XII.
Where Syria’s mountains rise, or Yemen’s groves,
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave,
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves,
Wears but two forms—the tyrant and the slave!
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde
Where sweeps the sand-storm o’er the burning wild;
There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword
O’er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled;
And the vale’s bosom, and the desert’s gloom,
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb.