But first and bravest of that gallant train, Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain; In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, His Aben-Zurrahs (3) there young Hamet leads; While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, "Revenge and freedom! -let the tyrant die!"

Yes, trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath, By helm and corslet shatter'd in his path; And by the thickest harvest of the slain, And by the marble's deepest crimson stain; Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries From triumph, anguish, or despair arise; And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, And where the ground is reddest - he is there. Yes, that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. They perish'd - not as heroes should have died, On the red field in victory's hour of pride, In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, And proudly smiling as the death-pang came; Oh! had they thus expired, a warrior's tear Had flow'd almost in triumph o'er their bier. For thus alone the brave should weep for those Who brightly pass in glory to repose. - Not such their fate - a tyrant's stern command Doom'd them to fall by some ignoble hand, As with the flower of all their high-born race, Summon'd Abdallah's royal feast to grace, Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, They sought the banquet's gilded hall - to die.

Betray'd, unarm'd, they fell - the fountain wave
Flow'd crimson with the life-blood of the brave,
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate
Through the wide city rung from gate to gate,
And of that lineage each surviving son
Rushed to the scene where vengeance might be won.

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife,
Leader of battle, prodigal of life,
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset,
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet.
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more,
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er.
But lo! descending o'er the darken'd hall,
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall,
Nor yet the strife hath ceased-tho' scarce they know,
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe,
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray,
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.

Where lurks Abdallah? - 'midst his yielding train They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain: He lies not number'd with the valiant dead, His champions round him have not vainly bled; But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, And his last warriors found each effort fail, In wild despair he fled a trusted few, Kindred in time, are still in danger true; And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, The Vega's (4) green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. He passed the Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers, Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers In dew and starlight-there from grot and cave, Gush'd in wild music many a sparkling wave;

There, on each breeze, the breath of fragrance rose, And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.

But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again.
Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course
Of him who flies from terror or remorse!
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom,
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb;
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair,
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there.
Abdallah heeds not though the light gale roves
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves,
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise,
Wild notes of Nature's vesper melodies;
Marks not, how lovely, on the mountain's head,
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread;
But urges onward, till his weary band,
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand.
He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes
In silence gazing, fix'd awhile remains,
In stern, deep silence-o'er his feverish brow,
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow,
But waft in fitful murmurs from afar,
Sounds, indistinctly fearful-as of war,
What meteor bursts, with sudden blaze, on high,
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky?
Awful it rises, like some Genie-form,

Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm, (5)
Magnificently dread-above, below,
Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow.
Lo! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare
Streams through the still transparence of the air;

Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre,
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire;
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height,
From dim perspective start to ruddy light.

Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah's soul, The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly For life-such life as makes it bliss to die! On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal'd Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. Thither his steps are bent-yet oft he turns, Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. But paler grow the sinking flames at last, Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past. And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene, Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. And now his feet have reach'd that lonely pile, Where grief and terror may repose awhile; Embower'd it stands, 'midst wood and cliff on high, Through the grey rocks a torrent sparkling nigh; He hails the scene where every care should cease, And all-except the heart he brings-is peace.

There is deep stillness in those halls of state, Where the loud cries of conflict rung so late! Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert pass'd. (6) Fearful the calm-nor voice, nor step, nor breath Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, Save the wild gush of waters-murmuring round, In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone,

Through chambers peopled by the dead alone.

O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red,
Breastplate and shield, and cloven helm are spread
In mingled fragments - glittering to the light
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright,
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed,
And smile, in placid beauty, o'er the dead;
O'er features, where the fiery spirit's trace,
E'en death itself is powerless to efface,
O'er those who, flush'd with ardent youth, awoke,
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke.
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep,
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep,
In the low silent house, the narrow spot,
Home of forgetfulness, and soon forgot.

But slowly fade the stars - the night is o'er -
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more;
Slumberers, who ne'er shall wake on earth again,
Mourners, who call'd the loved, the lost, in vain.
Yet smiles the day - Oh! not for mortal tear
Doth nature deviate from her calm career,
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair,
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share.
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows,
O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows;
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below,
And skies are cloudless o'er a world of woe,
And flowers renew'd in spring's green pathway bloom,
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite
Attends that day of loveliness and light;
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears,
Is gather'd to the brave of other years;