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ARABESQUE.
157
Through these halls that people stepped
Who through darkling centuries
Held the keys
Of all wisdom, truth, and art,
In a Paradise apart,
Lapped in ease,
Sagely pondering deathless themes,
While, befooled with monkish dreams,
Europe slept.
Where shall they be found to-day?
Yonder hill that frets the sky
" The Last Sigh
Of the Moor " is named still.
There the ill-starred Boabdil
Bade good-by
To Granada and to Spain,
Where the Crescent ne’er again
Holdeth sway.
Vanished like the wind that blows,
Whither shall we seek their trace
On earth s face?
The gigantic wheel of fate,
Crushing all things soon or late,
Now a race,
Now a single life o erruns,
Now a universe of suns,
Now a rose.
