She reaches the central moon-lighted plain, That spreadeth around all bare and wide; Meanwhile, adown her spotted side The dusky blood-gouts rush like rain-- And her woeful eyeballs, how they stare On the void of air! Yet on she flies--on, on; for her there is no retreating; And the desert can hear the heart of the doomed one beating! And lo! A stupendous column of sand, A sand-spout out of that sandy ocean, upcurls Behind the pair in eddies and whirls; Most like some colossal brand, Or wandering spirit of wrath On his blasted path, Or the dreadful pillar that lighted the warriors and women Of Israel's land through the wilderness of Yemen. And the vulture, scenting a coming carouse, Sails, hoarsely screaming, down the sky; The bloody hyena, be sure, is nigh,-- Fierce pillager, he, of the charnel-house! The panther, too, who strangles the Cape-Town sheep As they lie asleep, Athirst for his share in the slaughter, follows; While the gore of their victim spreads like a pool in the sandy hollows! She reels,--but the king of the brutes bestrides His tottering throne to the last: with might He plunges his terrible claws in the bright And delicate cushions of her sides. Yet hold!--fair play!--she rallies again! In vain, in vain! Her struggles but help to drain her life-blood faster; She staggers, gasps, and sinks at the feet of her slayer and master! She staggers, she falls; she shall struggle no more! The death-rattle slightly convulses her throat; Mayest look thy last on that mangled coat, Besprent with sand, and foam, and gore! Adieu! The orient glimmers afar, And the morning-star Anon will rise over Madagascar brightly.-- So rides the lion in Afric's deserts nightly. REST IN THE BELOVED (RUHE IN DER GELIEBTEN) From 'Lyrics and Ballads of Heine and Other German Poets.' Copyright 1892, by Frances Hellman. Reprinted by permission of G.P. Putnam's Sons, publishers, New York. Oh, here forever let me stay, love! Here let my resting-place e'er be; And both thy tender palms then lay, love, Upon my hot brow soothingly. Here at thy feet, before thee kneeling, In heavenly rapture let me rest, And close my eyes, bliss o'er me stealing, Within thine arms, upon thy breast. I'll open them but to the glances That from thine own in radiance fall; The look that my whole soul entrances, O thou who art my life, my all! I'll open them but at the flowing Of burning tears that upward swell, And joyously, without my knowing, From under drooping lashes well.