The garden beneath my window, before wrapped in gloom, was
gently lighted up, the orange and citron trees were tipped with
silver; the fountain sparkled in the moonbeams, and even the blush
of the rose was faintly visible.
I now felt the poetic merit of the Arabic inscription on the
walls: "How beauteous is this garden, where the flowers of the earth
vie with the stars of the heaven! What can compare with the vase of
yon alabaster fountain filled with crystal water? Nothing but the moon
in her fulness, shining in the midst of an unclouded sky!"
On such heavenly nights I would sit for hours at my window
inhaling the sweetness of the garden, and musing on the checkered
fortunes of those whose history was dimly shadowed out in the
elegant memorials around. Sometimes, when all was quiet, and the clock
from the distant cathedral of Granada struck the midnight hour, I have
sallied out on another tour and wandered over the whole building;
but how different from my first tour! No longer dark and mysterious;
no longer peopled with shadowy foes; no longer recalling scenes of
violence and murder; all was open, spacious, beautiful; every thing
called up pleasing and romantic fancies; Lindaraxa once more walked in
her garden; the gay chivalry of Moslem Granada once more glittered
about the Court of Lions! Who can do justice to a moonlight night in
such a climate and such a place? The temperature of a summer
midnight in Andalusia is perfectly ethereal.
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