Arabesque

On a background of pale gold

I would trace with quaint design,

Penciled fine,

Brilliant-colored, Moorish scenes,

Mosques and crescents, pages, queens,

Line on line,

That the prose-world of to-day

Might the gorgeous Past's array

Once behold.

On the magic painted shield

Rich Granada's Vega green

Should be seen;

Crystal fountains, coolness flinging,

Hanging gardens' skyward springing

Emerald sheen;

Ruddy when the daylight falls,

Crowned Alhambra's beetling walls

Stand revealed;

Balconies that overbrow

Field and city, vale and stream.

In a dream

Lulled the drowsy landscape basks;

Mark the gleam

Silvery of each white-swathed peak!

Mountain-airs caress the cheek,

Fresh from the snow.

Here in Lindaraxa's bower

The immortal roses bloom;

In the room

Lion-guarded, marble-paven,

Still the fountain leaps to heaven.

But the doom

Of the banned and stricken race

Overshadows every place,

Every hour.

Where fair Lindaraxa dwelt

Flits the bat on velvet wings;

Mute the strings

Of the broken mandoline;

The Pavilion of the Queen

Widely flings

Vacant windows to the night;

Moonbeams kiss the floor with light

Where she knelt.

Through these halls that people stepped

Who through darkling centuries

Held the keys

Of all wisdom, truth, and art,

In a Paradise apart,

Lapped in ease,

Sagely pondering deathless themes,

While, befooled with monkish dreams,

Europe slept.

Where shall they be found today?

Yonder hill that frets the sky

"The last Sigh

Of the Moor" is named still.

There the ill-starred Boabdil

Bade good-by

To Granada and to Spain,

Where the Crescent ne'er again

Holdeth sway.

Vanished like the wind that blows,

Whither shall we seek their trace

On earth's face?

The gigantic wheel of fate,

Crushing all things soon or late,

Now a race,

Now a single life o'erruns,

Now a universe of suns,

Now a rose.