O formed of happier love! heroic maid!
In grief sublime, in danger undismayed.
Farewell, and be thou blest !—all words were vain
For him who ne'er may view that form again;
Him, whose sole thought, resembling bliss, must be,
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!"
And is the warrior gone?-doth Zayda hear
His parting footstep, and without a tear?
Thou weep'st not, lofty maid!-yet who can tell
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell?
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soul,
Who best each feeling's agony controul.
Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief
Which finds in Misery's eloquence relief;
But who shall pierce those depths of silent wo,
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears
may flow?

The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved,
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved?
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows,
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes,
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn,
Beholding anguish-all unknown to them.
Fair city! thou, that 'midst thy stately fanes
And gilded minarets, towering o'er the plains,
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies,
While streams, that bear thee treasures in their
wave,(15)

Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave;
Mourn! for thy doom is fixed—the days of fear
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near!
Within, around thee are the trophied graves
Of kings and chiefs-their children shall be slaves.
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell,
But there a race that reared them not shall dwell;
For 'midst thy counsels Discord still presides,
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides,
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown
Hath to their offspring but bequeathed a throne,
Without one generous thought, or feeling high,
To teach his soul how kings should live and die.
A voice resounds within Granada's wall,
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.(16)
Whose are those tones with power electric fraught,
To reach the source of pure, exalted thought?
See on a fortress-tower, with beckoning hand,
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand!
His mien is all impassioned—and his eye
Filled with a light whose fountain is on high;
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow.
And inspiration beams upon his brow,
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands

gaze,

As on some mighty seer of elder days.

"Saw ye the banners of Castile displayed, The helmets glittering, and the line arrayed? Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?" he cries, "Children of conquerors! in your strength arise!

O high-born tribes! oh names unstained by fear!
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear!(17)
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.(18)
Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come,
And the red sabre must decide your doom.
Where is that spirit which prevailed of yore,
When Tarik's bands o'erspread the western
shore ?(19)

When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain,(20)
And Afric's tecbir swelled through yielding
Spain?(21)

Is the lance broken, is the shield decayed,
The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismayed,
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth?

To guard the regions where our fathers' blood Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood,

Where long their dust hath blended with the soil Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil?

"O ye sierras of eternal snow!

Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, Woods, fountains, rocks, of Spain! ye saw their might

In many a fierce and unforgotten fight!
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race,
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace?
With each memorial of the past around,
Each mighty monument of days renowned?
May this indignant heart ere then be cold,
This frame be gathered to its kindred mould!
And the last life-drop circling through my veins
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains!

One mighty effort, one deciding field!
"And yet one struggle ere our doom is sealed,

If vain each hope, we still have choice to be,
In life the fettered, or in death the free!"

Still while he speaks, each gallant heart beats high,

And ardour flashes from each kindling eye;
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought,
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence.
And all is hushed around-as every sense

But when his voice hath ceased, th' impetuous cry

Of eager thousands burst at once on high;
Rampart, and rock, and fortress, ring around,
And fair Alhambra's inmost halls resound.
"Lead us, O chieftain! lead us to the strife,
To fame in death, or liberty in life!"
O zeal of noble hearts! in vain displayed!
High feeling wasted! generous hope betrayed!
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave
Is roused to energies that yet might save,
E'en now, enthusiasts! while ye rush to claim
Your glorious trial on the field of fame,

more;

And for your children's portion, but remains That bitter heritage-the stranger's chains.

CANTO III.

Fermossi al fin il cor che balzò tanto.

Ippolito Pindemonte.

HEROES of elder days! untaught to yield, Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field, Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore (23) Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore, And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued, Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solitude; Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, In the last chastening of your Moslem foes! Rejoice!-for Spain, arising in her strength, Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length; And they in turn the cup of wo must drain, And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. And thou, the warrior born in happy hour,(24) Valencia's lord, whose name alone was power, Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, Conqueror of Kings! exult, O Cid! on high. For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal, In life, in death, the watcher for Castile !

Thou in that hour when Mauritania's bands Rushed from their palmy groves and burning lands, E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain

A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain !(25)
Then, at deep midnight, rose the mighty sound,
By Leon heard, in shuddering awe profound,
As through her echoing streets in dread array,
Beings, once mortal, held their viewless way;
Voices, from worlds we know not-and the tread
Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead,
Thou and thy buried chieftains-from the grave
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save,
And join thy warriors with unearthly might
To aid the rescue in Tolosa's fight.
Those days are past-the crescent on thy shore,
O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.(26)
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower ?(27)
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power!
What the glad shout of each exulting voice?
"Castile and Arragon! rejoice, rejoice!"
Yielding free entrance to victorious foes,
The Moorish city sees her gates unclose,
And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, and
lance,

Through her long streets in knightly garb advance.
Oh! ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry,
At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore,
High masque, or solemn festival of yore.

Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers,
Fountains, and palaces, and cypress bowers;
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng,
With helmets glittering as they move along,
With broidered scarf, and gem-bestudded mail,
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale;
Shields, gold-embossed, and pennons floating far,
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war,
All brightened by the rich transparent hues
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth diffuse;
Blend in one scene of glory, formed to throw
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow.
And there too, foremost 'midst the conquering brave,
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave.
There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port
Seems nor approach to shun, nor praise to court,
Calm, stern, collected-yet within his breast
Is there no pang, no struggle unconfest?
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen,
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien.

Hear'st thou the solemn, yet exulting sound,
Of the deep anthem floating far around?
The choral voices to the skies that raise
The full majestic harmony of praise?
Lo! where surrounded by their princely train,
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain,
Borne on their trophied car-lo! bursting thence
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence!

Onward their slow and stately course they bend To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascend, Reared and adorned by Moorish kings of yore, Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. They reach those towers-irregularly vast And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast (28) They enter to their wondering sight is given A genii palace-an Arabian heaven !(29) A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, Its form and colours seem alike of air. Here by sweet orange-boughs, half shaded o'er, The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor, Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing

hues

The calm transparence of its waves suffuse.
There, round the court, where Moorish arches bend,
Aërial columns, richly decked, ascend;
Unlike the models of each classic race,
Of Doric grandeur, or Corinthian grace,
But answering well each vision that portrays
Arabian splendour to the poet's gaze:
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all-a mingling glow
Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below;
Bright-streaming from the many-tinctured veins,
Of precious marble-and the vivid stains
Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade,
In gay festoons and fairy knots displayed.

On through th' enchanted realm, that only seems Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams,

The royal conquerors pass-while still their sight
On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight.
Here the eye roves through slender colonades,
O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades,
Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high
The vast sierra, mingling with the sky.
There, scattering far around their diamond spray,
Clear streams from founts of alabaster play,
Through pillared halls, where, exquisitely wrought,
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught,
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene
A wild, romantic, oriental mien:

While many a verse from eastern bards of old,
Borders the wall in characters of gold.(30)
Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain,
Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign
'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence
brood,

And all be lone-a splendid solitude.

Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs,
From mingling voices of exulting throngs;
Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there,(31)
And joyous clarions pealing on the air,
While every hall resounds, "Granada won!
Granada! for Castile and Arragon!"(32)
'Tis night-from dome and tower, in dazzling

maze,

The festal lamps innumerably blaze;(33)
Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams,
From every lattice tremulously streams,
Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill,
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil;
Red flame the torches on each minaret's height,
And shines each street an avenue of light;
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice
Through the long night still summons to rejoice.
Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry,
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours,
Galled by the chain, though decked awhile with
flowers;

Stern passions working in th' indignant breast,
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexprest,
Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet,

Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret.
From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow
Commands the wide luxuriant plains below,
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene,
Anguish and shame contending in his mien?
He, who, of heroes and of kings the son,
Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won,
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have
sealed;

Wavering alike in counsel and in field;
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave,
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave.

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies,(34)

er,

The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower.
No voice, no step, is in her father's halls,
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls;
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate,
But all is hushed, and void, and desolate.

There, through each tower and solitary shade,
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid;
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone,
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown;
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows
The stream whose music lulled her to repose.

But oli! to him, whose self-accusing thought
Whispers 't was he that desolation wrought;
He who his country and his faith betrayed,
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid;
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale,
Each wave, low rippling, tells a mournful tale;
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined,
In wild exuberance, rustle to the wind,
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense,
And seems to murmur-" Thou hast driven her
hence!"

And well he feels to trace her flight were vain,
-Where hath lost love been once recalled again?
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn,
His name can rouse no feeling now but scorn.
O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart
Wakes to behold the void within-and start!
To feel its own abandonment, and brood
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude.
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast
Have swayed so long, so fiercely, are at rest;
Th' avenger's task is closed:(36)—he finds too
late,

It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate
His was a lofty spirit, turned aside

From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and

pride;