His form, whose word recall'd the spirit, fled,
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead!
O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high,
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry.
Fired with that ardour, which, in days of yore,
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore;
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal,
They come, the gallant children of Castile;
The proud, the calmly dignified:-and there
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair,
And those who guide the fiery steed of war
From yon rich province of the western star. (10)

But thou, conspicuous 'midst the glittering scene,
Stern grandeur stamp'd upon thy princely mien;
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest,
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest, (11)
Young Aben-Zurrah! 'midst that host of foes,
Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose!
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train,
Oh son of Afric, 'midst the sons of Spain?
Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired,
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired?
How art thou changed! Still first in every fight,
Hamet, the Moor! Castile's devoted knight!
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye,
But not the light that shone in days gone by;
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone,
But not the soul's expression once thine own,
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway?
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtain'd breast,
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexprest.

There hath been combat on the tented plain; The Vega's turf is red with many a stain, And rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield, Tell of a fierce and well-contested field; But all is peaceful now-the west is bright With the rich splendour of departing light; Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky, Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high, And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head, (12) While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, And Hamet wanders from the camp away, In silent musings rapt: -the slaughter'd brave Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. Soft fall the dews-but other drops have dyed The scented shrubs that fringe the river-side, Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, The wounded sought a shelter-and expired. (13) Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, By the bright windings of the stream he strays, Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, All is repose, and solitude serene. There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined, Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind, The harass'd warrior, yielding to the power, The mild, sweet influence of the tranquil hour, Feels, by degrees, a long-forgotten calm Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm; His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, The past, the future, are awhile forgot; And Hope, scarce own'd, yet stealing o'er his breast, Half dares to whisper, "Thou shalt yet be blest!" Such his vague musings-but a plaintive sound Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round; A low half-stifled moan, that seems to rise From life and death's contending agonies. He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade? -A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid, All rent and stain'd his broider'd Moorish vest, The corslet shatter'd on his bleeding breast! In his cold hand the broken falchion strain'd, With life's last force convulsively retain'd; His plumage soil'd with dust, with crimson dyed, And the red lance, in fragments, by his side; He lies forsaken-pillow'd on his shield, His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal'd. Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish'd now The light once throned on that commanding brow; And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast, The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between, Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace, Though changed thus fearfully that pallid face, Whose every feature to his soul conveys Some bitter thought of long-departed days.

"Oh! is it thus," he cries, "we meet at last? Friend of my soul, in years for ever past! Hath fate but led me hither to behold The last dread struggle ere that heart is cold, Receive thy latest agonizing breath, And, with vain pity, soothe the pangs of death? Yet let me bear thee hence-while life remains, E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins,

Some healing balm thy sense may still revive,
Hope is not lost,- and Osmyn yet may live!
And blest were he, whose timely care should save
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave."

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head;
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague, uncertain gaze,
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder'd strays;
Till, by degrees, a smile of proud disdain
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain;
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye,
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die;
And the mind's grandeur in its parting hour
Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.

"Away!" he cries, in accents of command, And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand, "Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free, E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee: 'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes Of him who faithful to his country dies; Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er, And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar; Be thine existence with a blighted name, Mine the bright death which seals a warrior's fame!"

The glow hath vanish'd from his cheek-his eye Hath lost that beam of parting energy; Frozen and fix'd it seems-his brow is chill; One struggle more, that noble heart is still. Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes, Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose,

More keen, more bitter, than the envenom'd dart
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart!
Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more
Till life's delirious dream itself is o'er;

But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave.
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave.
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought
In the high spirit and unbending thought!
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide,
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride;
While his soul rises gathering all its force,
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse.

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene;
Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies;
Thou still art faithful to affection's ties.
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn,
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem;
And soon thy smile, and soft consoling voice,
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice.

Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands, Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands; Nor hard the task at some propitious hour, To win his silent way to Zayda's bower, When night and peace are brooding o'er the world, When mute the clarions, and the banners furl'd. That hour is come--and o'er the arms he bears A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears; Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide The lofty port, and glance of martial pride; But night befriends-through paths obscure he pass'd, And hail'd the lone and lovely scene at last;