Muley Malak
THUNDER of guns, and cries—banners and spears and blood!
Troops have died where they stood holding the vantage points—
They have raced like waves at a wall, and dashed themselves to death.
Dawn the fight begin, and noon was red with its noon.
The armies stretch afar—and the plain of Alcazar
Is drenched with Moorish blood.
On one side, Muley the King—Muley Malek the Strong.
He had seized the Moorish crown because it would fit his brows.
Hamet the Fair was king; but Muley pulled him down, because he was strong.
The fierce sun glares on the clouds of dust and battlesmoke,
The hoarsened soldiers choke in the blinding heat.
Muley the King is afield, but sick to the death.
Borne on a litter he lies, his blood on fire, his eyes
Flaming with fever light.
Hamah Tabah the Captain, stands by the curtained bed,
Telling him news of the fight—how the waves roll and rise, and clash and mingle and seethe.
And Hamah bends to the scene. He peers under arched hand—
As an eagle he stoops to the field. One hand on the hilt
Is white at the knuckles, so fiercely gripped; while the hand
That had parted the curtains before now clutches the silk and wrings.
Hamet's squadrons are moving in mass—their lines are circling the plain!
The thousands of Muley stand, like bison dazed by an earthquake;
They are stunned by the thud of the fight, they are deer without a leader;
Their charge has died like the impulse of missiles freed from the sling;
Their spears waver like shaken barley,—they are dumbstruck and ready to fly!
Hamah Tabah the Captain, in words like the pouring of pitch, has painted
The terrible scene for the sick King, and terrible answer follows.
Up from the couch of pain, disdaining the bonds of weakness;
Flinging aside disease as a wrestler flings his tunic;
Strong with the smothered flre of fever, and fiercer far than its flaming,
Rises in mail from the litter Muley Malek the King!
Down on his plunging stallion, in the eyes of the shuddered troops,
His bent plume like a smoke, and his sword like a flame,
Smelting their souls with his courage, he rides before his soldiers!
They bend from his face like the sun—their eyes are blind with shame—
They thrill as a stricken tiger thrills, gathering his limbs from a blow;
They raise their faces, and watch him, sworded and mailed and strong;
They watch him, and shout his name fiercely—'Muley, the King!'
Grimly they close their ranks, drinking his face like wine;
Strength to the arm and wrath to the soul, and power—
Fuel and fire he was—and the battle roared like a crater!
Back to the litter, his face turned from the lines, and fixed
In a stare like the faces in granite, the King
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poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Added by Poetry Lover
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