And the sea and the land in solitude slept.
III.
On a mountain he stood, for the struggle was done,—
A smile on his lip for the victory won.
The city of millions,—lone islet and cave,
The home of the hermit,—all earth was a grave!
The last of his race, where the first saw the light,
The monarch had met, and triumphed in fight:
Swift, swift was the steed, o'er Shinar's wide sand,
But swifter the arrow that flew from Death's hand!