Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Death of the Dromedary Driver

The Death of The Dromedary Driver.

In vast and boundless solitude he stands,
Around him, Heaven and the Desert meet;
It is a naked universe of sands
That mocks his gaze, and burns beneath his feet.
Stillness,—deep stillness reigns,—and he, alone,
Stands where drear solitude has reared her throne.
Look on the ground, behold the moistless bed,
Where lies his faithful Dromedary dead;
Mark his despairing look, as his wild eye
Stretches its aching sight, as if, alas, to try
To pierce between the desert and the sky.
See him now turn his agonised gaze
Upon the dead companion of his way;
And, grasping the fallen carcass, strive to raise
Again to life, the cumbrous weight of clay—
Quick thought, remembrances, hopes deep and strong,
The Arab maid that wept a fond adieu,
And wished and prayed he might not tarry long,
And said she loved him, and she would be true;
And home and all the scenes of early days,
Come with a rushing sickness o'er his soul,—
For he sees life fast shrinking to its goal,—
He casts around a last despairing gaze
O'er the wide wilderness of burning sand,
And strikes his forehead with his clenched hand;
And now he hurries on with rapid stride,
As if, vain hope, to pass the boundless sands,
And reach some clime where gentle waters glide
Through smiling valleys and green shady lands.—
But still the desert rises on his view,
And still the deep sand sinks beneath his tread,—
Fainting, he stops exhausted—but anew
Onward in frenzy runs—his dizzy head
Turns round, at last—his tottering knees give way,
He falls,—and dying lies, the fell hyena's prey.