Classic Poem

Here ends the tale — she died? No; if the world
Is but a vanity at best, a toy,
That, as for each the mighty bauble's twirl'd,
Turns up the chance of sorrow or of joy;
This is its gilded side; the moments given
To love like this are moments lent from Heaven.
The rest I tell not, have no power to tell;
The old man's look, his burst of happiness,
When on his ransom'd daughter's neck he fell;
The blushing daughter's joyous, sweet distress,
The cheerful tumult of the household hall,
The crowding friends, the ceaseless festival:
Nor how that gentle pair would leave them all,
And wander through the garden, and the grove;
And ever, by some unresisted spell,
Find their steps turning to the evening dell:
While o'er them flew the hours with feathery feet;
For such are of the very life of love.
Nor how the lady told the dear deceit
Of the false Moor, and sang the madrigal,
That lured his step within th' Alhambra wall:
Nor how her spirit wither'd on the morn
That stamp'd Sidonia's daughter with his scorn:
Nor the proud lover's wonder that his eyes
Should not have known that shape through all disguise;
Although beneath her noble father's roof,
That shape by stern decorum kept aloof,
Perhaps had never met his hasty gaze.
So lived they in a sweet romantic maze,
Alone, amid the proud and festive throng,
Painless, unless o'erpowering joy were pain,
And oft Sebastian ask'd th' Albambra song,
And won the wanderer's tale, again, again.