III
THE MOSQUE
In the bewildering grove of colonnades,
Once brilliant with a flood of saffron light,
Poured from ten thousand lanterns day and night,
Her memory, like spikenard in the glades
Of distant Ind or Yemen, never fades;
And her devotion, though the ages blight
The mystic bloom of her divine delight,
Still casts on alien altars longing shades.
But through the mihrabs which the humble hand
Of genius wrought, o'er marbles hollowed deep
By knees that only Piety could command,
I see Oblivion coming forth to reap;—
Arabia, in Allah's chaplet strung,
Is but a word on Andalusia's tongue.
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