Classic Poem

Sitting alone beside my hearth to-night
I conjure up that cold midwinter time
When we sat here together till the chime
Of morning hours began, and then were quite
Loth to quit converse and the warm firelight.
There hangs your art-gift. It were almost crime
To wish the Moslems back in their proud prime
At the Alhambra, but their dolorous flight
Is one of history's mournful tales to me.
The Moorish girls within that mosque-door still
Grieve for those exiles nevermore to be
Aught but romantic phantoms, and I see
In fancy on yon blue and distant hill
The last sad pageantry of Boabdil.