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.