To feast on them. And in that motley crowd
Were servants of the state and many more
Who long had waited merely for a glimpse
Of their just ruler Désing holding court.
But soon there echoed through the lofty hills
The sound of th' Indian bugle and the drum
Proclaiming the arrival of the prince;
And often, as the new flood rushing down
With the still waters of a sleeping stream,
Leaves nought behind, and all is vacancy,