The tawny Ishmaelite was gone;
But something sombre as death is ...
Tut, tut! the tale is not of this.
A mountaineer, storm-stained and brown,
From farthest desert touched the town,
And, striding through the crowd, held up
Above his head a jewell'd cup.
He put two fingers to his lip,
He whisper'd wild, he stood a-tip,
And lean'd the while with lifted hand,