Reard and adorn'd by Moorish kings of yore,
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more.
They reach those towers—irregularly vast
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast:28[1]
They enter—to their wondering sight is given
A genii palace—an Arabian heaven!29[2]
A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair,
Its forms and colours seem alike of air.
Here, by sweet orange-boughs, half shaded o'er,
The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor,
Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues
The calm transparence of its wave suffuse.
There, round the court, where Moorish arches bend,
Aërial columns, richly deck'd, ascend;
Unlike the models of each classic race,
Of Doric grandeur, or Corinthian grace,
But answering well each vision that portrays
Arabian splendor to the poet's gaze:
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all—a mingling glow
Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below;
Bright-streaming from the many-tinctured veins
Of precious marble—and the vivid stains
