Rang in the space above the frightened crowd,
That bent before it, as when storm-winds blow
Their warning horns, and the storm crouches low
Still on the solid hills with sombre eyes,
Long lightnings slant, and muffled thunders rise,
And startled forests, helpless to retreat,
Stand with their struggling arms and buried feet.
An aged vizier rose, and bowed his head,
Clasping his gentle withered hands: "He said:
'To two God gives the shelter of His cloak,