Settles a cloud of pestilential gloom;
The keen shafts leave the shrouded East behind,
Thridding like light the mazes of the wind.
Onward their course they hold, nor once relent
Until they reach the shrill-tongued Occident.
The crash and roar of crowded cities cease,
And o’er their bulwark broods the desert’s peace.
The clanging enginery forgets to move,
Where luxury’s gauds by jaded hands are wove;
The wail, the dirge, the unextinguished moan,