Written During Illness at Constantinople

Far o'er green barren Thrace the sun had set
In stormy red: — upon a couch of pain,
Listening the dripping of the dismal rain, —
Over the mighty city, dark and wet,
I heard the countless Turkish Ez.ms swell,
Bidding the vespers of the infidel
With long, harsh wail from viewless minaret.
The Cross lies hard upon my fevered brow
And aching frame; and slumber's pleasant spell
Is backward o'er my restless limbs to creep.
Yet from that Ezan have I learned but now
That prayer is sevenfold welcomer than sleep.
Then shall I count these little pains a loss
Which thus can make the Crescent preach the Cross?