Richard Chenevix Trench

A Legend of Alhambra

    O hymned in many a poet’s strain,
      Alhambra, by enchanter’s hand
    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.

    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.

    It surely is a fearful doom,
      That one so beautiful should have
    No present quiet in her tomb,
      No hope beyond the grave.

    It must be, that some amulet
      Doth make all human pity vain,
    Or that upon her brow is set
      The silent seal of pain,

    Which none can meet--else long ago,
      Since many gentle hearts are there,
    Some spirit, touched by joy or woe,
      Had answered to her prayer.

    But so it is, that till this hour
      That mournful child beneath the moon
    Still rises from her watery bower,
      To urge this simple boon--

    To beg, as all have need of grace,
      That they would speak the words divine,
    And, sprinkling water in her face,
      Would make the sacred sign.