XXVII.

For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing, The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song; Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying, The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue. Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light along The marble streets, all stillness--not repose; And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong; For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those Who see their number’d hours fast pressing to the close.