Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs,
From mingling voices of exulting throngs;
Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there,31[1]
And joyous clarions pealing on the air,
While every hall resounds, "Granada won!
Granada! for Castile and Arragon!"32[2]
'Tis night—from dome and tower, in dazzling maze,
The festal lamps innumerably blaze;33[3]
Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams,
From every lattice tremulously streams,
Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill,
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil;
Red flame the torches on each minaret's height,
And shines each street an avenue of light;
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice
Through the long night still summons to rejoice.
Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry,
Are hearts unsooth'd by those delusive hours,
Gall'd by the chain, though deck'd awhile with flowers;
Stern passions working in th’ indignant breast,
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexprest,
