Thou, in that hour when Mauritania’s bands Rush’d from their palmy groves and burning lands, E’en in the realm of spirits didst retain A patriot’s vigilance, remembering Spain![89] Then at deep midnight rose the mighty sound, By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound, As through her echoing streets, in dread array, Beings once mortal held their viewless way-- Voices from worlds we know not--and the tread Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead, Thou and thy buried chieftains: from the grave Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, And join thy warriors with unearthly might To aid the rescue in Tolosa’s fight. Those days are past--the crescent on thy shore, O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.[90] What banner streams afar from Vela’s tower?[91] The cross, bright ensign of Iberia’s power! What the glad shout of each exulting voice? “Castile and Aragon! rejoice, rejoice!” Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, And Spain’s proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance, Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. Oh! ne’er in lofty dreams hath Fancy’s eye Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, At joust or tourney, theme of poet’s lore, High masque or solemn festival of yore. The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise O’erarch’d by cloudless and cerulean skies; Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers: And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, With helmets glittering as they move along, With broider’d scarf and gem-bestudded mail, And graceful plumage streaming on the gale; Shields, gold-emboss’d, and pennons floating far, And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues That southern suns o’er heaven and earth diffuse-- Blend in one scene of glory, form’d to throw O’er memory’s page a never-fading glow, And there, too, foremost midst the conquering brave, Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave. There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court; Calm, stern, collected--yet within his breast Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess’d? If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer’s mien. Hear’st thou the solemn yet exulting sound Of the deep anthem floating far around? The choral voices, to the skies that raise The full majestic harmony of praise? Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train, They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, Borne on their trophied car--lo! bursting thence A blaze of chivalrous magnificence!