The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood, by Thomas Hood

The Key.

A Moorish Romance.

“On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the key of their ancestors’ houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra.”— SCOTT’S Travels in Morocco and Algiers.

“Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?”


The Moor leans on his cushion,

With the pipe between his lips;

And still at frequent intervals

The sweet sherbét 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.

For should the Moor with sword and lance

At Algesiras land,

Where is the bold Bernardo now

Their progress to withstand?

To Burgos should the Moslem come,

Where is the noble Cid

Five royal crowns to topple down

As gallant Diaz did?

Hath Xeres any Pounder now,

When other weapons fail,

With club to thrash invaders rash,

Like barley with a flail?

Hath Seville any Perez still,

To lay his clusters low,

And ride with seven turbans green

Around his saddle-bow?

No! never more shall Europe see

Such Heroes brave and bold,

Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty,

As used to shine of old!

No longer to one battle cry

United Spaniards run,

And with their thronging spears uphold

The Virgin and her Son!

From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay

Internal discord dwells,

And Barcelona bears the scars

Of Spanish shot and shells.

The fleets decline, the merchants pine

For want of foreign trade;

And gold is scant; and Alicante

Is seal’d by strict blockade!

The loyal fly, and Valor falls,

Opposed by court intrigue;

But treachery and traitors thrive,

Upheld by foreign league;

While factions seeking private ends

By turns usurping reign —

Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor

Exulting point to Spain!

Well may he cleanse the rusty Key

With Afric sand and oil,

And hope an Andalusian home

Shall recompense the toil!

Well may he swear the Moorish spear

Through wild Castile shall sweep,

And where the Catalonian sowed

The Saracen shall reap!

Well may he vow to spurn the Cross

Beneath the Arab hoof,

And plant the Crescent yet again

Above th’ Alhambra’s roof —

When those from whom St. Jago’s name

In chorus once arose,

Are shouting Faction’s battle-cries,

And Spain forgets to “Close!”

Well may he swear his ataghan

Shall rout the traitor swarm,

And carve them into Arabesques

That show no human form —

The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds

Invite the savage Moor,

And tempt him with the ancient Key

To seek the ancient door!

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:55