The dark look of his mother, and the seed The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode up No shelter in the wilderness, and on She kept her weary way, until the boy For water; but she could not give it him. For it was better than the close, hot breath Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know And, shrouding up her face, she went away, Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn'd: "God stay thee in thine agony, my boy! I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook And see death settle on my cradle joy. "I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, By the rich gush of water-sources playing, "Oh no! and when I watch'd by thee the while, And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream, And thought of the dark stream In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, How pray'd I that my father's land might be "And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee! And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press; And oh my last caress Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there |