’Tis night--from dome and tower, in dazzling maze, The festal lamps innumerably blaze;[97] Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams, From every lattice tremulously streams, Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil; Red flame the torches on each minaret’s height, And shines each street an avenue of light; And midnight feasts are held, and music’s voice Through the long night still summons to rejoice. Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry, Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, Gall’d by the chain, though deck’d awhile with flowers; Stern passions working in th’ indignant breast, Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpress’d, Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet-- Vengeance and keen remorse, and vain regret. From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, Who lingering gazes o’er the lovely scene, Anguish and shame contending in his mien He who of heroes and of kings the son, Hath lived to lose whate’er his fathers won; Whose doubts and fears his people’s fate have seal’d, Wavering alike in council and in field; Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, To Afric’s wilds the royal exile flies;[98] Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain O’er all he never must behold again. Fair spreads the scene around--for him _too_ fair, Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. The Vega’s meads, the city’s glittering spires, The old majestic palace of his sires, The gay pavilions and retired alcoves, Bosom’d in citron and pomegranate groves; Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light, All in one moment bursting on his sight, Speak to his soul of glory’s vanish’d years, And wake the source of unavailing tears. --Weep’st thou, Abdallah?--Thou dost well to weep, O feeble heart! o’er all thou couldst not keep! Well do a woman’s tears befit the eye Of him who knew not as a man to die.[99] The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda’s bower, The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. No voice, no step, is in her father’s halls, Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; No stranger enters at the chieftain’s gate, But all is hush’d, and void, and desolate. There, through each tower and solitary shade, In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid: Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown; And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows The stream whose music lull’d her to repose.