Exalted on this throne of Spain,

A marvel of the land,

The last of thy imperial race,

Alhambra, when he overstept

Thy portal’s threshold, turned his face—

He turned his face and wept.{34}

{34}

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

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