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“Lo here with us the seat,” they cry,
Far from his palace door.”
JOURNEYING IN THE DESERT.
As long as you are journeying in the interior of the desert you have no particular point to make for as your resting-place. The endless sands yielding nothing but small stunted shrubs-even these fail after the first two or three days, and from that time you pass over broad plains-you pass over newly-reared hills--you pass through valleys that the storm of the last week has dug; and the hills and the valleys are sand, sand, sand, still sand, and only sand, and sand, and sand again. The earth is so samely, that your eyes turn towards heaven-towards heaven, I mean, in the sense of sky. You look to the sun, for he is your taskmaster, and by him you
know the measure of the work that you have done, and the measure of the work that remains for you to do; he comes when you strike your tent in the early morning, and then, for the first hour of the day, as you move forward on your camel, he stands at your near side, and makes you know that the whole day's toil is before you—then for a while, and for a long while, you see him no more—for you are veiled and shrouded, and dare not look upon the greatness of his glory; but you know where he strides over head by the touch of his flaming sword. No words are spoken; but your Arabs moan, your camels sigh, your skin glows, your shoulders ache; and for sights you see the pattern and the web of the silk that veils your eyes, and the glare of the outer light. Time labours on-your skin glows, and your shoulders ache, your Arabs moan, your camels sigh, and you see the same pattern in the silk, and the same glare of light beyond; but conquering Time marches on, and byand-by the descending sun has compassed the heaven, and now softly touches your right arm, and throws your lank shadow over the sand, right along on the way for Persia ; then again you look upon his face, fohis power is all veiled in his beauty, and the redness of flames has become the redness of roses—the fair wavy cloud that fled in the morning now comes to his sight once more—comes blushing, yet still comes on -comes burning with blushes, yet hastens, and clings to his side.
'Tis over; and her lovely cheek is now
'Tis over; and the rite,
When on her knees she fell, Entering the solemn place of consecration, And from the latticed gallery came a chant Of psalms, most saint-like, most angelical, Verse after verse sung out how holily,
The strain returning, and still, still returning,
Like a dream the whole is filed;
For ever! In thy gentle bosom sleep
But thou canst not yet reflect
All in turn