 | Poems |  |
23
YOUTH.
Thus end the Moorish annals: “On the hillThe poor king paused, and turned a mournful gaze
Backward o'er green Granáda to the blaze
Of the red-towered Alhambra; then a thrill
Of sudden anguish wrung his soul, until
Relief came in a rush—a tearful haze
Blinded his view; and to unhonoured days
With one deep sigh departed Boäbdil.”
Unhappy Prince! Methinks I pity thee,
For that thy fate prefigures forth my own:
Here, from the specular mount of Memory,
I gaze across my Youth, so quickly flown,
Bidding its joys and hopes eternally
A long adieu, and heaving many a moan.
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