Where mighty ruins, grim and vast,
With fallen architrave and span
Mark some dead city of the past,
The golden sunshine rippling ran;
Two giant palms beside a well
Rose with a stately, solemn grace,
And, sweet and clear, a camel's bell
Made echoes in the lonely place.

A white tent in the shadow gleamed,
And close beside its open door,
Above some salt, lance pennons streamed—
The ready signs of peace and war.
A neighing horse made answer loud
To tramping steeds that nearer drew,
And southward, like a rising cloud,
The sand-storm swept heaven's lustrous blue.

Silent, upon his well-worn mat,
With eager eyes and ready hand,
The Bedouin chieftain, Kaled, sat,
And watched the widening sweeps of sand.
He heard the hoofs beside him crash,
He heard the shouts that bade him rise,
He saw the swords in anger flash,
A cold light shining in his eyes.

Then springing to his feet, he said,
In bitter words that cut and stung,
“Well was it that about his head,
Ferdullah dust and ashes flung,
For he had lived to see a horde
Of hireling slaves debase his name,
And dared not curse the mighty Lord
For this sad heritage of shame.

“You are a hundred men to one,
And yet I scorn your hoarded wrath,
Even as yon distant, brilliant sun
Scorns the black clouds that mar his path.
Strike—for the words I speak are truth,
And ere I kneel unto a slave,
The fame and glory of my youth
Will rot within a loathsome grave.

“Strike!” And his folded arms were clasped,
His massive head was forward thrown,
While bearded horsemen fiercely grasped
Their swords, and sinews grew like stone;
Backward they drew in sullen line,
Ready to charge with fearful might—
Their pennoned lances grimly shine,
Their eyes flame with a baleful light.

Then, like a bolt that drives across
The sky, with hot and sulphurous breath
The dread sirocco's sand plumes toss
About them in a swirl of death:
Its roar sweeps down the arid plain
And in the western distance dies,
And silence holds unbroken reign
Beneath the cloudless purple skies,

Save that the camel bells are sweet
Beyond the windless palms, and there
The Bedouin's slow and trembling feet
Make weird sounds in the heated air.
And southward, where the level sand
Had run in an unbroken sweep,
Low mounds are scattered through the land,
And hate and wrath beneath them sleep.