Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/24

2 When the fiercest piker who ever turned With lowered head in defiance proud, Grown gaunt and weak, Release doth seek In vain from the depths of the slimy creek— His sepulchre and his shroud;

His requiem sung by an insect host, Born of the pestilential air, That seethe and swarm In hideous form Where the stagnant waters lie thick and warm, And Fever lurks in his lair:

Where a placid, thirst-provoking lake Clear in the flashing sunlight lies— But the stockman knows No water flows Where the shifting mirage comes and goes Like a spectral paradise;

And, crouched in the saltbush' sickly shade, Murmurs to Heaven a piteous prayer: ‘O God! must I Prepare to die?’ And, gazing up at the brazen sky, Reads his death-warrant there.