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Lament of Boabdil
47
All hopeless my future; how can I sustain it,
For ever, Granada, an exile from thee?
If weeping comes o'er me, why should I restrain it?
A king's tears fall not for the lands of the free.
As wending my weary way over the mountains,
I turn me to take a last look at thy towers;
Farewell to thee ever, thou City of Fountains,
The flag of the Christian waves over my bowers!
