In sooth it was a thing to weep,
If then, as now, the level plain
Beneath was spreading like the deep,
The broad unruffled main:
If, like a watch-tower of the sun,
Above the Alpujarras rose,
Streaked, when the dying day was done,
With evening’s roseate snows.
Thy founts yet make a pleasant sound,
And the twelve lions, couchant yet,
Sustain their ponderous burthen, round
The marble basin set.
But never, when the moon is bright
O’er hill and golden-sanded stream,
And thy square turrets in the light
And taper columns gleam,
Will village maiden dare to fill
Her pitcher from that basin wide,
But rather seeks a niggard rill
Far down the steep hill-side!
It was an Andalusian maid,
With rose and pink-enwoven hair,
Who told me what the fear that stayed
Their footsteps from that stair:
How, rising from that watery floor,
A Moorish maiden, in the gleam
Of the wan moonlight, stands before
The stirrer of the stream:
And mournfully she begs the grace,
That they would speak the words divine,
And sprinkling water in her face,
Would make the sacred sign.
And whosoe’er will grant this boon,
Returning with the morrow’s light,
Shall find the fountain pavement strewn
With gold and jewels bright:
A regal gift—for once, they say,
Her father ruled this broad domain,
The last who kept beneath his sway
This pleasant place of Spain.