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(From Book III)
QUIT now the town, and with a journeying dream | |
| Swift as the wings of sound, yet seeming slow | |
| Through multudinous compression of stored sense | |
| And spiritual space, see walls and towers | |
| Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance, | 5 |
| Giving no sign of that warm life within | |
| That moves and murmurs through their hidden heart. | |
| Pass o’er the mountain, wind in sombre shade, | |
| Then wind into the light and see the town | |
| Shrunk to white crust upon the darken rock. | 10 |
| Turn east and south, descend, then rise again | |
| Mid smaller mountains ebbing towards the plain; | |
| Scent the fresh breath of the height-loving herbs | |
| That, trodden by the pretty parted hoofs | |
| Of nimble goats, sigh at the innocent bruise, | 15 |
| And with a mingled difference exquisite | |
| Pour a sweet burden on the buoyant air. | |
| Pause now and be all ear. Far from the south, | |
| Seeking the listening silence of the heights, | |
| Comes a slow-dying sound,—the Moslems’ call | 20 |
| To prayer in afternoon. Bright in the sun | |
| Like tall white sails on a green shadowy sea | |
| Stand Moorish watch-towers; ’neath that eastern sky | |
| Couches unseen the strength of Moorish Baza; | |
| Where the meridian bends lies Guadix, hold | 25 |
| Of brave El Zagal. This is Moorish land, | |
| Where Allah lives unconquered in dark breasts, | |
| And blesses still the many-nourishing earth | |
| With dark-armed industry. See from the steep | |
| The scattered olives hurry in gray throngs | 30 |
| Down towards the valley, where the little stream | |
| Parts a green hollow ’twixt the gentler slopes; | |
| And in that hollow, dwellings: not white homes | |
| Of building Moors, but little swarthy tents | |
| Such as of old perhaps on Asian plains, | 35 |
| Or wending westward past the Caucasus, | |
| Our fathers raised to rest in. Close they swarm | |
| About two taller tents, and viewed afar | |
| Might seem a dark-robed crowd in penitence | |
| That silent kneel; but come now in their midst | 40 |
| And watch a busy, bright-eyed, sportive life! | |
| Tall maidens bend to feed the tethered goat, | |
| The ragged kirtle fringing at the knee | |
| Above the living curves, the shoulder’s smoothness | |
| Parting the torrent strong of ebon hair. | 45 |
| Women with babes, the wild and neutral glance | |
| Swayed now to sweet desire of mothers’ eyes, | |
| Rock their strong cradling arms and chant low strains | |
| Taught by monotonous and soothing winds | |
| That fall at night-time on the dozing ear. | 50 |
| The crones plait reeds, or shred the vivid herbs | |
| Into the caldron: tiny urchins crawl | |
| Or sit and gurgle forth their infant joy. | |
| Lads lying sphinx-like with uplifted breast | |
| Propped on their elbows, their black manes tossed back, | 55 |
| Fling up the coin and watch its fatal fall, | |
| Dispute and scramble, run and wrestle fierce, | |
| Then fall to play and fellowship again; | |
| Or in a thieving swarm they run to plague | |
| The grandsires, who return with rabbits slung, | 60 |
| And with the mules fruit-laden from the fields. | |
| Some striplings choose the smooth stones from the brook | |
| To serve the slingers, cut the twigs for snares, | |
| Or trim the hazel-wands, or at the bark | |
| Of some exploring dog they dart away | 65 |
| With swift precision towards a moving speck. | |
| These are the brood of Zarca’s Gypsy tribe; | |
| Most like an earth-born race bred by the Sun | |
| On some rich tropic soil, the father’s light | |
| Flashing in coal-black eyes, the mother’s blood | 70 |
| With bounteous elements feeding their young limbs. | |
| The stalwart men and youths are at the wars | |
| Following their chief, all save a trusty band | |
| Who keep strict watch along the northern heights. | |
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