No eye but Heaven’s may pierce that curtain’d breast,
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress’d.
There hath been combat on the tented plain;
The Vega’s turf is red with many a stain;
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field.
But all is peaceful now: the west is bright
With the rich splendour of departing light;
Mulhacen’s peak, half lost amidst the sky,
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high,