The Glory That Was Spain

I STOOD above Granada, on a height
Between Alhambra, goldenly aglow,
And the sad hill Albaicin, where woe
And squalor cower in noisome caves by night.
Far down, the Darro, in its path of light,
Glimmered toward day now swiftly dipping low,
Yet kissing with last, lingering rays the snow
On tall Sierras, till all the East was bright.
Brighter wast thou, O Spain, at thy white dawn,
When thou stoodst firm, strong bulwark of Christ’s folk;
Ere from thy face the Christ-light was withdrawn,
And on thy neck was laid the bigot’s yoke.
Now between gilded show and knaves that fawn,
Thou sitt’st at dusk, proud in thy beggar’s cloak.