47
There too in crouds the villagers repair,
And while the cooling stream their temples lave,
From countless lips is breathed the grateful prayer,
Blessing the hand munificent that gave
To the parched waste the precious element,
Whose gushing waters all their lotas fill;
And many a graceful female form is bent,
Dipping the ghurrah in the crystal rill.
Oh! where the noon-tide sun so fiercely glows,
Scorching the desert with its sultry beam,
How bland, how welcome, is the soft repose,
Invited by the thickly shaded stream!
Beneath the boughs of some o'er-arching palm,
The mossy turf by weary limbs is prest,
And blest by slumbers most delicious balm,
The pilgrim sinks at once to blissful rest.
