They lord the land; they come, they go
At will; they laugh at man; they blow
A cloud of black steeds o'er the plain.
Thy monuments lie buried now,
The ashes whiten on thy brow,
The winds, the waves, have drawn away,
The very wild man dreads to stay.
O! thou art very old. I lay,
Made dumb with awe and wonderment,
Beneath a palm before my tent,