Classic Poem

Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun,
That had no rival, and no second? — gone!
Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd,
Like the great day-star to the ocean dim,
The billows of the ages o'er thee swim,
Gloomy and fathomless; thy tale is told.
Where is thy horn of battle? that but blown
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne;
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall;
Brought every charger barded from the stall,
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore;
Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour
The living deluge on the fields of Spain.
Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain
Upon thy brow — the stain of guilt and gore,
Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous, — and 'tis o'er.
The spear and diadem are from thee gone;
Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne!