The Golden Gates swing right and left; up springs the Sun with flamy brow;
The dew-cloud melts in gush of light; brown Earth is bathed in morning-glow.

Slowly they wind athwart the wild, and while young Day his anthem swells,
Sad falls upon my yearning ear the tinkling of the Camel-bells:

O’er fiery wastes and frozen wold, o’er horrid hill and gloomy glen,
The home of grisly beast and Ghoul,* the haunts of wilder, grislier men;—

With the brief gladness of the Palms, that tower and sway o’er seething plain,
Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade, and welling spring, and rushing rain;

With the short solace of the ridge, by gentle zephyrs played upon,
Whose breezy head and bosky side front seas of cooly celadon;—