And with a troop of chosen cavaliers,
Came to the Holy Land of Hindostan,
Wearily wandering, whether the strong sun
Parched the wide champaign, and the furnace blasts
Came howling, hot and dry, whirling the sand
In dense and overwhelming canopy,
So that, for hours, the dark was palpable;
Or whether, under the moist star of Eve,
The village slumbered peaceful, great old trees
Intensely still, and immemorial pools