Let us fly from the burning desert forth,
For an hour to the cool and showery North !
From the jackal's cry, from the lion's roar,
To the billows that break on a troubled shore —
Hear the scream of the sea-mew wild, instead
Of the vulture's flap o'er the carcass dead —
Leave the sandy couch, where the captive sleeps,
For the knoll where his watch the father keeps !
There still the patient father stands
Where first we marked him, on the down,
And of each passing sail demands
If it bear tidings of his son.