Swept like the storm-cloud's onward roll,
Casting its heavy shadows broad,
Even o'er the path already trod
In smiling sunshine, till at last
In night lie future, present, past.
Haunts not as oft such darkening spell
The banquet as the burial ?
The pacha strove to change his mood,
To see through all the evil good ;
Yet ever at his heart there lay
A weight he could not roll away.
Forward he spurs — What fearful need
Doth urge yon horseman's headlong speed,
That toward him rides ? Behold, they meet !
The messenger lies at his feet —
Hath rent his robe with gesture wild,
And on his head the dust hath piled.
"What are thy tidings ? varlet, say !"
Exclaimed the darkly-frowning Bey.