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.”—