He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin

To the Alhambra spurring in.

Woe is me, Alhama!

When the Alhambra walls he gained,

On the moment he ordained

That the trumpet straight should sound

With the silver clarion round.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,

That the Moors of town and plain

Might answer to the martial strain—

Woe is me, Alhama !—

Then the Moors, by this aware,
That bloody Mars recalled them there

One by one, and two by two,

To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before,
'Wherefore call on us, O King?
What may mean this gathering?'

'Friends! ye have, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow;

That the Christians, stern and bold,

Have obtained Alhama's hold.'

Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake old Alfaqui,

With his beard so white to see,
'Good King! thou art justly served,
Good King! this thou hast deserved.

Woe is me, Alhama!

By thee were slain, in evil hour,
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;
And strangers were received by thee
Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And for this, O King! is sent

On thee a double chastisement:

Thee and thine, thy crown and realm,

One last wreck shall overwhelm.

Woe is me, Alhama!

He who holds no laws in awe,

He must perish by the law;
And Granada must be won,

And thyself with her undone.'

Woe is me, Alhama!

Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes, The monarch's wrath began to rise,

Because he answered, and because

He spake exceeding well of laws.

Woe is me, Alhama!

"There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings:' Thus, snorting with his choler, said

The Moorish King, and doomed him dead. Woe is me, Alhama!

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!

Though thy beard so hoary be,

The King hath sent to have thee seized,

For Alhama's loss displeased.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And to fix thy head upon

High Alhambra's loftiest stone;

That this for thee should be the law,

And others tremble when they saw.

Woe is me, Alhama!

'Cavalier, and man of worth!

Let these words of mine go forth!
Let the Moorish Monarch know,
That to him I nothing owe.

Woe is me, Alhama!

But on my soul Alhama weighs,
And on my inmost spirit preys;
And if the King his land hath lost,
Yet others may have lost the most.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Sires have lost their children, wives

Their lords, and valiant men their lives!

One what best his love might claim Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. Woe is me, Alhama!

I lost a damsel in that hour,

Of all the land the loveliest flower;
Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
And think her ransom cheap that day.'
Woe is me, Alhama!

And as these things the old Moor said,
They severed from the trunk his head;
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
'Twas carried, as the King decreed.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.

Woe is me, Alhama!

And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls;

The King weeps as a woman o'er

His loss, for it is much and sore.

Woe is me, Alhama!

LXXV

FRIENDSHIP

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour

Should be, 'Peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore!'

LXXVI

THE RACE WITH DEATH

O VENICE! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
What should thy sons do?-anything but weep:
And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers—as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,