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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391573" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Abencerrage : Canto I.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lonely and still are now thy marble halls,<br>Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o'er;<br>And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls,<br>Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hushed are the voices that in years gone by <br>Have mourned, exulted, menaced, through thy towers,<br>Within thy pillared courts the grass waves high,<br>And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows,<br>Through tall arcades unmarked the sunbeam smiles,<br>And many a tint of softened brilliance throws <br>O'er fretted walls and shining peristyles. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone,<br>So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair,<br>Some charmed abode of beings all unknown,<br>Powerful and viewless, children of the air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For there no footstep treads the enchanted ground,<br>There not a sound the deep repose pervades,<br>Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round,<br>Through the light domes and graceful colonnades.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For other tones have swelled those courts along,<br>In days romance yet fondly loves to trace;<br>The clash of arms, the voice of choral song,<br>The revels, combats, of a vanished race.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call,<br>Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold; <br>Peopling once more each fair, forsaken hall,<br>With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">- The sun declines - upon Nevada's height<br>There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light;<br>Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow<br>Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, <br>And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye<br>That melts and mingles in the empurpled sky.<br>Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower,<br>Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour:<br>Hushed are the winds, and Nature seems to sleep<br>In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep,<br>Are dyed with tints of glory, only given<br>To the rich evening of a southern heaven;<br>Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught<br>With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught.<br>-Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest <br>The fiery passions of the human breast.<br>Hark! from the Alhambra's towers what stormy sound,<br>Each moment deepening, wildly swells around?<br>Those are no tumults of a festal throng,<br>Not the light zambra, nor the choral song:<br>The combat rages - 'tis the shout of war,<br>'Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar.<br>Within the Hall of Lions, where the rays<br>Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze;<br>There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands,<br>And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands;<br>There the strife centres - swords around him wave;<br>There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave,<br>While echoing domes return the battle-cry,<br>'Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!'<br>And onward rushing, prevailing still,<br>Court, hall, and tower, the fierce avengers fill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But first the bravest of that gallant train, <br>Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain; <br>In his red hand the sabre glancing bright,<br>His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light,<br>Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds,<br>His Aben-Zurrahs there young Hamet leads;<br>While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high,<br>'Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes! trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath<br>By helm and corslet shattered in his path,<br>And by the thickest harvest of the slain,<br>And by the marble's deepest crimson stain:<br>Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries<br>From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise;<br>And brightest where the shivering falchions glare,<br>And where the ground is reddest - he is there.<br>Yes, that young arm, amidst the Zegri host,<br>Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They perished - not as heroes should have died,<br>On the red field, in victory's hour of pride,<br>In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, <br>And proudly smiling as the death-pang came:<br>Oh! had they <br>thus<br>expired, a warrior's tear<br>Had flowed, almost in triumph, o'er their bier.<br>For thus alone the brave should weep for those<br>Who brightly pass in glory to repose.<br>- Not such their fate - a tyrant's stern command <br>Doomed them to fall by some ignoble hand,<br>As, with the flower of all their high-born race,<br>Summoned Abdallah's royal feast to grace,<br>Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh,<br>They sought the banquet's gilded hall - to die.<br>Betrayed, unarmed, they fell - the fountain wave<br>Flowed crimson with the life-blood of the brave,<br>Till far the fearful tidings of their fate<br>Through the wide city rang from gate to gate,<br>And of that lineage each surviving son<br>Rushed to the scene where vengeance might be won.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For this young Hamet mingles in the strife,<br>Leader of battle, prodigal of life,<br>Urging his followers till their foes, beset,<br>Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet.<br>Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more,<br>Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But lo! descending o'er the darkened hall,<br>The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall,<br>Nor yet the strife hath ceased - though scarce they know<br>Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe; <br>Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray,<br>The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where lurks Abdallah? - 'midst his yielding train,<br>They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. <br>He lies not numbered with the valiant dead,<br>His champions round him have not vainly bled;<br>But when twilight spread her shadowy veil,<br>And his last warriors found each effort fail,<br>In wild despair he fled - a trusted few, <br>Kindred in crime, are still in danger true;<br>And o'er the scene of many a martial deed<br>The Vega's green expanse, his flying footsteps lead.