Ev’n the rude Laplander, if fate

In luckless hour him off has torn

From his own soil, disconsolate

Will to return there longing mourn;

Envying the eternal night’s repose,

His icebound shores and endless snows.

And I, to whom kind fate assign’d

My birth within thy happy fold,

Granada! and my growth as kind

Within thy blissful bounds to mould,