Though unaware of the subtle danger
Of buried learning, of civilisation,
He feels himself on his guard—a stranger
With Ignorance as his true Salvation.
Unknown to him beneath the extent
Of ashen sand, old Gods lie hidden
With frozen gesture, ears intent
On sounds forgotten and forbidden.
—For muttering of muted bell
Swells music from the nightingales
Whose crystal gurglings excel
The singing streams that formed these vales
So fruitfully luxuriant still
To eyes closed like a curving sword
—Though now no sound save droning thrill
Of shifting sand is ever heard.
Yet of an influence here felt
Tradition tells the Bedouin.
Into grey sand the mirages melt.
Spell the Arab's road to ruin.
On through the dusk he hears his name
Called, then repeated—seek he must
That voice which calls, like wealth or fame
Only to lead from dust to dust;
Or death may come through the burning night
With the drumming of a multitude,
For the Devil revels in the sight
Of death in the desert solitude.
Though the camel can kneel, he never prays
Careless if God or Devil is near,
Stoutly he bears his burden of days
With Seven Stomachs—and no fear.
Yet Infant Samuel in the Old Priest's house
When darkness drowned him with its shadowy torrent
Felt fear at hearing his own name (who knows
But that he changed it after—by Royal Warrant?)
Mrs. Freudenthal, irate,
Decides to diet, to get thin.
Everyone must deprecate
Decay of manners. With no chin