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Far bearing o'er the sandy wave,
The viewless angel of the grave.

It came 'tis vanished-but hath left
The wanderers even of hope bereft ;*
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame,
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame;
Faint with despondence, worn with toil,
They sink upon the burning soil;
Resigned, amidst those realms of gloom,
To find their death-bed and their tomb.

But onward still!-Yon distant spot
Of verdure can deceive you not.
Yon palms, which tremulously seemed
Reflected as the waters gleamed,
Along the horizon's verge displayed,
Still rear their slender colonade,
A landmark, guiding o'er the plain,
The Caravan's exhausted train.

Fair is that little Isle of Bliss,
The desert's emerald Oasis !
A rainbow on the torrent's wave,
A gem, embosomed in the grave,
The sunbeam of a stormy day,
Its beauty's image might convey;
Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps,
While silence round her vigil keeps.

Rest, weary Pilgrims! calmly laid
To slumber in the Acacia-shade;
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise
Their aromatic breath diffuse;

Where softer light the sunbeams pour,
Through the tall palm and sycamore,

*The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers.

And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendant clusters o'er your heads.
Nature, once more, to seal your eyes,
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies;
Again each heart the music hails,
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales;
And oh!-to Afric's child how dear!-
The voice of fountains gushing near!

Sweet be your slumbers, and your dreams,
Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent's venomed coil
From the brief respite won by toil!
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose,
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death!
Sleep! may no scorching blast invade
The freshness of the Acacia-shade;
But gales of heaven your spirits bless
While life's best balm-forgetfulness;
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.

The day hath closed.-The moon on high
Walks in her cloudless majesty.
A thousand stars to Afric's heaven
Serene magnificence have given;
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame
Shines forth eternally the same!
Blest be their beams! whose holy light
Shall guide the camel's footsteps right,
And lead, as with a torch divine,
The Pilgrim to his Prophet's shrine.

-Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu;
Again your lonely march pursue,
While winds of night are freshly blowing,
And heavens with softer beauty glowing.

-Tis silence all.-The solemn scene
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien;
For giant rocks, at distance piled,
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild.
Darkly they rise!-What eye hath viewed
The caverns of their solitude?
Away!-within those awful cells,
The savage lord of Afric dwells!
Heard ye his voice?—The Lion's roar
Swells as when billows break on shore;
Well may the camel shake with fear,
And the steed pant:-his foe is near.
Haste! Light the torch-bid watch-fires throw
Far o'er the waste a ruddy glow;
"... Keep vigil-guard the bright array
Of flames that scare him from his prey!
Within their magic circle press,

Oh wanderers of the wilderness!
Heap high the pile, and, by its blaze,
Tell the wild tales of elder days;
Arabia's wondrous lore that dwells
On warrior deeds and wizard spells;
Enchanted domes, 'mid scenes like these,
Rising to vanish with the breeze;
Gardens whose fruits are gems, that shed
Their light where mortal may not tread;
And genii, o'er whose pearly halls,
The eternal billow heaves and falls.
With charms like these, of mystic power,
Watchers! beguile the midnight hour.

Slowly that hour hath rolled away,
And star by star withdraws its ray:
Dark children of the sun! again
Your own rich Orient hails his reign.
He comes, but veiled; with sanguine glare,
Tinging the mists that load the air;
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame,
The approaching hurricane proclaim.

"Tis death's red banner streams on high.Fly to the rocks for shelter!—Fly! Lo! darkening o'er the fiery skies The pillars of the desert rise! On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, A giant host, the heavens concealing, They move like mighty genii-forms, Towering immense midst clouds and storms! Who shall escape! With awful force The whirlwind bears them on their course. They join-they rush resistless onThe landmarks of the plain are gone The steps, the forms, from earth effaced Of those who trod the boundless waste! All whelmed !-All hushed!-None left to bear Sad record how they perished there! No stone their tale of death shall tell,— The desert guards its mysteries well! And o'er the unfathomed sandy deep Where now their nameless relics sleep, Oft shall the future Pilgrim tread, Nor know his steps are on the dead! Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.



WHY dost thou gaze upon the sky?
Oh! that I were that spangled sphere,

And every star should be an eye

To wonder on thy beauties here!

In life thou wert my morning star,

But now that death hath stolen thy light,
Alas! thou shinest dim and far,

Like the pale beam that weeps at night.


And what's her history?

A blank, my Lord.


YES! I remember well how beautiful
I used to think her, as she lay in slumber,
In the cool evening hour upon her couch,
Before the open lattice, which the vines

Half veiled with drooping wreaths-how like an angel
She looked-with those soft glossy ringlets,
And slight arched brow, and cheek of ivory,
Tinged with a blush of rose, bright, delicate
As that, which paints the unfolded apple-blossom.

And yet, at times, what heavy sighs she breathed
In that so beautiful sleep! and from her eye-lids
Have wandered tears, like morning dew on roses.
'Twas sadness she was dying of!-deep-deep-
For which, on this earth, grew no healing balm.
And they had brought her from her ruder clime
To that sweet spot, where ever cloudless skies,
Pure gales, and smiling scenes, their influence shed,―
But not for her this influence:-she was then
'Past hope-past cure.'

They said her heart was broken ;—but a child,
I knew not, then, the meaning of that speech-
Yet never word, or murmur of regret,

Lingered upon that gentle lip. The spirit
Was weaned from this world, and it looked on high
In humble faith. The grave no terrors had
For one to whom existence had no charms.

Music alone still held its witching o'er her;
And she would dwell for hours on the rich tones
She knew so well to draw forth from her lute,
As in the stillness of the night she loved
To mingle with them her soft voice, when all

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