Mighty was the palace
Of their royal race,
Still the Hall of Lions
Has its ancient grace;
Still the silver fountains sing
As they sang before the king,
Murmuring to the mournful night,
As they murmured in the height
Of the Moslem rule in Spain.
Yet the azure colours
On the ceiling shine,
Graved with golden letters
Of the Koran's line.
They are marked with many a stain
From the dew and from the rain.
And each thing is as a sign
In decay and in decline,
Of the Moslem rule in Spain.
Yet what dreams of beauty
Through the midnight glide:
Many a dark-eyed ladye,
Lovely in her pride,
Gliding o'er the perfumed floor,
As she wont in days of yore.
Fantasy with time at war,
Calls dim memories from afar
Of the Moslem rule in Spain.
Yet in old Cordova,
Mid the crowded streets,
Moorish trace and record
At each step one meets.
Not alone the Moorish fane
Brings us back the past again;
But, like clouds on summer skies,
Fancy-shaped traditions rise
Of the Moslem rule in Spain.
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