His companions round him gathered, with kind word and pitying look,
As in fever-thirst he panted, like “the hart for the water brook;”
While their last cool drops outpouring on his brow and parched lips,
Sorrowed they to mark his glances growing dim with death’s eclipse.
Turning then, and onward passing, left they there the dying man,
For a weary way to westward still the promised river ran.
One there was, a comrade faithful, who the longest lingered there,
While he wrung his hand in parting, bidding him not yet despair;
For they would return at morning, from the river banks, he said —
And a silken scarf unfolding, laid it o’er the sufferer’s head —