Dost shoot thy double head on high,}
Mount Horeb, and Mount Sinai;}
And when the weary traveller stands,
Alone amid the sterile sands,
Seeking for water, vain pursuit,
To quench his thirst, grown absolute,
Groaning, as fainter grows his hope,
For water!—water!—but a drop,
His ever burning thirst t' appease;
He through the sudden moonlight sees