Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower
O’er grandeur’s path, a sense of some far mightier Power!
XCVI.
“The owl upon Afrasiab’s towers hath sung
Her watch-song,[225] and around th’ imperial throne
The spider weaves his web!”—Still darkly hung
That verse of omen, as a prophet’s tone,
O’er his flush’d spirit. Years on years have flown
To prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air,