the gold-seeker.
173
Slowly sinks the sun,—night's shadows round the lonely pilgrim spread,—
While the rising night-winds gently lift the light scarf from his head,
And the soft and pitying moonbeams glance upon his forehead fair,
And the dews of night, descending, damp the dark locks of his hair;
Cool upon his brow they 're falling, but its fever-throbs are o'er,
And his parched lips they moisten, but those lips shall thirst no more!
While the rising night-winds gently lift the light scarf from his head,
And the soft and pitying moonbeams glance upon his forehead fair,
And the dews of night, descending, damp the dark locks of his hair;
Cool upon his brow they 're falling, but its fever-throbs are o'er,
And his parched lips they moisten, but those lips shall thirst no more!
His companions come at morning, come to look on his dead face,
Come to lay him to his grave-rest, in that dreary, desert place,
Where the tropic sun glares fiercely on the wild, unsheltered plain,
And where pour, from darkest heavens, rushing floods of winter rain,—
Where shall come the wild-bird's screaming, and the whirlwind's sounding sweep,
And the tramp of herded bisons shall go thundering o'er his sleep.
Come to lay him to his grave-rest, in that dreary, desert place,
Where the tropic sun glares fiercely on the wild, unsheltered plain,
And where pour, from darkest heavens, rushing floods of winter rain,—
Where shall come the wild-bird's screaming, and the whirlwind's sounding sweep,
And the tramp of herded bisons shall go thundering o'er his sleep.
