Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain,
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.
XXVII.
For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing,
The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song;
Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying,
The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue.
Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light along
The marble streets, all stillness—not repose;
And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong;