Analysis of The Key (A Moorish Romance)

Thomas Hood 1799 (London) – 1845 (London)



'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?'
Sancho Panza in
Don Quixote

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
Ex


Scheme xax bcd efxfghih xjgjcklk xmxmxnxn xmxmloxo dpdpaqxq dgxgxrsr tudoxvxv xixlxdwd xxxxxjdj soxuyzhz 1 2 1 2 d3 x3 xy4 yx5 w5 4 6 x6 xxx4 dtdtxete b7 x7 x8 d8 v9 x9 xoix
Poetic Form
Metre 101101100110101111010011110110101111010001100101010110010 1 100010001 1110101011110 10100 1010 0111110 1010111 01110100 011111 1111010 0010101 01010101 110101 1111110 111001 11101010 0110101 010111 01111 11110111 110111 11111111 010101 0111010 10101101 11110111 110101 11011101 110011 1101111 010101 11010101 111101 01011101 010101 11010101 010111 111100100 110111 11110100 010101 111101 110101 11010101 01011 011101 0101010 11110111 1101010 11110101 01011 0101101 110101 01010101 111101 01110100 111101 01010101 110101 01010101 011101 10110101 110101 01010101 1100101 01011101 111101 11011101 010101 010111001 011101 01110100 010101 110111 010101 11011111 110101 11010100 11101 01010101 110101 11111111 111111 11110101 010111 11010101 110111 11010101 011101 11010100 01101 011111001 01001 11011101 111 11010101 11101 11010101 110101 11011101 11011 1110101 110101 11110101 110101 10110101 111101 01110101 011101 11011101 110101 11010100 111111 11011101 010101 0111101 010001 1011111 010101 0010101 110101 01010101 111101 011101 11111 01010101 011101 11000101 011101 11010101 11101 11010101 1
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 4,115
Words 742
Sentences 30
Stanzas 18
Stanza Lengths 3, 3, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8
Lines Amount 134
Letters per line (avg) 24
Words per line (avg) 6
Letters per stanza (avg) 180
Words per stanza (avg) 41
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

3:45 min read
62

Thomas Hood

Thomas Hood was a British humorist and poet. His son, Tom Hood, became a well known playwright and editor. more…

All Thomas Hood poems | Thomas Hood Books

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