Page:Livingstone in Africa.djvu/132

Help'd even more the Mistress of his soul,
His dark and awful Mistress, Africa.
But that inveterate foe, the dire disease,²²
Watching lynx-eyed for opportimity,
Found it, alas! when, with a dwindling life,
The old, but still young-hearted traveller
Would flounder, as in manhood's vigorous prime,
Through foul morasses, many hours a day.
The foe sprang on him; and he felt full well
Its gripe this time was mortal: then the flesh
Quail'd and rebell'd—let him but struggle home!
Homeward they hasten—life ebbing apace.
And first he rides; but soon they carry him.
So when they have arrived at Muilala,
He bows the head—"A hut where I may die!"

⁠Now all the mists of death pass over him:
Terrible pain, ill dreams; with longings vain
For one glimpse of a loving face afar.
It is the hour of mortal agony.
Watchman! will the terrible night soon pass?
Then through the darkness mounts a bitter cry;