Where low midst Ilion’s dust her conquerors sleep,
O’ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.
VI.
War from the West!—the snows on Thracian hills
Are loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the lands
Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rills
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands.
War from the East!—midst Araby’s lone sands,
More lonely now the few bright founts may be,
While Ismael’s bow is bent in warrior-hands