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118

WOLFE OF THE KNOLL.

The Arab's song is hushed ; no sound
Breaketh the awful stillness round,
Save the slow camel's drowsy tread
Across the plain so dry and dead,
And the sand's rustle, falling back
As the foot leaves the indented track.
There is no shade in earth or sky,
On which to rest the aching eye.
On every side a fiery glare,
A quivering glimmer in the air,
As if even air would waste away
In that fierce, endless noontide ray !
The glowing sands are heavenward whirled
In lofty columns tinged with flame,
As if from out the kindling world
The smoke of its last burning came !
Poor Melleff, late of strength so high,
Now child-weak, faints as death were nigh.
But see, across his languid face
A sudden flush of rapture pass !