Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERT, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Call it not loneliness, to dwell Last Line: Nor know his steps are on the dead. Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea Subject(s): Caravans; Deserts; Food & Eating | ||||||||
CALL it not loneliness, to dwell 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! 'Tis 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's may dare, No insect bide the scorching air; The ostrich, though of sun-born race, Seeks a more sheltered dwellingplace; 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. Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high, 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! tis 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. It came -- 'tis vanished -- but hath left 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. 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 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 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! 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. 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 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. -- '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 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 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 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WAITRESSING IN THE ROOM WITH A THOUSAND MOONS by MATTHEA HARVEY CANDIED YAMS' by TERRANCE HAYES DINNER OF HERBS by LOUISE MOREY BOWMAN THE BANQUET SONG by KENNETH KOCH SPLITTING AN ORDER by TED KOOSER A DIRGE (1) by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS |
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