Page:Poems Proctor.djvu/46

He plants his lance; his steed he frees;
Light, from the north, the rising breeze
Lifts the hot cloud, and moans away
Down to some Petra's still decay,
Sad, as if wailing fall and rise
Were won from dying pilgrims' sighs,—
Their couch by billowy sands o'erblown
Where Azrael keeps watch alone.
And now, his sandals' thongs unbound,
The desert space is holy ground;
No more he sees the weary train,
The sombre hills, the burning plain,
But greenest fields of Paradise
Shine fair before his ravished eyes.
He hears the flow of crystal streams;
He sees the wondrous light that gleams
From Allah's throne, ablaze with gems,
And, far below, the slender stems
Of plumy palms, whose ripe dates fall
When winds blow cool across the wall;
While sweeter than the bulbul's note
 Within the dusk pomegranate-bowers,
When its full soul it fain would float
 Forth to their yearning, flaming flowers,
The voice of angel Israfil
 Comes winding, warbling through the air,—
O that 't were resurrection's peal,
 And he, the dead, might waken there—
Waken and follow Eden-ward,
Lost in the splendor of the Lord!