Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere.
Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom,
Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces—till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath pass’d,
Far bearing o’er the sandy wave
The viewless Angel of the Grave.
It came—’tis vanish’d—but hath left
The wanderers e’en of hope bereft;