Mosada: A dramatic poem — Reading Companion

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Authors: Yeats, W. B. (William Butler), 1865-1939, Yeats, Jack B. (Jack Butler), 1871-1957 [Illustrator] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2010 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Drama Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 6,062

Reading time 27 min

Text sections 1

For Mosada: A dramatic poem — Reading Companion, the stored edition analysis reports 6,062 words, 27 min estimated reading time, and 1 detected text section.

The text analysis averages about 17.3 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Drama,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #33430

W. B. Yeats's early dramatic poem set in fifteenth-century Moorish Spain, where a Moorish lady Mosada awaits a prophesied reunion with a Christian messenger, while a monk Ebremar struggles with his past. The poem's lyrical monologues and symbolic imagery shape a first reading.

Editorial Edition Score 4.4/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg33430

Read the Text

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 blanched 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._]

_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--

_Cola_ [_following._] Forgive. Forgive, or I will die.

_Mosada_ [_stooping and kissing him_]. 'Twas Allah's will.

_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

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.

Continue Reading →

Mosada's opening monologue immediately establishes a voice steeped in natural cycles and astrological prophecy. She counts three years since the messenger departed, marking time by roses, peaches, and corn. The stage direction specifies a "Little Moorish Room" in Azubia with a chafing dish, and her speech is punctuated by the sounds of apple gatherers outside. The entrance of lame Cola introduces a tension between Mosada's desire to see her beloved in a vision and Cola's fear of sin, prompted by the arrival of a "dark still man." This early conflict between pagan longing and religious authority sets the poem's central dynamic.

The Prophecy and the Stars

Mosada's faith in reunion rests on the word of Azolar, "the star-taught Moor," who read in the stars above the Alpujarras that when their nativity stars draw together, they will meet. This astrological framework is not mere ornament; it governs her perception of time and hope. She recalls the messenger's arrival in April, when swallows were "flashing their white breasts above," and his departure in autumn, when grapes were full. The natural world mirrors her emotional state—the cricket nation dancing, a dying leaf touching her lips "as though 'twere sealing them for death." The prophecy gives her patience, but also isolates her from the merry apple gatherers.

The Monk's Burden

Ebremar, the monk, is introduced through others' words before he speaks. Cola calls him "the servant of the Lord, / The dark still man." When he appears, he is described as having a face "sharpened with the fasting of the world" and eyes that "burn with cold fire." His dialogue reveals a man haunted by a past sin: he speaks of a woman he loved who died, and he now seeks to save souls through harsh penance. The Inquisitors note his trembling lips and flickering flame. The poem does not explicitly connect Ebremar to Mosada's lost messenger, but the parallel waiting and loss invite the reader to consider whether they are the same figure.

Symbols and Stagecraft

Yeats uses recurring visual symbols to structure the drama. The chafing dish where Mosada burns herbs for her vision, the silver crucifix around Cola's neck, and the minaret of the Alhambra black against the setting sun all carry weight. The stage directions are sparse but evocative: Mosada opens the casement to let in sounds, and later the scene shifts to a "monastery garden" and then a "mountain valley." The final scene is marked by cold and mist, with Mosada drawing her cloak and repeating "'tis very cold" before dying. Ebremar's entrance after her death, and the Inquisitors' suspicion of poison, close the action abruptly.

Voice and Lyricism

The poem is written in blank verse with occasional rhymes, and its strength lies in Mosada's lyrical speeches. Her language is rich with simile and personification: "the roses have grown less and less, / As slowly Autumn climbed the golden throne." She describes love and sorrow as figures with arms thrown round each other's necks, wandering the world. Ebremar's speech is more terse and strained, marked by exclamations and self-interruption. The contrast between her flowing, nature-infused verse and his jagged, guilt-ridden lines creates a tonal tension that carries the drama. The excerpts do not reveal the full plot, but the poetic voice is consistent and distinctive.

Reading the Unfinished Story

Because the excerpts are incomplete, the reader must piece together the relationship between Mosada and Ebremar. The epigraph—"And my Lord Cardinal hath had strange days in his youth"—suggests Ebremar may be that cardinal. The poem's title page notes it was "Reprinted from the DUBLIN UNIVERSITY REVIEW" in 1886, placing it early in Yeats's career. The reader should attend to the way Yeats uses the Moorish setting not as historical detail but as a backdrop for a spiritual and emotional conflict. The poem's brevity (6062 words) means every image and line carries weight; a first reading benefits from slow attention to the verse's rhythm and symbol.

This early work by W. B. Yeats rewards attention to its language and structure rather than its plot. The excerpts leave key questions unanswered—whether Ebremar is the messenger, what his past contains, and how the Inquisition will proceed. A first reader should focus on the interplay between Mosada's visionary hope and Ebremar's haunted duty, and on the natural imagery that Yeats uses to externalize inner states. The poem is a dramatic poem, meant to be heard as much as read; its rhythms and repetitions carry meaning.

That Yeats poem stayed with me — that ache of waiting, the way Mosada’s hope and Ebremar’s guilt seemed to echo off each other. It reminded me of finding old plays, voices from centuries ago feeling suddenly intimate. I came across A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 13 — Text and Context afterward, and the same quiet unease lingered there, like a half-remembered conversation.