17
In crouds his early friends repair
To the chabouta's esplanade,
Her graceful ghurrah filling there,
Stoops to the brink his dark-eyed maid.
They heed him not—no fond farewells
Attest their grief, no tears are shed,
No sigh the heart's deep anguish tells;
He to the living world is dead.
One pang has shot across his breast—
One human pang—but it is gone,
And tranquilly he sinks to rest,
As the eternal wave flows on.
His eye the blushing wreath has caught
Which floats along the sacred wave,
And to his parting soul has brought
Hopes of bright lands beyond the grave.
