| |
| FAINT and athirst, in arid wastes astray, | |
| Wandered an Arab, parted from his band, | |
| Who reached an herbless spot at close of day, | |
| Where cooling moisture rose amid the sand. | |
| Though weak and weary, to his arm-pits deep | 5 |
| The pilgrim scooped the sand that wetter grew; | |
| Then, hopeful, laid him down to rest and sleep, | |
| And round his aching limbs his mantle drew. | |
| |
| At early dawn, with trembling form he rose, | |
| And, lo! the basin he at twilight made, | 10 |
| Mirrored the sun, and, strengthened by repose, | |
| He quaffed the fountain, and his thirst allayed. | |
| “Allah be praised!” he sang with bounding heart, | |
| And from his scanty store of dates he ate; | |
| Both man and beast, with strength renewed, depart, | 15 |
| And reach their tribe where shifting sands abate. | |
| |
| One seed alone that morn unnoticed fell, | |
| One kernel of their fruit in that small pool, | |
| Whose sleeping germ awoke in its lone cell | |
| A tiny rootlet kept by moisture cool. | 20 |
| Behold! its fibrous threads sink slowly down, | |
| A little stem arises; leaves take form, | |
| And feathery fans unfold a lovely crown, | |
| And cap a palm-tree daring heat and storm. | |
| |
| Its tuft of living greenness nodded high, | 25 |
| Its blossoming clusters perfumed all the waste; | |
| Majestic, pierced the unimpeded sky, | |
| And beckoned all that saw to thither haste. | |
| Far over that secluded, boundless plain, | |
| Its sweets exhaled to lure all living things, | 30 |
| Till, midst its foliage finding rest again, | |
| Swift birds of passage folded weary wings. | |
| |
| Its ripening fruits, like rubied gems of gold, | |
| In luscious bunches hung on every limb, | |
| There insects hummed, and life grew manifold; | 35 |
| From many nests was breathed the birdling’s hymn; | |
| And glossy vines and brilliant shrubs soon wound | |
| Their loving bands around the tall, strong tree; | |
| Young palms arose, and o’er the naked ground | |
| Coarse grasses crept, and twining growths swung free. | 40 |
| |
| Erelong the shadows of a little wood | |
| Shut out the scorching beams of lurid sun, | |
| Where panting antelopes unfrighted stood,— | |
| God’s timid creatures gathered one by one. | |
| The swift gazelle and ostrich daily fed | 45 |
| On tender buds and herbage fresh and green; | |
| The golden-hammer tapped all day o’erhead, | |
| Nor aught disturbed the beauty of the scene. | |
| |
| So years slipped by; and he who dropped the date | |
| Within the hollow of the lonely vale, | 50 |
| Among his children’s children sadly sate; | |
| With age and sorrow drooping, wan and pale; | |
| While hostile tribes annoyed the kindred sore, | |
| And drouth had withered all the sward around, | |
| He called a council, and long pondered o’er | 55 |
| How some relief from many ills be found. | |
| |
| A sudden gleam lit all his rugged face, | |
| And lifted as a cloud his load of care; | |
| He sent his sons to that lone garden-place, | |
| To see if trace of moisture still was there;— | 60 |
| That vale so precious in the long ago, | |
| When death was baffled by the fount that flowed | |
| From those wet sands,—and, bowing faint and low, | |
| Once more he asked God’s blessing, oft bestowed. | |
| |
| Lo! they return with shouts and hurried tramp, | 65 |
| “Haste! haste,” they cry, “to that most blest retreat! | |
| Yea, by to-morrow eve we may encamp | |
| In earthly Eden, refuge fruitful, sweet!” | |
| The tears ran streaming from the old man’s eyes,— | |
| “See what a kernel has produced,” he said, | 70 |
| “For our deliverance! I pray you prize | |
| And lay me ’neath that palm when I am dead!” * * * * * | |
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