Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass’d,
And age, the weary, found repose at last;
Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil,
Borne down by numbers and o’erpower’d by toil.
Dispersed, dishearten’d, through the pass they fly,
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high;
While Hamet’s band in wonder gaze, nor dare
Track o’er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair.
Yet he, to whom each danger hath become
A dark delight, and every wild a home,