Mourn! for thy doom is fix’d—the day of fear,
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near!
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves
Of kings and chiefs—their children shall be slaves.
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell,
But there a race that rear'd them not shall dwell;
For 'midst thy councils Discord still presides,
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides,
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown
Hath to their offspring but bequeath'd a throne,
Without one generous thought, or feeling high,
To teach his soul how kings should live and die.
A voice resounds within Granada's wall,
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.16[1]
Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught,
To reach the source of pure exalted thought?
See, on a fortress-tower, with beckoning hand,
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand!
His mien is all impassion'd—and his eye
Fill'd with a light whose fountain is on high;
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow,
And inspiration beams upon his brow,
