Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies,
To Afric’s wilds the royal exile flies;[98]
Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain
O’er all he never must behold again.
Fair spreads the scene around—for him too fair,
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair.
The Vega’s meads, the city’s glittering spires,
The old majestic palace of his sires,
The gay pavilions and retired alcoves,
Bosom’d in citron and pomegranate groves;