All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues
That southern suns o’er heaven and earth diffuse—
Blend in one scene of glory, form’d to throw
O’er memory’s page a never-fading glow,
And there, too, foremost midst the conquering brave,
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave.
There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port
Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court;
Calm, stern, collected—yet within his breast
Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess’d?