THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS.
Call it not loneliness, to dwell
In woodland shade or hermit dell,
Or the deep forest to explore,
Or wander Alpine regions o'er;
For Nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:
A bird's light wing may break the air
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there:
A bee the mountain flowers may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak;
An eagle, rushing to the sky,
Wake the deep echoes with his cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice, though not of man is near.
But he, whose weary step hath traced
Mysterious Afric's awful waste—
Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath view'd,
Can tell thee what is solitude!
It is, to traverse lifeless plains,
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands and dazzling sky,
Seem boundless as infinity!
It is, to sink, with speechless dread,
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread,
Sever'd from earthly being's trace,
Alone, amidst eternal space!
'Tis noon—and fearfully profound,
Silence is on the desert round;
Alone she reigns, above, beneath,
With all the attributes of death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare,
No insect bide the scorching air;
The ostrich, though of sun-born race,
Seeks a more shelter'd dwelling-place;
The lion slumbers in his lair,
The serpent shuns the noontide glare:
But slowly wind the patient train
Of camels o'er the blasted plain,
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.
Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high.
As a volcano, flame the sky;
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow
The dark-red seas of sand below;
Though not a shadow save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown;
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide,
Reflects the date-tree on its side—
Speed on! pure draughts and genial air,
And verdant shade, await you there.
Oh glimpse of Heaven! to him unknown,
That hath not trod the burning zone!
Forward they press—they gaze disma/d—
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapours that elude
The eye, the lip, they vainly woo'd.*
What meteor comes ?—a purple haze
Hath half obscured the noontide rays:|
Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere;
Haste, haste! avert th' impending doom,
Fall prostrate ! 'tis the dread Simoom I
Bow down your faces—till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath pass'd,
Far bearing o'er the sandy wave,
The viewless Angel of the Grave.
It came—'tis vanished—but hath left
The wanderers e'en of hope bereft;
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame,
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame
Faint with despondence, worn with toil,
They sink upon the burning soil,
Resign'd, amidst those realms of gloom,
To find their deathbed and their tomb.J
* The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water.
t See the description of the Simoom in Brace's Travels.
% The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers. VOL. III. G
But onward still!—yon distant spot Of verdure can deceive you not; Yon palms, which tremulously seem'd Reflected as the waters gleam'd, Along th' horizons verge display'd, Still rear their slender colonnade— A landmark, guiding o'er the plain The Caravan's exhausted train. Fair is that little Isle of Bliss The desert's emerald oasis! A rainbow on the torrent's wave, A gem embosom'd in the grave, A sunbeam on a stormy day Its beauty's image might convey! 'Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps, While silence round her vigil keeps. —Rest, weary pilgrims I calmly laid To slumber in th' acacia shade: Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise, Their aromatic breath diffuse; Where softer light the sunbeams pour Through the tall palm and sycamore; And the rich date luxuriant spreads Its pendant clusters o'er your heads. Nature once more, to seal your eyes, Murmurs her sweetest lullabies; Again each heart the music hails Of rustling leaves and sighing gales, And oh! to Afric's child how dear The voice of fountains gushing near! Sweet be your slumbers 1 and your dreams Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent's venom'd coil
From the brief respite won by toil;
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose—
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death.
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless.
With life's best balm—Forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.
The day hath closed—the moon on high
Walks in her cloudless majesty.
A thousand stars to Afric's heaven
Serene magnificence have given;
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame
Shines forth eternally the same.
Blest be their beams, whose holy light
Shall guide the camel's footsteps right,
And lead, as with a track divine,
The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine!
—Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu!
Again your lonely march pursue,
While airs of night are freshly blowing,
And heavens with softer beauty glowing.
—Tis silence all: the solemn scene
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien;
For giant-rocks, at distance piled,
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild.
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