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The Ship of the Desert.
'Onward, my Camel!—On, though slow;
Halt not upon these fatal sands!
Onward my constant Camel go—
The fierce Simoom hath ceased to blow,
We soon shall tread green Syria's lands!
'Droop not my faithful Camel! Now
The hospitable well is near!
Though sick at heart, and worn in brow,
I grieve the most to think that thou
And I may part, kind comrade, here!
'O'er the dull waste a swelling mound—
A verdant paradise—I see;
The princely date-palms there abound,
And springs that make it sacred ground
To pilgrims like to thee and me!'
The patient Camel's filmy eye,
All lustreless, is fixed in death!
