On a background of pale goldI would trace with quaint design,
Penciled fine,
Brilliant-colored,
Moorish scenes,
Mosques and crescents, pages, queens,
Line on line,
That the prose-world of
Might the gorgeous Past's
Once behold.
On the magic painted
Rich Granada's Vega
Should be seen;
Crystal fountains, coolness flinging,
Hanging gardens' skyward
Emerald sheen;
Ruddy when the daylight falls,
Crowned Alhambra's beetling
Stand revealed;
Balconies that
Field and city, vale and stream.
In a
Lulled the drowsy landscape basks;
Mark the
Silvery of each white-swathed peak!
Mountain-airs caress the cheek,
Fresh from the snow.
Here in Lindaraxa's
The immortal roses bloom;
In the
Lion-guarded, marble-paven,
Still the fountain leaps to heaven.
But the
Of the banned and stricken
Overshadows every place,
Every hour.
Where fair Lindaraxa
Flits the bat on velvet wings;
Mute the
Of the broken mandoline;
The Pavilion of the
Widely
Vacant windows to the night;
Moonbeams kiss the floor with
Where she knelt.
Through these halls that people
Who through darkling
Held the
Of all wisdom, truth, and art,
In a Paradise apart,
Lapped in ease,
Sagely pondering deathless themes,
While, befooled with monkish dreams,
Europe slept.
Where shall they be found today?
Yonder hill that frets the sky"The last
Of the Moor" is named still.
There the ill-starred
Bade
To Granada and to Spain,
Where the Crescent ne'er
Holdeth sway.
Vanished like the wind that blows,
Whither shall we seek their
On earth's face?
The gigantic wheel of fate,
Crushing all things soon or late,
Now a race,
Now a single life o'erruns,
Now a universe of suns,
Now a rose.
