That scorched the evening air,
And bird and brooklet wailed to him
In accents of despair.
“The soothing breeze, that thro’ the trees
Whispered like angel’s call,
Fell vainly now on his burning brow
As dews on deserts fall.
“And one sweet child its tiny hand
Reached forth his hand to clasp,
But he shrank away from the innocent touch