O dowered with a searching glance to see Quite through the hollow masks, wherewith the bare And worthless shows of greatness vizored are, This lore thou hast, because all things to thee Are proven by the absolute decree Of duty, and whatever will not square With that “prime wisdom,” though of seeming fair Or stately, thou rejectest faithfully. Till chidden in thy strength, each random aim Of good, whose aspect heavenward does not turn, Shrinks self-rebuked--thou looking kindliest blame From the calm region of thine eyes, that burn With tempered but continuous flashes bright, Like the mild lightnings of a tropic night.
The tradition on which the following Ballad is founded is an existing one, and exactly as it is here recounted was narrated to the author during his stay at Granada.
O hymned in many a poet’s strain, Alhambra, by enchanter’s hand Exalted on this throne of Spain, A marvel of the land,
The last of thy imperial race, Alhambra, when he overstept Thy portal’s threshold, turned his face-- He turned his face and wept.
In sooth it was a thing to weep, If then, as now, the level plain Beneath was spreading like the deep, The broad unruffled main:
If, like a watch-tower of the sun, Above the Alpujarras rose, Streaked, when the dying day was done, With evening’s roseate snows.
Thy founts yet make a pleasant sound, And the twelve lions, couchant yet, Sustain their ponderous burthen, round The marble basin set.
But never, when the moon is bright O’er hill and golden-sanded stream, And thy square turrets in the light And taper columns gleam,
Will village maiden dare to fill Her pitcher from that basin wide, But rather seeks a niggard rill Far down the steep hill-side!
It was an Andalusian maid, With rose and pink-enwoven hair, Who told me what the fear that stayed Their footsteps from that stair:
How, rising from that watery floor, A Moorish maiden, in the gleam Of the wan moonlight, stands before The stirrer of the stream:
And mournfully she begs the grace, That they would speak the words divine, And sprinkling water in her face, Would make the sacred sign.
And whosoe’er will grant this boon, Returning with the morrow’s light, Shall find the fountain pavement strewn With gold and jewels bright: