Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal’d!
E’en now the courier to his steed is flying,
He spurs—he speeds—with tidings of the day,
To rouse up cities in his lightning way.
Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes,
O eager multitudes! around him pressing?
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams,
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing!
Know ye not whence th’ ill-omen’d herald comes,
And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?—