XII.

Where Syria’s mountains rise, or Yemen’s groves, Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, Life to his eye, as wearily it roves, Wears but two forms--the tyrant and the slave! There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde Where sweeps the sand-storm o’er the burning wild; There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword O’er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled; And the vale’s bosom, and the desert’s gloom, Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb.