III

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III

The Mosque

In the bewildering grove of colonnades,

Once brilliant with a flood of saffron light,

Poured from ten thousand lanterns day and night,

Her memory, like spikenard in the glades

Of distant Ind or Yemen, never fades;

And her devotion, though the ages blight

The mystic bloom of her divine delight,

Still casts on alien altars longing shades.

But through the mihrabs which the humble hand

Of genius wrought, o’er marbles hollowed deep

By knees that only Piety could command,

I see Oblivion coming forth to reap;⁠—

Arabia, in Allah’s chaplet strung,

Is but a word on Andalusia’s tongue.