 | Idylls and Lyrics of The Nile |  |
17
VIII DESERTED BY THE CARAVAN
‘God! He is one God!’ so I testify,
‘Muhammad His apostle, he alone!’
I, ready in this wilderness to die
Forsaken and fordone!
‘Muhammad His apostle, he alone!’
I, ready in this wilderness to die
Forsaken and fordone!
I scarce had thought when I my turban wound,
With its long yards of gauzy cotton-cloud,
That of my head's uncovering would be found
So soon my body's shroud.
With its long yards of gauzy cotton-cloud,
That of my head's uncovering would be found
So soon my body's shroud.
I little dreamed, when first our pilgrim-band
Went forth with boom of cannon, strong and brave,
That for these weary limbs my fainting hand
Would scoop a desert-grave.
Went forth with boom of cannon, strong and brave,
That for these weary limbs my fainting hand
Would scoop a desert-grave.
Yet, tho' my tongue unto my mouth doth cleave,
And tho' my last ablution be of dust
For lack of sprinkled water—I believe,
In Allah is my trust.
And tho' my last ablution be of dust
For lack of sprinkled water—I believe,
In Allah is my trust.
18
For I have seen the strange light in the sky
That leaps, unwavering, o'er the Prophet's tomb;
Have known the secrets of our faith, that lie
Hid in the Kȧȧba's womb;
That leaps, unwavering, o'er the Prophet's tomb;
Have known the secrets of our faith, that lie
Hid in the Kȧȧba's womb;
Have wandered round the cloistered colonnade
Of El Medîneh only pilgrims know;
Have climbed the Holy Hill, and duly paid
My sacrificial vow.
Of El Medîneh only pilgrims know;
Have climbed the Holy Hill, and duly paid
My sacrificial vow.
Wherefore, forsaken of the Caravan,
No hope of tears, no mourners to attend,
The vultures' wings above, a dying man,
I still can call Death friend.
No hope of tears, no mourners to attend,
The vultures' wings above, a dying man,
I still can call Death friend.
For what is Life but pilgrimage, and Death
The one sure rest for feet too tired to live;
To God the Pitiful, Who gave me breath,
My breath again I give.
The one sure rest for feet too tired to live;
To God the Pitiful, Who gave me breath,
My breath again I give.
Self-shrouded, in his self-made grave he lay,
A strong wind rose and covered him with sand;
No weary pilgrim gladlier passed away
Into the Peaceful Land.
A strong wind rose and covered him with sand;
No weary pilgrim gladlier passed away
Into the Peaceful Land.
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