Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been.
And now his feet have reach’d that lonely pile,
Where grief and terror may repose awhile;
Embower’d it stands, midst wood and cliff on high,
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh:
He hails the scene where every care should cease,
And all—except the heart he brings—is peace.
There is deep stillness in those halls of state
Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late;
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin’s blast