Poems (Proctor)/"The Prayer in the Desert"

by Edna Dean Proctor

"THE PRAYER IN THE DESERT." (Painted by Gérôme.)

Serene, alone, the Arab stands;Behind him stretch the solemn sandsBack to the barren hills that lie,A tawny ridge, against the sky.Slow-winding from their dim defilesO'er scorching waste and sedgy isles,From lordly Cairo, Mecca-bound,Threading the plain without a soundSave when the burdened camels groanOr tents are pitched by fountain-stone,The long-drawn caravan is seenWrapped in the desert's blinding sheen.

No muezzin calls from minaret,Though clear the fiery sun has set;But waste and hill and brooding skyHave stirred his soul to deep reply,And he, the chief of all his tribe,Has spurred him forward to ascribeGlory to Allah, ere the gloomAnd fierceness of the dread simoomShall overwhelm, or failing wellNo pilgrim spare, His power to tell. He plants his lance; his steed he frees;Light, from the north, the rising breezeLifts the hot cloud, and moans awayDown to some Petra's still decay,Sad, as if wailing fall and riseWere won from dying pilgrims' sighs,—Their couch by billowy sands o'erblownWhere 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 ParadiseShine fair before his ravished eyes.He hears the flow of crystal streams;He sees the wondrous light that gleamsFrom Allah's throne, ablaze with gems,And, far below, the slender stemsOf plumy palms, whose ripe dates fallWhen 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! Soon will his comrades round him throng,While tents are pitched with jest and song;But not the night-dews, chill and fleet,Nor noon-tide's burning, blasting heat,Nor red simoom, nor mocking wellCan break his vision's sacred spell,Or lure his joy that forward fliesTo build and sing in fairer skies.

O Arab! we are one with thee!All day we rove some desert sea;The winds are dead, the wells are dry,Above us flames the torrid sky;And only in some twilight calm,When fires are spent and air is balm,Beyond our griefs and fears we ride;Our sandal-cares we cast aside;The clouds of doubt are backward blown,And lo! we meet the Lord alone!

 1863.