 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
102
HAROON ALRASCHID.
Visions of Oriental pomp aroundTeem on my sight; a grand ideal scene,
Where upon Tigris Bagdat sits as queen,
Rises in dreamy splendour from the ground;
I hear the clashing cymbals, and the sound
Of brazen horns, and loud monotonous drums
From turban'd thousands in their war array
About Alraschid, as the conqueror comes
From perjured Greece triumphant in the fray:
Best lord, and wisest judge, that ever sat
In the black mantle of the Caliphat,
When we recall thy race and thee, Haroon,
We count thee as the herald of the day
Rising to quench in light the crescent moon.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |