While these dear maids in beauty's bloom, With want opprest, with rags o'erspread, By sordid labors at the loom Must earn a poor, precarious bread.
Those feet that never touched the ground, Till musk or camphor strewed the way, Now bare and swoll'n with many a wound, Must struggle through the miry clay.
Those radiant cheeks are veiled in woe, A shower descends from every eye, And not a starting tear can flow, That wakes not an attending sigh.
Fortune, that whilom owned my sway, And bowed obsequious to my nod, Now sees me destined to obey, And bend beneath oppression's rod.
Ye mortals with success elate, Who bask in hope's delusive beam, Attentive view Mohammed's fate, And own that bliss is but a dream.
Sure Harut's[55] potent spells were breathed Upon that magic sword, thine eye; For if it wounds us thus while sheathed, When drawn, 'tis vain its edge to fly.
How canst thou doom me, cruel fair, Plunged in the hell[56] of scorn to groan? No idol e'er this heart could share, This heart has worshiped thee alone.
When I sent you my melons, you cried out with scorn, They ought to be heavy and wrinkled and yellow; When I offered myself, whom those graces adorn, You flouted, and called me an ugly old fellow.
King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, He hath summoned all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains around; From _vega_ and _sierra_, from Betis and Xenil, They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel.
'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state, And they have closed the spacious lists beside the Alhambra's gate; In gowns of black and silver laced, within the tented ring, Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of the King.
Eight Moorish lords of valor tried, with stalwart arm and true, The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through; The deeds they've done, the spoils they've won, fill all with hope and trust, Yet ere high in heaven appears the sun they all have bit the dust.
Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour, Make room, make room for Gazul—throw wide, throw wide the door; Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike the drum, The _Alcaydé_ of Algava to fight the bull doth come.