Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque,

Like molten silver. Every thing was fair;

And beauty hung upon the painted fanes;

Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave

Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men

Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd

Like woe, or suffering, save one small train

Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by,

And left no trace upon the busy throng.

The sun was just as beautiful; the shout