16.

Y cortarte la cabeza,
Y ponerla en el Alhambra,
Por que a ti castigo sea,

Y otros tiemblen en miralla.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

17.

Cavalleros, hombres buenos,
Dezid de mi parte al Rey,
Al Rey Moro de Granada,
Como no le devo nada.

Ay de mi, Alhama!

18.

De averse Alhama perdido
A mi me pesa en el alma.
Que si el Rey perdiò su tierra,
Otro mucho mas perdiera.
Ay de mi, Alhama !

19.

Perdieran hijos padres,
Y casados las casadas:
Las cosas que mas amara
Perdiò l' un y el otro fama.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

16.

And to fix thy head upon
High Alhambra's loftiest stone;

That this for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.
Wo is me, Alhama!

17.

"Cavalier! and man of worth!

"Let these words of mine go forth; "Let the Moorish Monarch know, "That to him I nothing owe:

Wo is me, Alhama!

18.

"But on my soul Alhama weighs,
"And on my inmost spirit preys;
"And if the King his land hath lost,
"Yet others may have lost the most.
Wo is me, Alhama!

19.

"Sires have lost their children, wives

"Their lords, and valiant men their lives; "One what best his love might claim

"Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. Wo is me, Alhama!

20.

"I lost a damsel in that hour,

"Of all the land the loveliest flower; "Doubloons a hundred I would pay, "And think her ransom cheap that day." Wo is me, Alhama!

21.

And as these things the old Moor said, They severed from the trunk his head; And to the Alhambra's wall with speed "Twas carried, as the King decreed. Wo is me, Alhama!

22.

And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.
Wo is me, Alhama!

23.

And from the windows o'er the walls

The sable web of mourning falls;
The King weeps as a woman o'er
His loss, for it is much and sore.
Wo is me, Alhama!

SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.

PER MONACA.

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanz una figlia appena maritata; è diretto al genitore della sacra sposa.

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,

Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte
L'una e l' altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo.

La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tede d' imeneo :

La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai da la gelosa
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde,
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.
Io verso un fiume d'amarissim' onda,

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.