Towards sunset I came to where the road wound into the mountains,
and here I paused to take a last look at Granada. The hill on which
I stood commanded a glorious view of the city, the Vega, and the
surrounding mountains. It was at an opposite point of the compass from
La cuesta de las lagrimas (the hill of tears) noted for the "last sigh
of the Moor." I now could realize something of the feelings of poor
Boabdil when he bade adieu to the paradise he was leaving behind,
and beheld before him a rugged and sterile road conducting him to
exile.
The setting sun as usual shed a melancholy effulgence on the ruddy
towers of the Alhambra. I could faintly discern the balconied window
of the Tower of Comares, where I had indulged in so many delightful
reveries. The bosky groves and gardens about the city were richly
gilded with the sunshine, the purple haze of a summer evening was
gathering over the Vega; every thing was lovely, but tenderly and
sadly so, to my parting gaze.
"I will hasten from this prospect," thought I, "before the sun is
set. I will carry away a recollection of it clothed in all its
beauty."
With these thoughts I pursued my way among the mountains. A little
further and Granada, the Vega, and the Alhambra, were shut from my
view; and thus ended one of the pleasantest dreams of a life, which
the reader perhaps may think has been but too much made up of dreams.
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