LAMENT OF BOABDIL
Fair city of waters, and thus must I leave thee?
Thou once wast the pride of the faithful on earth:
From mine arms the mail-grasp of the Christian doth reve thee;
Ah! would I had died in thee, land of my birth!
'Twere better by far that in one common downfall,
O'erwhelmed, we had perish'd, Granada, than thou
Should'st linger in beauty, priest-govern'd, a thrall,
A jewel in the crown on King Ferdinand's brow.
Ayesha, my mother, thou need'st not remind me
Of all the fair realm I for ever have lost;
The Vega smiles mockingly, stretch'd far behind me,
Bestrewn with the tents of the Cross-serving host.
O mother, my mother, now cease to upbraid me,
Though womanly tears for an instant should flow!
Forget and forgive if my weakness betray'd me—
My chill heart is failing like sun-melted snow.
All hopeless my future; how can I sustain it,
For ever, Granada, an exile from thee?
If weeping comes o'er me, why should I restrain it?
A king's tears fall not for the lands of the free.
As wending my weary way over the mountains,
I turn me to take a last look at thy towers;
Farewell to thee ever, thou City of Fountains,
The flag of the Christian waves over my bowers!