Yet all the mountains answer'd not,
And yet there came no cooling breeze,
Nor soothing sense of windy trees.
At last old Morgan, looking through
His shaded fingers, let them go,
And let his load fall down as dead.
He groan'd, he clutch'd his beard of snow
As was his wont, then bowing low,
Took up his life, and moaning said,
"Lord Christ! 'tis the mirage, and we