—Hang by your neck over this gulf of blood?
Speak, I am saved! Speak, Djabal! Am I saved?
[As Djabal slowly unclasps her arms, and puts her silently from him.
Hakeem would save me! Thou art Djabal! Crouch!
Bow to the dust, thou basest of our kind!
The pile of thee, I reared up to the cloud—
Full, midway, of our fathers' trophied tombs,
Based on the living rock, devoured not by
The unstable desert's jaws of sand,—falls prone!
Fire, music, quenched: and now thou liest there