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There drops the widow’s tear—there heaves the sigh

Of mourning sire—there sounds the orphan’s cry—

And there dark Azrail[7] sits, and grimly waves His sable pinions o’er a thousand graves; Yet e’en his rugged soul is tir’d—his hand Would fain let drop his all-destructive brand— Would gladly spread his deadly plumes, to fly From such a scene of desolate misery.

For when Alvante’s brother claim’d a throne,

Which none but Ismael had the right to own;230

The tyrant, wak’ning from inglorious ease,

Rush’d to the battle, like the northern breeze:—

They fought! and young Moratcham’s lesser band

Fled in dismay before his brother’s hand.

But wo to Tauris’ chiefs!—for, there return’d,

With vengeful rage the haughty victor burn’d:

For they had help’d to place the daring brand,

Of red Rebellion, in Moratcham’s hand.

And, like some roaring whirlwind’s sweeping path,

That tears whole forests with its rabid wrath;240

Or, like some demon’s all-destroying form,

That wings the blast, and rides the gath’ring storm: