Was round me while in chains I pined,
By all forgotten, save by one
Dread presence—which I could not shun.
—How oft, when o’er the silent waste
Nor path nor landmark might be traced,
When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray,
The Wanderers of the Desert lay,
And stars, as o’er an ocean shone,
Vigil I kept—but not alone!
That form, that image, from the dead,