Yes! trace the footsteps of the warrior’s wrath By helm and corslet shatter’d in his path, And by the thickest harvest of the slain, And by the marble’s deepest crimson stain: Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise; And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, And where the ground is reddest--he is there. Yes! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. They perish’d--not as heroes should have died, On the red field, in victory’s hour of pride, In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, And proudly smiling as the death-pang came: Oh! had they _thus_ expired, a warrior’s tear Had flow’d, almost in triumph, o’er their bier. For thus alone the brave should weep for those Who brightly pass in glory to repose. --Not such their fate: a tyrant’s stern command Doom’d them to fall by some ignoble hand, As, with the flower of all their high-born race, Summon’d Abdallah’s royal feast to grace, Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, They sought the banquet’s gilded hall--to die. Betray’d, unarm’d, they fell--the fountain wave Flow’d crimson with the life-blood of the brave, Till far the fearful tidings of their fate Through the wide city rang from gate to gate, And of that lineage each surviving son Rush’d to the scene where vengeance might be won. For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, Leader of battle, prodigal of life, Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more, Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o’er. But lo! descending o’er the darken’d hall, The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall, Nor yet the strife hath ceased--though scarce they know, Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe; Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. Where lurks Abdallah?--midst his yielding train They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. He lies not number’d with the valiant dead, His champions round him have not vainly bled; But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, And his last warriors found each effort fail, In wild despair he fled--a trusted few, Kindred in crime, are still in danger true; And o’er the scene of many a martial deed, The Vega’s[68] green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. He pass’d th’ Alhambra’s calm and lovely bowers, Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers In dew and starlight--there, from grot and cave, Gush’d in wild music many a sparkling wave; There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose, And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.