But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene, Stern grandeur stamp’d upon thy princely mien; Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,[75] Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes, Why shines _thy_ helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, O son of Afric! midst the sons of Spain? Hast thou with these thy nation’s fall conspired, Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired? How art thou changed! still first in every fight, Hamet the Moor! Castile’s devoted knight! There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, But not the light that shone in days gone by; There is wild ardour in thy look and tone, But not the soul’s expression once thine own, Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway? No eye but Heaven’s may pierce that curtain’d breast, Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress’d. There hath been combat on the tented plain; The Vega’s turf is red with many a stain; And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield Tell of a fierce and well-contested field. But all is peaceful now: the west is bright With the rich splendour of departing light; Mulhacen’s peak, half lost amidst the sky, Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high, And tints, that mock the pencil’s art, o’erspread Th’ eternal snow that crowns Veleta’s head;[76] While the warm sunset o’er the landscape throws A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, And Hamet wanders from the camp away. In silent musings rapt:--the slaughter’d brave Lie thickly strewn by Darro’s rippling wave. Soft fall the dews--but other drops have dyed The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, The wounded sought a shelter--and expired.[77] Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, By the bright windings of the stream he strays, Till, more remote from battle’s ravaged scene, All is repose and solitude serene. There, ’neath an olive’s ancient shade reclined, Whose rustling foliage waves in evening’s wind, The harass’d warrior, yielding to the power, The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour, Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm Shed o’er his troubled soul unwonted balm; His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, The past, the future, are awhile forgot; And Hope, scarce own’d, yet stealing o’er his breast, Half dares to whisper, “Thou shalt yet be blest!”