.

[She tries to stand and totters. Ebremar supports her, andshe stands pointing down as if into a visionary valley.]

Yonder he treads
The path o'er-muffled with the leaves – dead leaves,
Like happy thoughts grown sad in evil days.
He fades among the mists; how fast they come,
And pour upon the world! Ah! well a day!
Poor love and sorrow with their arms thrown round
Each other's necks, and whispering as they go,
Still wander through the world. He's gone, he's gone.
I'm weary – weary, and 'tis very cold.
I'll draw my cloak around me; it is cold.
I never knew a night so bitter cold.

    [Dies.]
Ebremar. Mosada! Oh, Mosada!

[Enter Monks and Inquisitors.]

First Inquisitor. My lord, you called.

Ebremar. Not I. This maid is dead.

First Monk. From poison, for you cannot trust these Moors.
You're pale, my lord.

First Inquisitor. [aside] His lips are quivering.
The flame that shone within his eyes but now
Has flickered and gone out.

Ebremar. I am not well.
'Twill pass. I'll see the other prisoners now,
And importune their souls to penitence,
So they escape from hell. But pardon me.
Your hood is threadbare – see that it be changed
Before we take our seats above the crowd.

First Monk. I always said you could not trust these Moors.

    [They go.]
    W. B. Yeats.