"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 heav'd 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 splendors 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."
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 heav'd 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 splendors 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."
