Page:Livingstone in Africa.djvu/68

Over immense brown regions, no sweet rain
Rendereth mild with gracious influence:
A harsh rude waste, hated by man and beast;
Where the foot sinks in scorching loose brown sand
At every toilsome footfall; while the sun
Strikes upward from a powdery parch'd earth,
Tanning and blistering: fiercely from on high
He smites upon bow'd heads of travellers,
Under arch'd awning of a labouring wain,
Or swaying slowly on a lean worn ox.
Poor oxen! how they pant, and loll the tongue,
Beaten of urgent teamsters with loud whips,
Pulling at wheels, that settle clogg'd with sand.
Shadows are sharply blotted on the ground:
Blue blazing daylight glares intolerable:
In a half-dreaming doze we journey on,
Still for our sole horizon the wan waste.
But when some watermelon loll'd before us,
How all rush'd eager on the priceless prize,
A large green ball upon an arid soil!
Slashing the cool pink pulp, that wells with life,
And burying mouths in fair fresh nectar-springs.