And tints, that mock the pencil’s art, o’erspread
Th’ eternal snow that crowns Veleta’s head;[76]
While the warm sunset o’er the landscape throws
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose.
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day,
And Hamet wanders from the camp away.
In silent musings rapt:—the slaughter’d brave
Lie thickly strewn by Darro’s rippling wave.
Soft fall the dews—but other drops have dyed
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side,