<br>He passed the Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers,<br>Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers<br>In dew and starlight - there, from grot and cave,<br>Gushed, in wild music, many a sparkling wave;<br>There, on each breeze, the breath of fragrance rose,<br>And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign<br>Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again.<br>Oh! vainly bright is Nature in the course<br>Of him who flies from terror or remorse!<br>A spell is round him which obscures her bloom,<br>And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; <br>There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair,<br>But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there.<br>Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves<br>Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves;<br>Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise,<br>Wild notes of Nature's vesper-melodies;<br>Marks not how lovely, on the mountain's head,<br>Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread<br>But urges onward, till his weary band,<br>Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand.<br>He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes<br>In silence gazing, fixed awhile remains<br>In stern, deep silence - o'er his feverish brow,<br>And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, <br>But waft, in fitful murmurs, from afar,<br>Sounds, indistinctly fearful, - as of war.<br>What meteor bursts, with sudden blaze, on high,<br>O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky?<br>Awful it rises, like some Genie-form,<br>Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm,<br>Magnificently dread - above, below,<br>Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow.<br>Lo! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare<br>Streams through the still transparence of the air!<br>Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre,<br>Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire;<br>And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height,<br>From dim perspective start to ruddy light.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah's soul,<br>The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! <br>Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly <br>For life - such life as makes it bliss to die!<br>On yon green height, the mosque, but half revealed<br>Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield.<br>Thither his steps are bent - yet oft he turns, <br>Watching that fearful beacon as it burns.<br>But paler grow the sinking flames at last,<br>Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past;<br>And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene,<br>Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been.<br>And now his feet have reached that lonely pile,<br>Where grief and terror may repose awhile; <br>Embowered it stands, 'midst wood and cliff on high,<br>Through the grey rocks, a torrent sparkling nigh;<br>He hails the scene where every care should cease,<br>And all - except the heart he brings - is peace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a deep stillness in those halls of state<br>Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late;<br>Stillness like that, when fierce the Ramsin's blast<br>Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert passed.<br>Fearful the calm - nor voice, nor step, nor breath,<br>Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death:<br>Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound,<br>In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone,<br>Through chambers peopled by the dead alone<br>O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red,<br>Breastplate, and shield, and cloven helm are spread<br>In mingled fragments - glittering to the light<br>Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright,<br>Their streaming lustre tremulously shed,<br>And smile, in placid beauty, o'er the dead:<br>O'er features where the fiery spirit's trace<br>E'en death itself is powerless to efface;<br>O'er those who, flushed with ardent youth, awoke, <br>When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke,<br>Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep<br>Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep;<br>In the low silent house, the narrow spot,<br>Home of forgetfulness - and soon forgot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But slowly fade the stars - the night is o'er -<br>Morn beams on those who hail her light no more;<br>Slumberers who ne'er shall wake on earth again,<br>Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain.<br>Yet smiles the day - oh! not for mortal tear<br>Doth nature deviate from her calm career;<br>Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair,<br>Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share.<br>O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows,<br>O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows;<br>Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below,<br>And skies are cloudless o'er a world of woe, <br>And flowers renewed in spring's green pathway bloom,<br>Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Within Granada's walls the funeral-rite<br>Attends that day of loveliness and light;<br>And many a chief, with dirges and with tears,<br>Is gathered to the brave of other years;<br>And Hamet, as beneath the cypress-shade <br>His martyred brother and his sire are laid,<br>Feels every deep resolve, and burning thought<br>Of ampler vengeance, e'en to passion wrought;<br>Yet is the hour afar - and he must brood<br>O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude.<br>Tumult and rage are hushed - another day<br>In still solemnity hath passed away,<br>In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath,<br>The calm that follows in the tempest's path.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane,<br>His ravaged city traversing again.<br>No sound of gladness his approach precedes,<br>No splended pageant the procession leads;<br>Where'er he moves the silent streets along,<br>Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng.<br>No voice is heard; but in each altered eye,<br>Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh,<br>And in each look of those whose love hath fled <br>From all on earth to slumber with the dead,<br>Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown <br>On the bleak wilderness of life alone -<br>In youth's quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage,<br>And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age,<br>May well be read a dark and fearful tale<br>Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil,<br>And passion, like the hushed volcano's power,<br>That waits in stillness its appointed hour.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No more the clarion from Granada's walls,<br>Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls;<br>No more her graceful daughters, throned on high,<br>Bend o'er the lists the darkly-radiant eye;<br>Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread,<br>And song is hushed, and pageantry is fled.<br>- Weep fated city! o'er thy heroes weep -<br>Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep! <br>Furled are their banners in the lonely hall,<br>Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall,<br>Wildly their charges range the pastures o'er,<br>Their voice in battle shall be heard no more;<br>And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive,<br>Whom he hath wronged too deeply to forgive,<br>That race, of lineage high, of worth approved,<br>The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved -<br>Thine Aben-Zurrahs - they no more shall wield<br>In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shied;<br>Condemned to bid the cherished scenes farewell<br>Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell,<br>And far o'er foreign plains, as exiles, roam,<br>Their land the desert, and the grave their home.<br>Yet there is one shall see that race depart,<br>In deep, though silent, agony of heart;<br>One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone,<br>Unseen her sorrows, and their cause unknown, <br>And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear<br>That smile, in which the spirit hath no share;<br>Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow<br>O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Soft, fresh, and silent, is the midnight hour,<br>And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower;<br>That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind<br>One name is deeply, secretly enshrined.<br>That name in vain stern Reason would efface:<br>Hamet! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet not hers in bitterness to prove<br>The sleepless pangs of unrequited love;<br>Pangs, which the rose of wasted youth consume,<br>And make the heart of all delight the tomb,<br>Check the free spirit in its eagle-flight,<br>And the spring-morn of early genius blight;<br>Nor such her grief - though now she wakes to weep,<br>While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A step treads lightly through the citron shade,<br>Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betrayed -<br>Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot,<br>Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot?<br>'Tis he - but changed that eye, whose glance of fire<br>Could, like a sunbeam, hope and joy inspire,<br>As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught,<br>It spoke of glory to the inmost thought;<br>Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled,<br>And in its wild expression may be read<br>Stern thoughts and fierce resolves - now veiled in shade,<br>And now in characters of fire portrayed.<br>Changed e'en his voice - as thus its mournful tone<br>Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Zayda, my doom is fixed - another day<br>And the wronged exile shall be far away;<br>Far from the scenes where still his heart must be,<br>His home of youth, and more than all - from thee.<br>Oh! what a cloud hath gathered o'er my lot,<br>Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot!<br>Lovely as then, the soft and silent hour, <br>And not a rose hath faded from thy bower;<br>But I - my hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown, <br>And changed my heart, to all but thee alone.<br>Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise!<br>Heroic visions of my early days!<br>In my the glories of my race must end -<br>The exile hath no country to defend!<br>E'en in life's morn my dreams of pride are o'er<br>Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more,<br>And one wild feeling in my altered breast<br>Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest.<br>Yet fear not thou - to thee in good or ill,<br>The heart, so sternly tried, if faithful still!<br>But when my steps are distant, and my name<br>Thou hearest no longer in the song of fame;<br>When Time steals on in silence to efface<br>Of early love each pure and sacred trace,<br>Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem<br>But as the moonlight pictures of a dream, -<br>Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth<br>And all the fervour of affection's youth?<br>If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play<br>In lonely beauty o'er thy wanderer's way.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Ask not, if such my love! Oh! trust the mind<br>To grief so long, so silently resigned!<br>Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught<br>The pure and lofty constancy of thought,<br>Its fleeting trials eager to forget,<br>Rise with elastic power o'er each regret!<br>Fostered in tears, <br>our<br>young affection grew,<br>And I have learned to suffer and be true.<br>Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower,<br>Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower;<br>No! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies,<br>And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies!<br>Too well I feel, with grief's prophetic heart,<br>That ne'er to meet in happier days, we part.<br>We part! and e'en this agonising hour,<br>When love first feels his own o'erwhelming power,<br>Shall soon to Memory's fixed and tearful eye<br>Seem almost happiness - for thou wert nigh!<br>Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed,<br>As days to days all wearily succeed,<br>When doomed to weep in loneliness, 'twill be<br>Almost like rapture to have wept with thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But thou, my Hamet, thou canst yet bestow<br>All that of joy my blighted lot can know. <br>Oh! be thou still the high-souled and the brave,<br>To whom my first and fondest vows I gave,<br>In thy proud fame's untarnished beauty still<br>The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. <br>So shall it soothe me, 'midst my heart's despair,<br>To hold undimmed one glorious image there!