XCV.

Yes! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, He comes: the Moslem treads those ancient halls! But all is stillness there, as death had long Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. And half that silence of the grave appals The conqueror’s heart. Ay! thus, with triumph’s hour, Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls A thought of those impervious clouds that lower O’er grandeur’s path, a sense of some far mightier Power!