But he, the archer of the wilderness,
Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade
His tents are scatter’d, and his camels rest;
And therefore is he sad!
Seb. Thou must not pine
With that sick yearning of th’ impatient heart,
Which makes the exile’s life one fever’d dream
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away,
And faces wearing the familiar hues
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known