Worn with their toil, a moment’s pause demand.
He stops, and turning, on Granada’s fanes
In silence gazing, fix’d awhile remains
In stern, deep silence: o’er his feverish brow,
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow,
But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar,
Sounds indistinctly fearful—as of war.
What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high,
O’er the blue clearness of the starry sky?
Awful it rises, like some Genie-form,