Sir Edward George Bulwer-Lytton，1806—1873，was born in Norfolk County，England.His father died when he was young；his mother was a woman of strong literary tastes，and did much to form her son's mind.In 1844，by royal license，he took the surname of Lytton from his mother's family.Bulwer graduated at Cambridge.He began to publish in 1826，and his novels and plays followed rapidly.“Pelham，”“The Caxtons，”“My Novel，”“What will he do with it？”and “Kenelm Chillingly”are among the best known of his numerous novels；and “The Lady of Lyons”and “Richelieu”are his most successful plays.His novels are extensively read on the continent，and have been translated into most of the languages spoken there.“Leila，or the Siege of Granada，”from which this selection is adapted，was published in 1840.
Day dawned upon Granada，and the beams of the winter sun，smiling away the clouds of the past night，played cheerily on the murmuring waves of the Xenil and the Darro.Alone，upon a balcony commanding a view of the beautiful landscape，stood Boabdil，the last of the Moorish kings.He had sought to bring to his aid all the lessons of the philosophy he had cultivated.
“What are we，”thought the musing prince，“that we should fill the world with ourselves—we kings？Earth resounds with the crash of my falling throne；on the ear of races unborn the echo will live prolonged.But what have I lost？Nothing that was necessary to my happiness，my repose: nothing save the source of all my wretchedness，the Marah of my life！Shall I less enjoy heaven and earth，or thought or action，or man's more material luxuries of food or sleep—the common and the cheap desires of all？Arouse thee，then，O heart within me！Many and deep emotions of sorrow or of joy are yet left to break the monotony of existence But it is time to depart.”So saying，he descended to the court，flung himself on his barb，and，with a small and saddened train，passed through the gate which we yet survey，by a blackened and crumbling tower，overgrown with vines and ivy；thence，amidst gardens now appertaining to the convent of the victor faith，he took his mournful and unwitnessed way.
When he came to the middle of the hill that rises above those gardens，the steel of the Spanish armor gleamed upon him，as the detachment sent to occupy the palace marched over the summit in steady order and profound silence.At the head of this vanguard，rode，upon a snow-white palfrey，the Bishop of Avila，followed by a long train of barefooted monks.They halted as Boabdil approached，and the grave bishop saluted him with the air of one who addresses an infidel and inferior.With the quick sense of dignity common to the great，and yet more to the fallen，Boabdil felt，but resented not，the pride of the ecclesiastic.“Go，Christian，”said he，mildly，“the gates of the Alhambra are open，and Allah has bestowed the palace and the city upon your king；may his virtues atone the faults of Boabdil！”So saying，and waiting no answer，he rode on without looking to the right or the left.The Spaniards also pursued their way.
The sun had fairly risen above the mountains，when Boabdil and his train beheld，from the eminence on which they were，the whole armament of Spain；and at the same moment，louder than the tramp of horse or the clash of arms，was heard distinctly the solemn chant of Te Deum，which preceded the blaze of the unfurled and lofty standards.Boabdil，himself still silent，heard the groans and exclamations of his train；he turned to cheer or chide them，and then saw，from his own watchtower，with the sun shining full upon its pure and dazzling surface，the silver cross of Spain.His Alhambra was already in the hands of the foe；while beside that badge of the holy war waved the gay and flaunting flag of St.Iago，the canonized Mars of the chivalry of Spain.At that sight the King's voice died within him；he gave the rein to his barb，impatient to close the fatal ceremonial，and did not slacken his speed till almost within bowshot of the first ranks of the army.
Never had Christian war assumed a more splendid and imposing aspect.Far as the eye could reach，extended the glittering and gorgeous lines of that goodly power，bristling with sunlit spears and blazoned banners；while beside，murmured，and glowed，and danced，the silver and laughing Xenil，careless what lord should possess，for his little day，the banks that bloomed by its everlasting course.By a small mosque halted the flower of the army.Surrounded by the archpriests of that mighty hierarchy，the peers and princes of a court that rivaled the Rolands of Charlemagne，was seen the kingly form of Ferdinand himself，with Isabel at his right hand，and the highborn dames of Spain，relieving，with their gay colors and sparkling gems，the sterner splendor of the crested helmet and polished mail.Within sight of the royal group，Boabdil halted，composed his aspect so as best to conceal his soul，and，a little in advance of his scanty train，but never in mien and majesty more a king，the son of Abdallah met his haughty conqueror.
At the sight of his princely countenance and golden hair，his comely and commanding beauty，made more touching by youth，a thrill of compassionate admiration ran through that assembly of the brave and fair.Ferdinand and Isabel slowly advanced to meet their late rival，—their new subject；and，as Boabdil would have dismounted，the Spanish king placed his hand upon his shoulder.“Brother and prince，”said he，“forget thy sorrows；and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses，against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king—resisting man，but resigned at length to God.”
Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment.He bowed his head，and remained a moment silent；then motioning to his train，four of his officers approached，and，kneeling beside Ferdinand，proffered to him，upon a silver buckler，the keys of the city.“O king！”then said Boabdil，“accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain！The empire of the Moslem is no more.Thine are the city and the people of Granada；yielding to thy prowess，they yet confide in thy mercy.”“They do well，”said the king；“our promises shall not be broken.But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers，not to us，but to gentler hands，shall the keys of Granada be surrendered.”
Thus saying，Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel，who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil，but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart，heroine and queen though she was；and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch，the tears gushed from them irresistibly，and her voice died in murmurs.A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil，and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment，which the Moor was the first to break.
“Fair queen，”said he，with mournful and pathetic dignity，“thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues；this is thy last，nor least glorious conquest.But I detain ye；let not my aspect cloud your triumph.Suffer me to say farewell.”“Farewell，my brother，”replied Ferdinand，“and may fair fortune go with you！Forget the past！”Boabdil smiled bitterly，saluted the royal pair with profound and silent reverence，and rode slowly on，leaving the army below as he ascended the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras.As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king，Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march；and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.
Boabdil spurred on at full speed，till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother，his slaves，and his faithful wife，Amine sent on before—awaited him.Joining these，he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path.They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras.From its height，the vale，the rivers，the spires，and the towers of Granada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band.They halted mechanically and abruptly；every eye was turned to the beloved scene.The proud shame of baffled warriors，the tender memories of home，of childhood，of fatherland，swelled every heart，and gushed from every eye.
Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel，and rolled along the sunlit valley and crystal river.A universal wail burst from the exiles；it smote，—it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king，in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy.The tears gushed from his eyes，and he covered his face with his hands.The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles；and that place where the king wept is still called The Last Sigh of the Moor.
译文 TRANSLATION
爱德华·乔治·布尔沃·利顿爵士（1803—1873），出生于英格兰诺福克郡，毕业于剑桥大学。1826年开始出版作品，《佩勒姆》《卡克斯顿》是他最为著名的小说，而《里昂夫人》《黎塞留河》则是他最成功的剧作。他的小说在欧洲大陆拥有众多的读者。下文选自小说《莱拉，格拉纳达的围城》，出版于1840年。
黎明时分，格拉纳达。告别了昨夜的云，冬阳微笑着，晨光在泽尼尔河与达罗河淙淙的水波间嬉戏。最后的摩尔王布阿卜迪勒独倚着危栏，俯瞰这一派美景。他在自己熏沐浸染的哲思中寻找着慰藉。
“我们是什么，”王子沉吟着，“我们这些国王竟然以自己充斥了世界？大地上回荡着我王座倾覆的声响；这回声会延至后世生民的耳畔。但我失去了什么？我的幸福与宁静所必需的东西，没有一样失去；除了我那悲惨的泉源、生命的苦井，我什么都没有失去！相比以往，我对天地万有、思想或行动，乃至饮馔与安眠这些人类更为具体的奢侈，这些平庸而廉价的欲望会少些兴味吗？那么，醒来吧，我的心！我深刻而繁复的悲欢足以打破存在的岑寂。……但，该动身了。”这样说着，他走到庭院里，飞身上马，带着一小队悲戚的随从，驶过了宫门，驶过了苍黑、倾屺、缀满藤萝的塔楼；在驶过那归属女修道院的花园时，他选了条凄怆的、无人注意的路。
当驰至花园边小山的山腰上时，他看到了西班牙人甲胄的辉光，一队接收宫廷的人马正跨过山顶稳健、沉默地行进着。带头的是骑着白马的阿维拉主教，后跟一长队赤脚的僧侣。布阿卜迪勒近前时，他们停了下来，主教向布阿卜迪勒致意，其神情却俨然在训谕异教徒及属下。由于现时的际遇，布阿卜迪勒此际比在位时更为自尊，他觉察到了神父的傲慢，却并未因之衔恨。“去吧，基督徒，”他温和地说，“阿兰布拉宫的重门已向你敞开。安拉把这座宫殿与城市都赐予了你们的王；愿他的德政能弥补布阿卜迪勒的过失！”说完不待对方回答，他就策马前行，不左瞻也不右盼。那群西班牙人也继续他们的途程。
太阳越过了高山，布阿卜迪勒和他的随从在山冈上看到全副武装的西班牙人；同时，马鸣萧萧、刀剑铿锵，肃穆的《感恩诗》悠悠传来，猎猎飘扬的旗帜像火焰在燃烧。随从们在怨诉或感叹，布阿卜迪勒独自默然；他转头鼓舞、斥骂着部属，复从塔楼望去，但见阳光辉耀着西班牙银十字。他的阿兰布拉宫已落入敌人之手，而在圣战的徽章旁，西班牙骑士的经典战神圣雅各的华美之旗跋扈地飞扬。这一景象令布阿卜迪勒默然无语，他抖了抖缰绳，迫不及待地要结束这令人情难以堪的仪式，他策马急奔几乎冲入了第一排兵士箭矢的射程之内。
基督战争此前从未有过更辉煌、更瑰丽的气象。目力所及，只见一排排戈矛林立，旌旗招展；而银色的、欢笑的泽尼尔河在一旁潺湲着、舞蹈着、闪耀着；两岸鲜花依旧终年盛开，纵使布阿卜迪勒已归为臣虏。军旅之花停留在一座小小的清真寺边。大主教及堪与查理曼大帝的勇士比肩的贵族、亲王们簇拥着费迪南，衬托着他的王者丰仪。伊莎贝尔在他的右手，还有那些门第高贵的西班牙命妇，华服云裳、珠光宝气，看去是那般怡然，有顶饰的头盔和精致的甲胄更为她们平添一份飒爽。面对这群王室成员，布阿卜迪勒停住马，稳稳心神，立在自己人丁稀少的队伍前，却风采奕奕，犹胜往昔，这位阿卜杜拉之子来到了他高傲的征服者面前。
看到布阿卜迪勒那因年轻而更其动人的高贵的容颜，金色的头发与俊雅的英姿，英雄美人们心中不禁涌起同情的歆慕。费迪南和伊莎贝尔缓缓上前迎向这位以往的对手、今日的臣民。布阿卜迪勒正欲下马，费迪南将手放在他的肩头，“王弟，”费迪南说，“忘却你的悲伤，愿我们今后的友谊能慰藉你的挫败，作为国王和英雄，你已与厄运尽力奋争——你与人抗衡，却最终顺从上帝。”
布阿卜迪勒没有矫情地回应这带着一丝苦涩和无心的揶揄的称赞，他点了一下头，沉默片刻，然后示意四个随从上前跪倒在费迪南身边，将用银盾盛着的城门钥匙献给费迪南。“这是抵抗西军最后一个据点的钥匙，请收下。穆斯林帝国不复存在。格拉纳达城与格拉纳达人民都归属于你；屈服于你的伟力，仰赖你的仁慈。”“他们会好的，”费迪南说，“我们之间的承诺不会打破。而且我们既已了解摩尔骑士的英武，格拉纳达的钥匙就不是献给我们，而是献给一双慈悲的手。”
说完，费迪南将钥匙交给伊莎贝拉，伊莎贝拉原想给布阿卜迪勒一些慰藉性的溢美，但她富于同情的心灵承载不起那温情与激动，尽管她是女英雄，是王后，但当她举目看到这国破家亡的国王苍白的容颜，泪水不可遏制地夺眶而出，她已泣不成声。布阿卜迪勒脸上泛起淡淡红晕，这位摩尔人率先打破了一时的尴尬。
“美丽的王后，”他说，语调苍凉持重，“您能读懂我的心，您慷慨的同情触动、征服了它。这是您最后的，却并非无足称道的征服。但我已耽搁您太多时间；勿让我的憔悴黯淡了您胜利的辉煌。请允许我告辞。”“再见了，我的兄弟，”费迪南答道，“愿好运伴随着你！忘记过去吧！”布阿卜迪勒苦涩一笑，向费迪南和伊莎贝尔深沉、静默地致意，然后骑着马缓缓前行，离开军队，赶赴位于阿尔普克萨雷斯以外的新封地。望着布阿卜迪勒和他的随从们消失在林间，费迪南下令队伍开拔；喇叭和铜钹的声音即刻传到了穆斯林的耳畔。
布阿卜迪勒策马全速前行，直到一个小村落那匹气喘吁吁的良驹才收住脚步。村中，他的母亲和忠贞的妻子阿米尼及他的仆从们已被先行送到这里等他。他们登上高冈，那是去往阿尔普克萨雷斯的关隘。从那里回望，幽谷、河流、尖顶、格拉纳达的塔楼尽收眼底。他们突然木然地勒住马；他们回首注目着那深爱的一切。迷惘、羞愧、家园之思、童年之忆、故国之恋一起涌上这些摩尔勇士的心头，化作泪水夺眶而出。
突然，从城堡传来大炮的轰鸣，隆隆声碾过阳光照耀的山谷和水晶般透明的河流。这群被放逐的人不禁齐声哀哭；哭声撞击着、压迫着这命途多舛的国王的心，他试图以东方的骄傲斯多葛派恬淡寡欲的哲学掩饰自己，却是徒然。泪水从他眼中涌出，他用手蒙住了脸。摩尔人的队伍蜿蜒走过幽僻的狭道；布阿卜迪勒国王流泪的地方现在仍被称作“摩尔人最后的叹息”。
免责声明：以上内容源自网络，版权归原作者所有，如有侵犯您的原创版权请告知，我们将尽快删除相关内容。
