In vast and boundless solitude he stands,Around him, Heaven and the Desert meet;It is a naked universe of sandsThat 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 eyeStretches its aching sight, as if, alas, to tryTo pierce between the desert and the sky.See him now turn his agonised gazeUpon the dead companion of his way;And, grasping the fallen carcass, strive to raiseAgain 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 gazeO'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 glideThrough 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 anewOnward in frenzy runs—his dizzy headTurns round, at last—his tottering knees give way,He falls,—and dying lies, the fell hyena's prey.
