Night. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat In the door and watched, for on a litter lay The father of his love. And he was sick To death; but daily he would rouse him up, And stare upon the light, and ever say, "On, let us journey"; but it came to pass That night, across their path a river ran, And they who served the father and the son Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made A fire, to scare away the savagery That roamed in that great forest, for their way Had led among the trees of God. The moon Shone on the river, like a silver road To lead them over; but when Japhet looked, He said, "We shall not cross it. I shall lay This well-belovéd head low in the leaves,-- Not on the farther side." From time to time, The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow With curling undulations, and would lay Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed, Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, When some red log would break and crumble down; And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared Little; and in the dark, that was not dark, But dimness of confused incertitude, Would move a-near all silently, and gaze And breathe, and shape itself, a manéd thing With eyes; and still he cared not, and the form Would falter, then recede, and melt again Into the farther shade. And Japhet said: "How long? The moon hath grown again in heaven, After her caving twice, since we did leave The threshold of our home; and now what 'vails That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, Hungry, and weary, all the day; by night Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up, While in the pale white ashes wading on We saw no stars?--what 'vails if afterward, Astonished with great silence, we did move Over the measureless, unknown desert mead; While all the day, in rents and crevices, Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, Drowsy; and in the night take fearsome shapes, And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn; Or there would wander up, when we were tired, Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, Withstanding us, and staring;--O! what 'vails That in the dread deep forest we have fought With following packs of wolves? These men of might, Even the giants, shall not hear the doom My father came to tell them of. Ah, me! If God indeed had sent him, would he lie (For he is stricken with a sore disease) Helpless outside their city?" Then he rose, And put aside the curtains of the tent, To look upon his father's face; and lo! The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat Beside the litter; and he set his eyes To see it, and saw not; but only marked Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, His father lay. Then he came forth again, Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire, And murmured, "Now it is the second time: