"But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow; Winding so high, that, as they mount, they pass Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, Chok’d by the air, and scarce can they themselves Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulberries— In single file they move, and stop their breath, For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows— So the pale Persians held their breath with fear."