Methought the dreams of childhood were realized at last, And magic hands uplifted a pall that hid the past, While looking on its panels with colored stones inlaid, And alabaster vases on which the sunbeam played. In gem-embroidered kaftan, and grave with cares of state, Dispensing equal justice, a king was at the gate— The hajib[4] was in waiting to hear his high command, And in the foreground gathered proud nobles of the land. Luxurious rooms I entered through quaintly carven doors, And trod on fretted pavements and tessellated floors; And in secluded chambers, for beauty’s use designed, On gorgeous silken cushions voluptuous forms reclined. To win their smiles full often had gallant cavaliers Met with a shock, like thunder, at the Tournament of Spears, And all had won the homage by Love and Valor paid, When, under moon-lit balconies awoke the serenade. Xarifa, rose of sunset—Zoroyda, star of dawn! Ye never can be numbered with things of beauty gone: Poetical embalmment bestows a glorious light, That frights away the minions of darkness, dust and blight. Umbrageous courts I traversed, where lime and orange grew, And fig and date their shadows on beds of roses threw, Then bathed in perfumed waters, and listened to the sound Of singing founts diffusing a grateful coolness round. While silvery Xenil wandered through blooming bower and plain, Back came once more the splendor of Moorish rule in Spain; I heard the stormy clarion, the atabal’s deep roll, And felt the joy of battle awake within my soul. Elvira’s gates unfolded, and, grim with many a scar, A host of Moorish horsemen rode fiercely forth to war; The standard of the Prophet above them was unrolled, And dallied with the lifting wind its green and golden fold. Gemmed saddle-cloth and armor were blinding to the gaze, And burnished lance and scimetar flashed back the sunbeam’s blaze, While prancing in the van, as if their nostrils scented gore, The milk-white steeds of Yemen, king, sheick and emir bore. When fled that martial pageant, like vapor on the gale, Woke on the banks of Darro a startling voice of wail, And tones so full of sweetness and wild, despairing wo, Were never heard by listening ear from mortal lips to flow. LAMENT FOR GRENADA. Alas for thee, Grenada! Thy Crescent waned away When traitors leagued to shatter Thy mace of royal sway. Unworthy of the mother That warmed them into life, They heard the Gothic trumpet, And armed not for the strife. Look round! an earthly paradise Is changed into a tomb, A blight is on thy loveliness, And mildew on thy bloom; Where streamed the Moorish pennon Triumphantly of old, Decay and mournful silence Divided empire hold.