For midst thy councils discord still presides,
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides—
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown
Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne,
Without one generous thought, or feeling high,
To teach his soul how kings should live and die.
A voice resounds within Granada’s wall,
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.[80]
Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught
To reach the source of pure exalted thought?