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Zayda, my best-loved! my words too well,<br>Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel;<br>Yet must my soul to thee unveiled be shown,<br>And all its dreams and all its passions known, <br>Thou shalt not be deceived - for pure as heaven<br>Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given.<br>I said my heart was changed - and would thy thought<br>Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought,<br>In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes,<br>Crushed by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains;<br>And such that heart - where desolation's hand <br>Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand!<br>But Vengeance, fixed upon her burning throne,<br>Sits, 'midst the wreck, in silence and alone;<br>And I, in stern devotion at her shrine, <br>Each softer feeling, but my love, resign.<br>-Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control,<br>Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul; <br>They, the betrayed, the sacrificed, the brave,<br>Who fill a blood-stained and untimely grave,<br>Must be avenged! and pity and remorse<br>In that stern cause are banished from my course.<br>Zayda, thou tremblest - and thy gentle breast<br>Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest;<br>Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour,<br>Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power,<br>And, oft recalled, thy voice beguile my lot, <br>Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But the night wanes - the hours too swiftly fly,<br>The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh;<br>Yet, loved one! weep not thus - in joy or pain,<br>Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again!<br>Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last<br>On all the clouds and conflicts of the past.<br>On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell,<br>Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is the voice hushed, whose loved, expressive tone<br>Thrilled to her heart - and doth she weep alone?<br>Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o'er,<br>When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more?<br>The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair,<br>Showering the dewy rose-leaves o'er her hair;<br>But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power<br>In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower,<br>To wake once more that calm, serene delight,<br>The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath could blight -<br>The smiling stillness of life's morning hour, <br>Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power.<br>Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade,<br>In the rich foliage of the South arrayed,<br>Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day,<br>Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way.<br>Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave<br>On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave.<br>Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves<br>With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves,<br>To canopy the dead; nor wanting there<br>Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, <br>Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream -<br>Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream.<br>There sleep the chiefs of old - their combats o'er,<br>The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. <br>Unheard by them the awakening clarion blows;<br>The sons of war at length in peace repose.<br>No martial note is in the gale that sighs,<br>Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise,<br>'Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom,<br>As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread<br>Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead;<br>Where two fair pillars rise, embowered and lone,<br>Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown,<br>Young Hamet kneels - while thus his vows are poured<br>The fearful vows that consecrate his sword:<br>- 'Spirit of him who first within my mind<br>Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined,<br>And taught my steps the line of light to trace,<br>Left by the glorious fathers of my race,<br>Hear thou my voice - for mine is with me still,<br>In every dream its tones my bosom thrill,<br>In the deep calm of midnight they are near,<br>'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear,<br>Still murmuring 'vengeance!' - nor in vain the call,<br>Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall!<br>Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, <br>Within my heart there lives one only aim;<br>There, till the oppressor for thy fate atone, <br>Concentring every thought, it reigns alone.<br>I will not weep - revenge, not grief, must be,<br>And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee;<br>But the dark hour of stern delight will come,<br>And thou shall triumph, warrior! in thy tomb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Thou, too, my brother! thou art passed away<br>Without thy fame, in life's fair-dawning day.<br>Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine<br>In the proud annals of thy lofty line;<br>Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays<br>That hold communion with the after-days.<br>Yet, by the wreaths thou mightst have nobly won<br>Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun;<br>By glory lost, I swear! by hope betrayed,<br>Thy fate shall amply dearly, be repaid; <br>War with thy foes I deem a holy strife,<br>And, to avenge thy death, devote my life.<br>'Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain!<br>Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain! <br>At noon, at midnight, still around me bide,<br>Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Felicia+Dorothea+Hemans">Felicia Dorothea Hemans</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391573" data-title="The Abencerrage : Canto I. de Felicia Dorothea Hemans" data-description="Lonely and still are now thy marble halls,
Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o'er;
And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls,
Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.

Hushed are the voices that in years gone by 
Have mourned, exulted, men..."></div>
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