Page:Caravan in the Desert.pdf/6

 And oh! to Afric's child how dear! The voice of fountains gushing near!

Sweet be your slumbers! 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 th' Acacia-shade; But gales of heav'n 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 clos'd—the moon on high Walks in her cloudless majesty. A thousand stars to Afric's heav'n 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 torch divine, The Pilgrim to his Prophet's shrine.