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⁠XXXII.

Still, where that column of the mosque aspires,
Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste,
There Science droops, the Muses hush their lyres,
And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste
Spreads the chill blight—as in that orient isle,
Where the dark upas taints the gale around,^11[1]
Within its precincts not a flower may smile,
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground;
Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath,

But all is silence round, and solitude, and death.

⁠XXXIII.

Far other influence pour'd the Crescent's light,
O'er conquer'd realms, in ages past away;
Full and alone it beam'd, intensely bright,
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay.
Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and shades,
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers:
Its sculptured lions,^12[2] richly wrought arcades,
Aërial pillars, and enchanted towers;
Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale

Would picture fairy domes, that fleet before the gale.

C

1. ⁠
2. ⁠