The Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbet he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapor
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!

One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger
And is busy with the lock—­
The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell’d hilt—­
Oh! much of gore in days of yore
That crooked blade has spilt!

His brows are knit, his eyes of jet
In vivid blackness roll,
And gleam with fatal flashes
Like the fire-damp of the coal;
His jaws are set, and through his teeth
He draws a savage breath,
As if about to raise the shout
Of Victory or Death!

For why? the last Zebeck that came
And moor’d within the Mole,
Such tidings unto Tunis brought
As stir his very soul—­
The cruel jar of civil war,
The sad and stormy reign,
That blackens like a thunder cloud
The sunny land of Spain!

No strife of glorious Chivalry,
For honor’s gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross. 
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;
But Christians shedding Christian blood
Beneath the olive’s branch!

A war of horrid parricide,
And brother killing brother;
Yea, like to “dogs and sons of dogs”
That worry one another. 
But let them bite and tear and fight,
The more the Kaffers slay,
The sooner Hagar’s swarming sons
Shall make the land a prey!

The sooner shall the Moor behold
Th’ Alhambra’s pile again;
And those who pined in Barbary
Shall shout for joy in Spain—­
The sooner shall the Crescent wave
On dear Granada’s walls: 
And proud Mohammed Ali sit
Within his fathers halls!

“Alla-il-alla!” tiger-like
Up springs the swarthy Moor,
And, with a wide and hasty stride,
Steps o’er the marble floor;
Across the hall, till from the wall,
Where such quaint patterns be,
With eager hand he snatches down
And old and massive Key!

A massive Key of curious shape,
And dark with dirt and rust,
And well three weary centuries
The metal might encrust! 
For since the King Boabdil fell
Before the native stock,
That ancient Key, so quaint to see,
Hath never been in lock.

Brought over by the Saracens
Who fled accross the main,
A token of the secret hope
Of going back again;
From race to race, from hand to hand,
From house to house it pass’d;
O will it ever, ever ope
The Palace gate at last?

Three hundred years and fifty-two
On post and wall it hung—­
Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny
The Prophet’s will accords: 
The time is come to scour the rust,
And lubricate the wards.