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All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues That southern suns o'er heaven and earth diffuse; Blend in one scene of glory, form'd to throw O'er memory's page a never-fading glow. And there too, foremost midst the conquering brave, Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave. There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court, Calm, stern, collected—yet within his breast Is there no pang, no struggle unconfest? If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien.

Hear'st thou the solemn, yet exulting sound, Of the deep anthem floating far around? The choral voices, to the skies that raise The full majestic harmony of praise? Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train, They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, Borne on their trophied car—lo! bursting thence A blaze of chivalrous magnificence!

Onward their slow and stately course they bend To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascend,