Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Africa: Vol. XXIV. 1876–79.
The Caravan in the Deserts
By Felicia Hemans (1793–1835)C
In woodland shade or hermit dell,
Or the deep forest to explore,
Or wander Alpine regions o’er;
For Nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:
A bird’s light wing may break the air,
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there;
A bee the mountain flowers may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak;
An eagle, rushing to the sky,
Wake the deep echoes with his cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice, though not of man, is near.
But he whose weary step hath traced
Mysterious Afric’s awful waste,
Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath viewed,
Can tell thee what is solitude!
It is, to traverse lifeless plains,
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands and dazzling sky
Seem boundless as infinity!
It is, to sink, with speechless dread,
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread,
Severed from earthly being’s trace,
Alone, amidst eternal space!
’T is noon—and fearfully profound,
Silence is on the desert round;
Alone she reigns, above, beneath,
With all the attributes of death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare,
No insect bide the scorching air;
The ostrich, though of sun-born race,
Seeks a more sheltered dwelling-place;
The lion slumbers in his lair,
The serpent shuns the noontide glare:
But slowly wind the patient train
Of camels o’er the blasted plain,
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.
As a volcano, flame the sky;
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow
The dark-red seas of sand below;
Though not a shadow, save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown;
Mark! where, your feverish lips to lave,
Wide spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide
Reflects the date-tree on its side—
Speed on! pure draughts and genial air
And verdant shade await you there.
Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown,
That hath not trod the burning zone!
Forward they press, they gaze dismayed,
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapors that elude
The eye, the lip, they vainly wooed.
What meteor comes?—a purple haze
Hath half obscured the noontide rays:
Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere;
Haste, haste! avert the impending doom,
Fall prostrate! ’t is the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces, till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath passed,
Far bearing o’er the sandy wave
The viewless Angel of the grave.
The wanderers e’en 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.
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 colonnade,—
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,
A sunbeam on 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;
And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendent 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! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless,
With life’s best balm,—forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.
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 track divine,
The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine!—
Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu!
Again your lonely march pursue,
While airs of night are freshly blowing,
And heavens with softer beauty glowing.
’T is 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 watchfires 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,
O 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 spirits, 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
Tingeing the mists that load the air;
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame,
The approaching hurricane proclaim
’T is 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 on,
The landmarks of the plain are gone;
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced,
Of those who trod the burning 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 low their nameless relics sleep,
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread,
Nor know his steps are on the dead.