Though not a shadow, save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown.
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide,
Reflects the date-tree on its side—