[70] Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the following account in Volney’s Travels:--“These winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal.” [71] “Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber.”--Shakspeare. CANTO II. ----“Oh! ben provvide il Cielo Ch’ Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia.” Alfieri. Fair land! of chivalry the old domain, Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain! Though not for thee with classic shores to vie In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye; Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought; Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows, Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose. No sound of battle swells on Douro’s shore, And banners wave on Ebro’s banks no more. But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead? Blest be that soil! where England’s heroes share The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there; Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days-- By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among. How oft those rocks have echo’d to the tale Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles’ vale; Of him, renown’d in old heroic lore, First of the brave, the gallant Campeador; Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died When Rio Verde roll’d a crimson tide; Or that high name, by Garcilaso’s might On the Green Vega won in single fight.[72]