Anticipating fate—since it must fall,
That Cross must fall at last! There is no power,
No hope within this city of the grave,
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor
Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark,
Than th’ arrow of the desert. Even the skies
O’erhang the desolate splendour of her domes