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Title: Mosada

Subtitle: A dramatic poem

Author: W. B. Yeats

Release Date: August 14, 2010 [EBook #33430]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Brian Foley and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

Transcriber's Note

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of this document.

MOSADA.

A Dramatic Poem.

BY

W. B. YEATS.

WITH A

Frontispiece Portrait of the Author

By J. B. YEATS.

Reprinted from the DUBLIN UNIVERSITY REVIEW.

DUBLIN:

PRINTED BY SEALY, BRYERS, AND WALKER,

94, 95 AND 96 MIDDLE ABBEY STREET.

1886.

MOSADA.

"And my Lord Cardinal hath had strange days in his youth."

Extract from a Memoir of the Fifteenth Century.

MOSADA,

A Moorish Lady.

EBREMAR,

A Monk.

COLA,

A Lame Boy.

MONKS AND INQUISITORS.

SCENE I.

A Little Moorish Room in the Village of Azubia.

In the centre of the room a chafing dish.

Mosada. [alone] Three times the roses have grown less and less,

As slowly Autumn climbed the golden throne

Where sat old Summer fading into song,

And thrice the peaches flushed upon the walls,

And thrice the corn around the sickles flamed,

Since 'mong my people, tented on the hills,

He stood a messenger. In April's prime

(Swallows were flashing their white breasts above

Or perching on the tents, a-weary still

From waste seas cross'd, yet ever garrulous)

Along the velvet vale I saw him come:

In Autumn, when far down the mountain slopes

The heavy clusters of the grapes were full,

I saw him sigh and turn and pass away;

For I and all my people were accurst

Of his sad God; and down among the grass

Hiding my face, I cried long, bitterly.

Twas evening, and the cricket nation sang

Around my head and danced among the grass;

And all was dimness till a dying leaf

Slid circling down and softly touched my lips

With dew as though 'twere sealing them for death.

Yet somewhere in the footsore world we meet

We two before we die, for Azolar

The star-taught Moor said thus it was decreed

By those wan stars that sit in company

Above the Alpujarras on their thrones,

That when the stars of our nativity

Draw star to star, as on that eve he passed

Down the long valleys from my people's tents,

We meet—we two.

[She opens the casement—the mingled sound of the voices and

laughter of the apple gatherers floats in.]

How merry all these are

Among the fruit. But yon, lame Cola crouches

Away from all the others. Now the sun—

A-shining on the little crucifix

Of silver hanging round lame Cola's neck—

Sinks down at last with yonder minaret

Of the Alhambra black athwart his disk;

And Cola seeing, knows the sign and comes.

Thus do I burn these precious herbs whose smoke

Pours up and floats in fragrance o'er my head

In coil on coil of azure.

[Enter Cola.] All is ready.

Cola. Mosada, it is then so much the worse.

I will not share your sin.

Mosada.                        It is no sin

That you shall see on yonder glowing cloud

Pictured, where wander the beloved feet

Whose footfall I have longed for, three sad summers—

Why these new fears?

Cola.                  The servant of the Lord,

The dark still man, has come, and says 'tis sin.

Mosada. They say the wish itself is half the sin.

Then has this one been sinned full many times,

Yet 'tis no sin—my father taught it me.

He was a man most learned and most mild,

Who, dreaming to a wondrous age, lived on

Tending the roses round his lattice door.

For years his days had dawned and faded thus

Among the plants; the flowery silence fell

Deep in his soul, like rain upon a soil

Worn by the solstice fierce, and made it pure.

Would he teach any sin?

Cola.                              Gaze in the cloud

Yourself.

Mosada. None but the innocent can see.

Cola. They say I am all ugliness; lame-footed

I am; one shoulder turned awry—why then

Should I be good? But you are beautiful.

Mosada. I cannot see.

Cola.                  The beetles, and the bats,

And spiders, are my friends, I'm theirs, and they are

Not good; but you are like the butterflies.

Mosada. I cannot see! I cannot see! but you

Shall see a thing to talk on when you're old,

Under a lemon tree beside your door;

And all the elders sitting in the sun,

Will wondering listen, and this tale shall ease

For long, the burthen of their talking griefs.

Cola. Upon my knees I pray you, let it sleep,

The vision.

Mosada. You're pale and weeping, child.

Be not afraid, you'll see no fearful thing.

Thus, thus I beckon from her viewless fields—

Thus beckon to our aid a Phantom fair

And calm, robed all in raiment moony white.

She was a great enchantress once of yore,

Whose dwelling was a tree-wrapt island, lulled

Far out upon the water world and ringed

With wonderful white sand, where never yet

Were furled the wings of ships. There in a dell

A lily blanchèd place, she sat and sang,

And in her singing wove around her head

White lilies, and her song flew forth afar

Along the sea; and many a man grew hushed

In his own house or 'mong the merchants grey,

Hearing the far off singing guile and groaned,

And manned an argosy and sailing died.

In the far isle she sang herself asleep

At last. But now I wave her to my side.

Cola. Stay, stay, or I will hold your white arms down.

Ah me, I cannot reach them—here and there

Darting you wave them, darting in the vapour.

Heard you? Your lute upon the wall has sounded!

I feel a finger drawn across my cheek!

Mosada. The phantoms come; ha ha! they come, they come!

I wave them hither, my breast heaves with joy.

Ah! now I'm eastern-hearted once again,

And while they gather round my beckoning arms,

I'll sing the songs the dusky lovers sing,

Wandering in sultry palaces of Ind,

A lotus in their hands—

[The door is flung open. Enter the Officers of the Inquisition.]

First Inquisitor.            Young Moorish girl

Taken in magic. In the Church's name

I here arrest thee.

Mosada.                  It is Allah's will.

Touch not this boy, for he is innocent.

Cola. Forgive! for I have told them everything.

They said I'd burn in hell unless I told

Them all, and let them find you in the vapour.

[She turns away—he clings to her dress.]

Forgive me!

Mosada.                  It was Allah's will.

Second Inquisitor.                        Now cords.

Mosada. No need to bind my hands. Where are ye, sirs,

For ye are hid with vapours?

Second Inquisitor.                  Round the stake

The vapour is much thicker.

Cola.                        God! the stake!

Ye said that ye would fright her from her sin—

No more; take me instead of her, great sirs.

She was my only friend; I'm lame you know—

One shoulder twisted, and the children cry

Names after me.

First Inquisitor. Lady—

Mosada.                  I come.

Cola [following.]                        Forgive.

Forgive, or I will die.

Mosada [stooping and kissing him]. 'Twas Allah's will.

SCENE II.

A Room, the building of the Inquisition of Granada, lit by

stained window, picturing St. James of Spain.

Monks and Inquisitors.

First Monk. Will you not hear my last new song?

First Inquisitor.                  Hush, hush!

So she must burn you say.

Second Inquisitor.            She must in truth.

First Inquisitor. Will he not spare her life? How would one matter

When there are many?

Second Monk.            Ebremar will stamp

This heathen horde away. You need not hope;

And know you not she kissed that pious child

With poisonous lips, and he is pining since?

First Monk. You're full of wordiness. Come, hear my song.

Second Monk. In truth an evil race; why strive for her,

A little Moorish girl?

Second Inquisitor. Small worth.

First Monk.                  My song—

First Inquisitor. I had a sister like her once my friend.

[Touching the first Monk on the shoulder.]

Where is our brother Peter? When you're nigh,

He is not far. I'd have him speak for her.

I saw his jovial mood bring once a smile

To sainted Ebremar's sad eyes. I think

He loves our brother Peter in his heart.

If Peter would but ask her life—who knows?

First Monk. He digs his cabbages. He brings to mind

That song I've made—is of a Russian tale

Of Holy Peter of the Burning Gate:

A saint of Russia in a vision saw

[Sings]

A stranger new arisen wait

By the door of Peter's gate,

And he shouted Open wide

Thy sacred door, but Peter cried,

No, thy home is deepest hell,

Deeper than the deepest well.

Then the stranger softly crew

Cock-a-doodle-doodle-doo!

Answered Peter: Enter in

Friend; but 'twere a deadly sin

Ever more to speak a word

Of any unblessed earthly bird.

First Inquisitor. Be still, I hear the step of Ebremar.

Yonder he comes; bright-eyed, and hollow-cheeked

From fasting—see, the red light slanting down

From the great painted window wraps his brow,

As with an aureole.

[Ebremar enters—they all bow to him.]

First Inquisitor. My suit to you—

Ebremar. I will not hear; the Moorish girl must die.

I will burn heresy from this mad earth,

And—

First Inquisitor. Mercy is the manna of the world.

Ebremar. The wages of sin is death.

Second Monk.                              No use.

First Inquisitor. My lord, if it must be, I pray descend

Yourself into the dungeon 'neath our feet

And importune with weighty words this Moor,

That she foreswear her heresies and save

Her soul from seas of endless flame in hell.

Ebremar. I speak alone with servants of the Cross

And dying men—and yet—but no, farewell.

Second Monk. No use.

Ebremar. Away! [They go.] Hear oh! thou enduring God,

Who giveth to the golden-crested wren

Her hanging mansion. Give to me, I pray,

The burthen of thy truth. Reach down thy hands

And fill me with thy rage, that I may bruise

The heathen. Yea, and shake the sullen kings

Upon their thrones. The lives of men shall flow

As quiet as the little rivulets

Beneath the sheltering shadow of thy Church,

And thou shalt bend, enduring God, the knees

Of the great warriors whose names have sung

The world to its fierce infancy again.

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,

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, and

she 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.

Printed by

SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER,

94, 95, AND 96 MIDDLE ABBEY STREET,

DUBLIN.

Transcriber's Notes

Page 5: "my friend," amended to "my friend."

Page 6: "First Inqusitor" amended to "First Inquisitor"

Page 10: "kn ewa" amended to "knew a"

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mosada, by W. B. Yeats

Transcriber's Note

MOSADA.

A Dramatic Poem.

W. B. YEATS.

with a

Frontispiece Portrait of the Author

MOSADA.

Scene I.

Scene II.

Scene III.

Transcriber's Notes

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE