Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

WHOSE are the gilded tents that crowd the way,

Where all was waste and silent yesterday?

This City of War, which, in a few short hours,

Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers

Of Him who, in the twinkling of a star,

Built the high-pillared walls of Chilminar,

Had conjured up, far as the eye can see,

This world of tents, and domes, and sun-bright armory:—

Princely pavilions, screened by many a fold

Of crimson cloth, and topped with balls of gold:—

Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun,

Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun;

And camels, tufted o’er with Temen’s shells

Shaking in every breeze their light-toned bells!