With instant death. Patient of thirst and toil,
Son of the Desert! even the camel feels,
Shot through his withered heart, the fiery blast.
Or from the black-red ether bursting broad
Sallies the sudden whirlwind. Straight the sands,
Commov’d around, in gathering eddies play;
Nearer and nearer still they darkening come;
Till, with the general all-involving storm
Swept up, the whole continuous wilds arise;
And by their noon-day fount dejected thrown,