Arabesque

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.