’Neath midday heat, in Dagestána’s Vale,
With leaden ball in breast I lifeless lay;
From a deep wound smoke rose upon the gale,
And drop by drop my life-blood ebbed away.
Alone I lay upon the sandy slopes;
The craggy cliffs around me crowded steep;
The sunlight burned upon their yellow tops,
And burned on me who slept no mortal sleep.
A dream I dreamed, and saw in sparkling bowers
An evening feast in my home—far away—