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; "