BOABDIL EL CHICO'S FAREWELL TO GRANADA.
THE youthful lyre would shrink from tales of woe, Would tune with hope and love each quivering string; But when truth bids the sorrowing numbers flow, Its mournful chords responsive notes must ring. 'Tis sweet to tell of laughing mirth and glee; Its chords would vibrate but to purest joy; And when deep anguish pours unmix'd and free, Would haste with hope the sinking heart to buoy.
But faith al history still the page unfolds
Of war and blood; of carnage fierce and dark; Of savage bosoms, cast in giant mould, And hearts unwarm'd by pity's gentle spark. Then cast your garb of merry music by, Assume the mantle of unbrighten'd woe; - A cloud is gathering o'er the peaceful sky, And the warm sunbeams hide their golden glow.
Robed in a mantle of unrivall'd light,
The glorious sun was sinking o'er the plain, And tinging, with a glow of radiance bright, The towering domes and palaces of Spain. Between the lofty mounts which rise around, And form the deep ravine or shady dell, Granada's towers in mighty grandeur stood, And on the plain their darkening shadows fell.
The beams were gilding all her lofty towers, As on Nevada's side Alhambra stood, And o'er her spacious halls, her laurel bowers, Her marble courts, they pour'd a dazzling flood. Her gothic arches glitter'd in the ray,
While many a gushing fountain cool'd the air, And o'er the blushing flowers diffused their spray, Which bloom perennial in a world of care.
The golden lute upon the grape-vine hung, O'er sparkling waves the fragrant orange rose, And o'er the gilded roofs the sunbeams flung
A dazzling light, as when the diamond glows. And can it be!-can scenes so fair as this Know aught but joy unclouded, purest bliss? Will heaven's bright orb its dazzling brilliance shed, As if in mockery, upon sorrow's head?
Will skies of azure pour their softest light
On hearts which grief has sear'd, and woe doth blight? Will earth rejoice, while earthly hearts are riven,- While man, oppress'd, to dark despair is driven ? Retire, oh sun! reserve thy cheering rays For calmer hours, for brighter, happier days!
Go shine on England's spires, or India's bowers, But gaze not on Alhambra's humbled towers!
Cease, cease thy soft meanderings, sparkling river! Wind sadly silent, gentle Guadalquivir! No more thy waves through Moorish woodlands glance, No more reflect the Moorish warrior's lance, Nor view the tournament and sprightly dance. Cease, for thy foam is red with Moslem blood! Cease, for thy lords lie cold beneath thy flood! Captive Boabdil leaves his rightful throne, To others yields a kingdom once his own.
Behold yon gate!1 the ancient sages say No stone shall loosen, till that awful day, When yonder guardian hand, now firmly clasp'd, The mystic key beneath its arch has grasp'd; At that dread hour each crumbling stone shall fall, And in one common ruin bury all; But not till then, though first Alhambra lie A shapeless ruin, 'neath a frowning sky.
Why should she last? the monument of shame, Her legends disbelieved, degraded every name! Her noblest chiefs reduced to toil, Her maidens left, the conqueror's spoil! Murder'd her children, scorn'd each lovely dame. Oh, that the mystic hand had power To veil Granada's shame; That in one dark and awful hour, Might perish each dishonour'd name. Lo! on yon mount appears a mournful train! Behold the newly-conquer'd slave of Spain! El Chico, humbled, winds his sorrowing way, For, with his home, he leaves the light of day. Ill-fated prince! thine errors still I mourn; A father's hatred caused each bursting sigh; Thy youthful days were lonely and forlorn, Condemn'd a father's cruelty to fly.
Thy heart was never form'd for kingly state; It teem'd with softest feeling, gentlest thought! Devoid of strength to battle with thy fate,
For peace in vain thy troubled bosom sought! Though the brave may not tremble when war shall surround them Or shrink when the mantle of death shall have bound them, Yet the eye which can gaze unconcern'd on the tomb, Which can look without shrinking on death in its gloom, Will dissolve like the dew, or some wizard's dark spell, When it bids the sweet home of its childhood farewell.
The exiled monarch slowly turn'd away;
He could not bear to view those towers again, Which proudly glitter'd in the sun's last ray, As if to mock their wretched master's pain.
His weeping bride press'd trembling near his form, While sobs convulsive heaved her snowy breast; But proud Ayxa bade their sorrows cease,
With scornful glances which she scarce represt. "Chide me not, mother," cried the mourning son, "Nor charge me with unmanly weakness now; I grieve that Spain the royal prize has won, That proud Granada to her kings should bow." He paused, and turn'd aside his glowing cheek; His wandering eyes Alhambra's palace met: Those splendid domes, those towers for ever lost, Lost, when the sun of Moorish glory set. "Yes! yonder towering spires are seized by Spain, Their king an exile from his native land; Shall I ne'er view thy princely courts again, But yield resistless to the victor's brand ? Yes, thou art gone! thine ancient splendours fled! O'er thy gay towers the shroud of slavery thrown; Thy proudest chiefs, thy noblest warriors dead, And all thy pride and all thy glory gone.
"Farewell to Alhambra, dear home of my childhood ! Farewell to the land I so proudly have cherish'd; Farewell to the streamlet, the glen, and the wild-wood, The throne of my fathers whose glory has perish'd! 'Neath the crest of Nevada the bright sun is setting, And tinging with gold yonder beautiful river, And his rays seem to linger, as if half-regretting
They must leave the clear waves where so sweetly they quiver.
