Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, O’er that Green Vega rose the din of war. At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone O’er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone; On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, Tents rose around, and banners glanced above; And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright With gold, reflecting every tint of light, And many a floating plume and blazon’d shield Diffused romantic splendour o’er the field. There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart: The clang of echoing steel, the charger’s neigh, The measured tread of hosts in war’s array; And, oh! that music, whose exulting breath Speaks but of glory on the road to death; In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power To wake the stormy joy of danger’s hour; To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain, Rouse from despondence, and support in pain; And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife, Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. High o’er the camp, in many a broider’d fold, Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold: There, imaged on the cross, _his_ form appears Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears--[73] _His_ form, whose word recall’d the spirit fled, Now borne by hosts to guide them o’er the dead! O’er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore, To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore; Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, They come, the gallant children of Castile; The proud, the calmly dignified:--and there Ebro’s dark sons with haughty mien repair, And those who guide the fiery steed of war From yon rich province of the western star.[74]