Now for the desert!'
CHAPTER II.
_The Slaying of an Ishmaelite_
SPEED, fleetly speed, thou courser bold, and track the desert's
trackless way. Beneath thee is the boundless earth, above thee is the
boundless heaven, an iron soil and brazen sky. Speed, swiftly speed,
thou courser bold, and track the desert's trackless way. Ah! dost thou
deem these salty plains[6] lead to thy Yemen's happy groves, and
dost thou scent on the hot breeze the spicy breath of Araby? A sweet
delusion, noble steed, for this briny wilderness leads not to the happy
groves of Yemen, and the breath thou scentest on the coming breeze is
not the spicy breath of Araby.
The day has died, the stars have risen, with all the splendour of a
desert sky, and now the Night descending brings solace on her dewy wings
to the fainting form and pallid cheek of the youthful Hebrew Prince.
Still the courser onward rushes, still his mighty heart supports him.
Season and space, the glowing soil, the burning ray, yield to the
tempest of his frame, the thunder of his nerves, and lightning of his
veins.
Food or water they have none. No genial fount, no graceful tree, rise
with their pleasant company. Never a beast or bird is there, in that
hoary desert bare.
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