Dark children of the sun! again
Your own rich Orient hails his reign.
He comes, but veil'd; with sanguine glare
Tinging the mists that load the air;
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame,
Th' approaching hurricane proclaim.
'Tis death's red banner streams on high—
Fly to the rocks for shelter—fly!
Lo! darkening o'er the fiery skies,
The pillars of the desert rise!
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling,
A giant-host, the heav'ns concealing,
They move like mighty genii-forms,
Towering immense midst clouds and storms.
Who shall escape? with awful force
The whirlwind bears them on their course;
They join—they rush resistless on—
—The landmarks of the plain are gone!
The steps, the forms, from earth effac'd
Of those who trod the boundless waste!
All whelm'd, all hush'd!–None left to bear
Sad record how they perish'd there!
No stone their tale of death shall tell,
—The desert guards its mysteries well!
And o'er th' unfathom'd sandy deep
Where low their nameless relics sleep,
Oft shall the future Pilgrim tread,
Nor know his steps are on the dead!
