Lament of Boabdil

Fair city of waters, and thus must I leave thee?Thou once wast the pride of the faithful on earth:From mine arms the mail-grasp of the Christian doth reve thee;Ah! would I had died in thee, land of my birth!

'Twere better by far that in one common downfall,O'erwhelmed, we had perish'd, Granada, than thouShould'st linger in beauty, priest-govern'd, a thrall,A jewel in the crown on King Ferdinand's brow.

Ayesha, my mother, thou need'st not remind meOf all the fair realm I for ever have lost;The Vega smiles mockingly, stretch'd far behind me,Bestrewn with the tents of the Cross-serving host.

O mother, my mother, now cease to upbraid me,Though womanly tears for an instant should flow!Forget and forgive if my weakness betray'd me—My chill heart is failing like sun-melted snow.All hopeless my future; how can I sustain it,For ever, Granada, an exile from thee?If weeping comes o'er me, why should I restrain it?A king's tears fall not for the lands of the free.

As wending my weary way over the mountains,I turn me to take a last look at thy towers;Farewell to thee ever, thou City of Fountains,The flag of the Christian waves over my bowers!