That should, like dire Arabic drug,
Rise, with unmeasured measure.
Old Indian arts, and Indian spells,
And all their subtle seeming,
Passed quick away—as truth expels,
The palsied power in dreaming.
Down rolled the cherished Indian corse,
The sands no more could hold him,
Nor rite—nor genii—art or force,
Nor golden shroud enfold him.