COLD WATER.
The thirsty flowrets droop. The parching grass
Doth crisp beneath the foot, and the wan trees
Perish for lack of moisture. By the side
Of the dried rills, the herds despairing stand,
With tongue protruded. Summer's fiery heat
Exhaling, checks the thousand springs of life.
Marked ye yon cloud sail forth on angel-wing?
Heard ye the herald-drops, with gentle force
Stir the broad leaves?—and the protracted rain
Waking the streams to run their tuneful way?
Saw ye the flocks rejoice—and did ye fail
To thank the God of fountains?
See the hart
Pant for the water-brooks. The fervid sun
Of Asia glitters on his leafy lair,
As fearful of the lion's wrath, he hastes
With timid footstep though the whispering reeds,
Quick plunging 'mid the renovating stream
The copious draught inspires his bounding veins
With joyous vigour.
Patient o'er the sands,
The burden-bearer of the desert-clime,
The camel, toileth. Faint with deadly thirst
His writhing neck of bitter anguish speaks.
Lo!—an oasis, and a tree-girt well,
And moved by powerful instinct, on he speeds
With agonizing speed—to drink or die.
