Hast thou with these thy nation’s fall conspired,
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired?
How art thou changed! still first in every fight,
Hamet the Moor! Castile’s devoted knight!
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye,
But not the light that shone in days gone by;
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone,
But not the soul’s expression once thine own,
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway?