The Life of Lord Byron. John Galt

      Richly caparison’d a ready row

      Of armed horse, and many a warlike store,

      Circled the wide extending court below;

      Above, strange groups adorn’d the corridor,

      And ofttimes through the area’s echoing door,

      Some high-capp’d Tartar spurr’d his steed away.

      The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor

      Here mingled in their many-hued array,

      While the deep war-drum’s sound announced the close of day.

      Some recline in groups,

      Scanning the motley scene that varies round.

      There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops,

      And some that smoke, and some that play, are found.

      Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground

      Half-whispering, there the Greek is heard to prate.

      Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound;

      The Muezzin’s call doth shake the minaret.

      “There is no god but God! – to prayer – lo, God is great!”