Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 011.djvu/124

The Spaniard in Cordova forms his array,
And the Moor from his country sends weeping away,
And thousands are wailing the glory gone by
Of the Caliph's bright city, that gem of the sky,
Abandon'd to fade and decay.

The purple hills round that seem'd woven of air,
The heaven of glory that ever reign'd there,
The cool Guadalquivir that ran by the wall,
The dreams of past empire more cutting than all
To hearts that must live on despair!

The memory of Genius there nursed and uprear'd,
The temples of Art that its greatness declared,
The mosque of Abdalzamin, sacred to prayer,
Where sire and descendant, the potent and fair,
Had for ages to worship repair'd!

Those palaces rich where the cool verdure curl'd
Over fountains of marble, the pride of the world,
Where earth's paradise was, and the home of the bless'd,
Though more happy, was not in more loveliness dress'd,
Where joy was for ever unfurl'd!

Where a thousand remembrances rush'd on the heart
Of enjoyments gone by, never wholly to part,
As each spot newly trod, met the footstep again,
And call'd back those shadows of hopes and of men
That linger round life to the last!

'Twas near Cordova thus, on the morn of the day
That the Spaniard had enter'd in conqueror's array,
As its citizens exiled pass'd out at the gate,
That a Moor with stern brow on an eminence sate,
And a soul full of grief and dismay.

He saw in deep anguish the long train go by,—
On the city of brightness he gazed with a sigh;
And the Sun of the Caliphs went down into night,
And the day of their empire closed on his sight
For the reign of eternity.

He saw and prophetic his accents broke forth:—
"Thou city now cursed by the hordes of the north,
Though the Zambra no more shall resound in thy street,
Nor the Imaum to worship thy faithful sons greet
As he wont from the day of his birth;

"Yet thy fame shall survive for the conqueror's shame,
When his power and empire are only a dream
When the bigot and priest shall for ages divide
The realm that now mocks in its fulness of pride
The Moor and his glorious name.

"Accursed shall it be, and, when reason shall school
Other crowns in the semblance of wisdom to rule;
Thine shall be to the nations a by-word and scorn,
Proud and base in its impotence, faithless, forlorn,
A jest on the lip of the fool.

Then the Moor shall have vengeance while o'er the blue sea,
In his burning domain, he still shall be free—
He still shall be free! and no Gaul on his neck
Shall trample—proud Spain! but his country's last wreck,
Though desolate, mock over thee!"