Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white,
O’er the glossy leaves in its young delight,
And bowing his locks to the waters clear—
Alas! he dreamt not that fate was near.
His mother look’d from her tent the while,
O’er heaven and earth with a quiet smile:
She, on her way unto Mecca’s fane,
Had stay’d the march of her pilgrim train,
Calmly to linger a few brief hours
In the Bramin city’s glorious bowers;