"Farewell, thou bright valley! I leave thee with sorrow; Thou wilt smile as serene 'neath the sun of the morrow; But thine ill-fated monarch shall view thee no more, He ne'er shall revisit thy beautiful shore." He paused; and the accents of heart-rending grief Were borne by the wind past each murmuring leaf. Cease, cease these vain wailings!" Ayxa replied, "Nor languish and weep like thy timid young bride;
Why mourn like a maid, who in sorrow will bend, For what as a man thou couldst never defend! Then cease these vain wailings, which womanlike pour, Or Ayxa la Horra will own thee no more; Granada has fallen, her glory has fled,
Her warriors and chieftains now sleep with the dead; But who has surrender'd her walls to our foe,
And branded her honour with shame's crimson glow?"
The tear to his eyelid unconsciously sprung,
But back the intruder he eagerly flung,
And cried, in a tone which with frenzy might blend, "Defamed by my country, and scorn'd by my friend!" They slowly ascended a rock towering high, Which long shall re-echo Boabdil's last sigh;
No prospect of beauty his mourning heart cheers, And he murmurs farewell on the dark hill of tears." Though grief and remorse with terrors oppress'd him; Though peace and affection ne'er tranquilly blest him; Though his kingdom was captured, his warriors were dying, Himself from the fury of Ferdinand flying; Through the tumult of feeling his pride had sustain'd him, Had his griefs but a mother's fond sympathy gain'd him; But the pride of a princess affection o'ercame And with basest dishonour she branded his name.
Reproachful invectives unthinking she shower'd, "His country was fallen, its monarch a coward?" The proud Ayxa loved her yielding son, And would have died had death his glory won; But she had hoped his rising fame to see, Had long'd to view his vanquish'd foemen flee. This cherish'd object of each glowing thought
Stern disappointment now had torn away, And left a gaping wound, with frenzy fraught; For hope and fancy pour'd no cheering ray. The mother was forgot in stately pride, While bitter anguish drew the trembling tear; He claim'd her pity-she could only chide, And laugh to scorn his cowardice and fear.
But the fair Zorahayda his beautiful bride, To soothe his affliction, remain'd at his side; Each thought found an answering chord in her bosom, Which glow'd with affection's first beautiful blossom : 'Twas warm as the sunbeam, and bright as its glance; 'Twas clear as the ripples which fairy-like dance; Each thought and each feeling which dwelt in her soul Her eye and her countenance told him the whole.
Yes, she, the young, the beautiful, the gay, To sorrow's dread abode love call'd away! From her dark eye she wiped the starting tear, And by his side repress'd each rising fear; Though dark despair should dim each future day, And even hope refuse her cheering ray, Her fairy form would bless his wandering eyes, Like some pure spirit from the glowing skies.
Reposing 'mid Alhambra's shady bowers, She cheer'd his lonely and his weary hours; But when, alas! his brow no longer wore The crown, which proudly grac'd his front before, When fickle Moors forsook his tottering throne, When, glory, power, and kingly state were gone, And threatening clouds were seen around to lower, Then, then he felt the more her witching power.
Vanquish'd at last upon the battle field, And forced Granada's lofty towers to yield,
Still the fair bud of promise brightly glow'd, From her heart's depths the warm affections flow'd; She sweetly soothed his cares, she blest his name, And sorrow fann'd to light the kindling flame Which burn'd within that tender, faithful mind, To all his faults, and all his errors blind.
How sweet the communion of kindred minds, When sorrow each hope hath blighted; When the heart which is bursting with agony finds One face with pure sympathy lighted. And must he from the fair Zorahayda be banish'd, Must the charm of existence for ever be broken?
Has every fond dream of prosperity vanish'd, Must he sigh over love's wither'd token? In the tower of Gomares he gather'd a few, And his warriors, still faithful, he rallied, The broad Moorish banner far over thein flew, And forth to the battle he sallied.
He return'd-and his eye was cast down in despair, The glow on his cheek was still deeper; "Farewell to Granada! our foemen are there!" Loudly echoes the voice of the weeper. "Come, wife of my bosom! together we'll wander, The storm of affliction together we'll brave; And perchance in some distant and desolate region, We may find a lone shelter, a home, and a grave, I would not my spirit should quit its sad mansion
'Mid the taunts and revilings of conquering Spain, Where the foot of the victor would tread o'er my ashes, And reproach and dishonour would tarnish my name.
"Oh, gaze on yon parapets towering on high,
Those pillars of pride were but yesterday mine; But to-day we are doom'd from their splendours to fly- Weep not for my sorrows, I mourn but for thine; Those halls shall re-echo the loud voice of grief, Those fountains in murmurs respond to our sorrow, But ne'er can they waken the bright smile again, Which woe from gay pleasure a moment would borrow.
"Around those gay mansions and beautiful bowers The foot of the stranger contemptuous shall press; Unmark'd the bright fountains, uncultured the flowers, No fair hand to cherish, no soft voice to bless, Ill-fated Boabdil! thy name shall be hated!
The babe shall repeat it with moaning and tears, And the eye which was sparkling, with pleasure elated, Indignant shall glance on thy cowardly fears."
He paused, and led away his mourning bride, In grief his solace, and in joy his pride. But whither do his weary footsteps bend ?5 What clime his broken heart one joy can lend? Where can he now from shame despairing fly,- Beneath what golden sun, what beaming sky?
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