| |
| UPON his cloak the Arab stands; | |
| Behind him stretch the solemn sands | |
| Back to the barren hills that lie | |
| Serene against the azure sky. | |
| Slow-winding from their dim defiles | 5 |
| O’er scorching waste and sedgy isles, | |
| From lordly Cairo, Mecca-bound, | |
| Threading the plain without a sound | |
| Save when the burdened camels groan | |
| Or tents are pitched by fountain-stone, | 10 |
| The long-drawn caravan is seen | |
| Wrapped in the desert’s blinding sheen. | |
| |
| No muezzin calls from minaret, | |
| Though clear the burning sun has set; | |
| But waste and hill and brooding sky | 15 |
| Have stirred his soul to deep reply, | |
| And he, the chief of all his tribe, | |
| Has spurred him forward to ascribe | |
| Glory to Allah, ere the gloom | |
| And fierceness of the dread simoom | 20 |
| Shall overwhelm, or failing well | |
| No pilgrim spare, His power to tell. | |
| |
| He plants his lance; his steed he frees; | |
| Light from the north the rising breeze | |
| Lifts the hot cloud, and moans away | 25 |
| Down to some Petra’s still decay, | |
| Sad, as if wailing fall and rise | |
| Were won from dying pilgrims’ sighs,— | |
| Their couch by billowy sands o’erblown | |
| Where Azrael keeps watch alone. | 30 |
| And now, his sandals’ weight unbound, | |
| The desert space is holy ground; | |
| No more he sees the weary train, | |
| The sombre hills, the dusty plain, | |
| But greenest fields of Paradise | 35 |
| Shine fair before his ravished eyes. | |
| He hears the flow of crystal streams, | |
| He sees the wondrous light that gleams | |
| From Allah’s throne, ablaze with gems, | |
| And, far below, the slender stems | 40 |
| Of plumy palms, whose ripe dates fall | |
| When winds blow cool across the wall; | |
| While sweeter than the bulbul’s note | |
| Within the dusk pomegranate bowers, | |
| When his full soul he fain would float | 45 |
| Forth to their yearning, flaming flowers, | |
| The voice of angel Israfeel | |
| Comes winding, warbling through the air,— | |
| Oh that ’t were resurrection’s peal, | |
| And he, the dead, might waken there,— | 50 |
| Waken and follow Edenward, | |
| Lost in the splendor of the Lord! | |
| |
| Soon will his comrades round him throng, | |
| While tents are pitched with jest and song; | |
| But not the night-dews, chill and fleet, | 55 |
| Nor noontide’s burning, blasting heat, | |
| Nor red simoom, nor mocking well | |
| Can break his vision’s sacred spell, | |
| Nor lure his joy that forward flies | |
| To build and sing in fairer skies. | 60 |
| |
| O Arab! we are one with thee! | |
| All day we rove some desert sea; | |
| The winds are dead, the wells are dry, | |
| Above us flames the torrid sky; | |
| And only in some twilight calm, | 65 |
| When fires are spent and air is balm, | |
| Beyond our griefs and fears we ride; | |
| Our sandal-cares we cast aside; | |
| The clouds of doubt are backward blown, | |
| And lo! we meet the Lord alone! | 70 |
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