There is deep stillness in those halls of state Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late; Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin’s blast Hath o’er the dwellings of the desert pass’d.[70] Fearful the calm--nor voice, nor step, nor breath Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, Save the wild gush of waters--murmuring round In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone, Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. O’er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread In mingled fragments--glittering to the light Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, And smile in placid beauty o’er the dead: O’er features where the fiery spirit’s trace E’en death itself is powerless to efface; O’er those who flush’d with ardent youth awoke, When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke, Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep; In the low silent house, the narrow spot, Home of forgetfulness--and soon forgot. But slowly fade the stars--the night is o’er-- Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; Slumberers who ne’er shall wake on earth again, Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. Yet smiles the day--oh! not for mortal tear Doth nature deviate from her calm career: Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. O’er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, O’er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows; Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, And skies arch cloudless o’er a world of woe; And flowers renew’d in spring’s green pathway bloom, Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. Within Granada’s walls the funeral rite Attends that day of loveliness and light; And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, Is gather’d to the brave of other years: And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade His martyr’d brother and his sire are laid, Feels every deep resolve and burning thought Of ampler vengeance e’en to passion wrought; Yet is the hour afar--and he must brood O’er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. Tumult and rage are hush’d--another day In still solemnity hath pass’d away, In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, The calm that follows in the tempest’s path.