’Twas the blight of the Lord, ’twas the touch of his power.
5.
But still was the starlight—while, shrouded and hid,
Death brooded o’er palace, and cold pyramid;
No voice on the midnight; no larum of wrath;
No sound of the whirlwind—but only its path.
6.
And a cry was in Egypt, when rose the red morn,
For a thousand pale mothers bewail’d their first born;
And Memnon’s sweet music that greeted the Sun,