Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight.
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen,
Whose bright transparence ne’er was stain’d till then;
While swell the war-note and the clash of spears
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers,
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait
In dread suspense the tidings of their fate.
But he—whose spirit, panting for its rest,
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast—