But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course Of him who flies from terror or remorse! A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves; Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise, Wild notes of nature’s vesper-melodies; Marks not how lovely, on the mountain’s head, Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread; But urges onward, till his weary band, Worn with their toil, a moment’s pause demand. He stops, and turning, on Granada’s fanes In silence gazing, fix’d awhile remains In stern, deep silence: o’er his feverish brow, And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar, Sounds indistinctly fearful--as of war. What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high, O’er the blue clearness of the starry sky? Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, Seen midst the redness of the desert storm, Magnificently dread--above, below, Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow. Lo! from the Alhambra’s towers the vivid glare Streams through the still transparence of the air! Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire; And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, From dim perspective start to ruddy light. Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah’s soul, The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly For life--such life as makes it bliss to die! On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal’d Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. Thither his steps are bent--yet oft he turns, Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. But paler grow the sinking flames at last, Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past; And spiry vapours, rising o’er the scene, Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. And now his feet have reach’d that lonely pile, Where grief and terror may repose awhile; Embower’d it stands, midst wood and cliff on high, Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh: He hails the scene where every care should cease, And all--except the heart he brings--is peace.