Page:Lalla Rookh - Moore - 1817.djvu/119

All night the groans of wretches who expire
In agony beneath these darts of fire
Ring thro' the city--while descending o'er
Its shrines and domes and streets of sycamore,--
Its lone bazars, with their bright cloths of gold,
Since the last peaceful pageant left unrolled,--
Its beauteous marble baths whose idle jets.
Now gush with blood,--and its tall minarets
That late have stood up in the evening glare
Of the red sun, unhallowed by a prayer;--
O'er each in turn the dreadful flame-bolts fall,
And death and conflagration throughout all
The desolate city hold high festival!

MOKANNA sees the world is his no more;--
One sting at parting and his grasp is o'er,
"What! drooping now?"--thus, with unblushing cheek,
He hails the few who yet can hear him speak,
Of all those famished slaves around him lying,
And by the light of blazing temples dying;
"What!--drooping now!--now, when at length we press
"Home o'er the very threshold of success;
"