With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught
—Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest
The fiery passions of the human breast,
Hark! from th’ Alhambra’s towers what stormy sound,
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around?
Those are no tumults of a festal throng,
Not the light zambra[65] nor the choral song:
The combat rages—’tis the shout of war,
’Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar.
Within the Hall of Lions,[66] where the rays