"I am a daughter of Granada; I am the beloved of a king; I will be true to my birth and to my fortunes.

Boabdil el Chico, the last of a line of heroes, shake off these gloomy fantasies--these doubts and dreams that smother the fire of a great nature and a kingly soul! Awake--arise--rob Granada of her Muza--be thyself her Muza! Trustest thou to magic and to spells?
then grave them on they breastplate, write them on thy sword, and live no longer the Dreamer of the Alhambra; become the saviour of thy people!" Boabdil turned, and gazed on the inspired and beautiful form before him with mingled emotions of surprise and shame.

"Out of the mouth of woman cometh my rebuke!" said he sadly.

"It is well!" "Pardon me, pardon me!" said the slave, falling humbly at his knees; "but blame me not that I would have thee worthy of thyself.

Wert thou not happier, was not thy heart more light and thy hope more strong when, at the head of thine armies, thine own cimiter slew thine own foes, and the terror of the Hero-king spread, in flame and slaughter, from the mountains to the seas.