For there no footstep treads th’ enchanted ground, There not a sound the deep repose pervades, Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, Through the light domes and graceful colonnades. Far other tones have swell’d those courts along In days romance yet fondly loves to trace The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, The revels, combats of a vanish’d race. And yet awhile, at Fancy’s potent call, Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold; Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old. ----The sun declines: upon Nevada’s height There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light; Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, And Darro’s wave reflects each passing dye That melts and mingles in th’ empurpled sky. Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour; Hush’d are the winds, and nature seems to sleep In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, Are dyed with tints of glory, only given To the rich evening of a southern heaven-- Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught --Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest The fiery passions of the human breast, Hark! from th’ Alhambra’s towers what stormy sound, Each moment deepening, wildly swells around? Those are no tumults of a festal throng, Not the light zambra[65] nor the choral song: The combat rages--’tis the shout of war, ’Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar. Within the Hall of Lions,[66] where the rays Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze; There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands: There the strife centres--swords around him wave, There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave; While echoing domes return the battle-cry, “Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!” And onward rushing, and prevailing still, Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. But first and bravest of that gallant train, Where foes are mightiest, charging ne’er in vain; In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, His Aben-Zurrahs[67] there young Hamet leads; While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, “Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”