  To the Alpuxarres’ exile Went the youthful Moorish monarch; Silent and with heart full mournful Heading the procession rode he. And behind, on lofty palfreys Or in golden litters riding, Sat the women of his household; Swarthy maids on mules were sitting. And a hundred trusty followers Rode on noble Arab horses; Haughty steeds, and yet the riders Carelessly bestrode the saddles. Not a drum and not a cymbal, Not a single song resounded; Silver bells upon the mules, though, Echoed sadly in the silence. On the height, from whence the glances Sweep across the Duero valley, And Granada’s battlements For the last time rise before one, There the mournful king dismounted, And he gazed upon the city Glittering in the light of evening, As though deck’d with gold and purple. But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas! In the place of that dear crescent Gleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standard On the tow’rs of the Alhambra. Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ry Broke from out the monarch’s bosom; Suddenly the tears ’gan falling Like a torrent down his cheeks. Sadly from her lofty palfrey Downward gazed the monarch’s mother, Looking on her son’s affliction; Proudly, bitterly, she chided: “Boabdil el Chico,” said she, “Like a woman thou bewailest “Yonder town, which thou neglectedst “To defend with manly courage.” When the monarch’s dearest mistress Heard these words, so harsh and cruel, Hastily she left her litter, Her lord’s neck embracing fondly. “Boabdil el Chico,” said she, “Comfort take, my heart-belov’d one! “From the deep abyss of sorrow “Blossoms forth a beauteous laurel. “Not alone the glorious victor, “Not alone the proud triumphant “Fav’rite of the blind jade Fortune, “But misfortune’s bloody son, too, “And the’ heroic-fighting warrior, “Who to destiny o’erpow’ring “Has succumb’d, will live for ever “In the memory of mortals.”— “Mountain of the Moor’s last sigh” To this very moment call they Yonder height from whence the monarch For the last time saw Granada. Time has now fulfill’d full sweetly His beloved one’s prophecy, And the Moorish monarch’s name is Reverenced and held in honour. Never will his glory vanish, Never, till the last chord’s broken Of the last guitar remaining In the land of Andalusia. |
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