# Landon in The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/Moorish Romance

A MOORISH ROMANCE.
Softly through the pomegranate groves Came the gentle song of the doves; Shone the fruit in the evening light, Like Indian rubies, blood-red and bright;
Shook the date-trees each tufted head, As the passing wind their green nuts shed; And, like dark columns, amid the sky The giant palms ascended on high: And the mosque’s gilded minaret Glistened and glanced as the daylight set. Over the town a crimson haze Gathered and hung of the evening’s rays; And far beyond, like molten gold, The burning sands of the desert rolled. Far to the left, the sky and sea Mingled their gray immensity; And with flapping sail and idle prow The vessels threw their shades below Far down the beach, where a cypress grove Casts its shade round a little cove,
Darkling and green, with just a space For the stars to shine on the water’s face, A small bark lay, waiting for night And its breeze to waft and hide its flight. Sweet is the burthen, and lovely the freight, For which those furled-up sails await, To a garden, fair as those Where the glory of the rose Blushes, charmed from the decay That wastes other blooms away; Gardens of the fairy tale Told, till the wood-fire grows pale, By the Arab tribes, when night, With its dim and lovely light, And its silence, suiteth well With the magic tales they tell.
Through that cypress avenue, Such a garden meets the view, Filled with flowers—flowers that seem Lighted up by the sunbeam; Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves Green as Hope before it grieves O’er the false and broken-hearted, All with which its youth has parted, Never to return again, Save in memories of pain!    There is a white rose in yon bower, But holds it a yet fairer flower: And music from that cage is breathing, Round which a jasmine braid is wreathing,
A low song from a lonely dove, A song such exiles sing and love, Breathing of fresh fields, summer skies,— Not to be breathed of but in sighs! But fairer smile and sweeter sigh Are near when Leila's step is nigh! With eyes dark as the midnight time, Yet lighted like a summer clime With sun-rays from within; yet now Lingers a cloud upon that brow,— Though never lovelier brow was given To Houri of an Eastern heaven! Her eye is dwelling on that bower, As every leaf and every flower Were being numbered in her heart;—  There are no looks like those which dwell
On long-remembered things, which soon  Must take our first and last farewell!    Day fades apace; another day, That maiden will be far away, A wanderer o’er the dark-blue sea, And bound for lovely Italy, Her mother’s land! Hence, on her breast The cross beneath a Moorish vest; And hence those sweetest sounds, that seem Like music murmuring in a dream, When in our sleeping ear is ringing The song the nightingale is singing; When by that white and funeral stone,  Half-hidden by the cypress gloom,
The hymn the mother taught her child  Is sung each evening at her tomb. But quick the twilight time has past, Like one of those sweet calms that last A moment and no more, to cheer The turmoil of our pathway here.
 The bark is waiting in the bay, Night darkens round:—Leila, away! Far, ere to-morrow, o’er the tide, Or wait and be—Abdalla's bride!    She touched her lute—never again Her ear will listen to its strain! She took her cage, first kissed the breast—  Then freed the white dove prisoned there:
It paused one moment on her hand,  Then spread its glad wings to the air. She drank the breath, as it were health,  That sighed from very scented blossom; And taking from each one a leaf,  Hid them, like spells, upon her bosom. Then sought the sacred path again  She once before had traced, when lay A Christian in her father’s chain;  And gave him gold, and taught the way To fly. She thought upon the night, When, like an angel of the light, She stood before the prisoner’s sight, And led him to the cypress grove, And showed the bark and hidden cove;
And bade the wandering captive flee, In words he knew from infancy! And then he thought how for her love  He had braved slavery and death, That he might only breathe the air  Made sweet and sacred by her breath. She reached the grove of cypresses,—  Another step is by her side: Another moment, and the bark  Bears the fair Moor across the tide!    ‘Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight, To mark her eyes,—now dark, now bright, As now they met, now shrank away, From the gaze that watched and worshipped their day.
They stood on the deck, and the midnight gale Just waved the maiden’s silver veil— Just lifted a curl, as if to show The cheek of rose that was burning below: And never spread a sky of blue More clear for the stars to wander through! And never could their mirror be A calmer or a lovelier sea! For every wave was a diamond gleam: And that light vessel well might seem A fairy ship, and that graceful pair Young Genii, whose home was of light and air!    Another evening came, but dark: The storm clouds hovered round the bark
Of misery:—they just could see The distant shore of Italy, As the dim moon through vapours shone— A few short rays, her light was gone. O’er head a sullen scream was heard, As sought the land a white sea-bird, Her pale wings like a meteor streaming. Upon the waves a light is gleaming— Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death To light the night-black depths beneath. The vessel rolled amid the surge; The winds howled round it, like a dirge Sung by some savage race. Then came The rush of thunder and of flame: It showed two forms upon the deck,— One clasped around the other’s neck,
As there she could not dream of fear— In her lover’s arms could danger be near? He stood and watched her with the eye Of fixed and silent agony. The waves swept on: he felt her heart  Beat closer and closer yet to his! They burst upon the ship!—the sea  Has closed upon their dream of bliss!   Surely theirs is a pleasant sleep,  Beneath that ancient cedar tree, Whose solitary stem has stood  For years alone beside the sea! The last of a most noble race, That once had there their dwelling-place,
Long past away! Beneath its shade, A soft green couch the turf has made:— And glad the morning sun is shining On those beneath the boughs reclining. Nearer the fisher drew. He saw  The dark hair of the Moorish maid, Like a veil, floating o’er the breast,  Where tenderly her head was laid:— And yet her lover’s arm was placed Clasping around the graceful waist! But then he marked the youth’s black curls  Were dripping wet with foam and blood; And that the maiden’s tresses dark  Were heavy with the briny flood! Woe for the wind!—woe for the wave! They sleep the slumber of the grave!
They buried them beneath that tree;  It long had been a sacred spot. Soon it was planted round with flowers  By many who had not forgot; Or yet lived in those dreams of truth, The Eden birds of early youth, That make the loveliness of love: And called the place “The Maiden's Cove,”— That she who perished in the sea Might thus be kept in memory.