XXVIII.
That prayer perform'd, around the fire reclined
Beneath the leafy canopy they lay
Their limbs: the Indians soon to sleep resign'd;
And the good Father with that toilsome day
Fatigued, full fain to sleep,—if sleep he may,
Whom all tormenting insects there assail;
More to be dreaded these than beasts of prey
Against whom strength may cope, or skill prevail,
But art of man against these enemies must fail.
XXIX.
Patience itself that should the sovereign cure
For ills that touch ourselves alone, supply,
Lends little aid to one who must endure
This plague: the small tormentors fill the sky,
And swarm about their prey: there he must lie
And suffer while the hours of darkness wear;
At times he utters with a deep drawn sigh
Some name adored, in accents of despair
Breathed sorrowfully forth, half murmur and half prayer.
