That withers, as with flame, the grass— O! terrible—ten thousand strong! Meanwhile, the dusty teams are stopt, The wagon tongues are deftly dropt, And drivers by their oxen stand And soothe them with soft speech and hand. And yet, with horns tossed free, and eyes Ablaze with purple depths of ire, A thousand servile years expire And flashes of old nature rise, As if a sudden spirit woke That would not brook the chain and yoke,— And then, the stormy pageant past, They bow their callous necks at last, And with a heavy stride and slow, The dreams of liberty forego. Alas! it is a land of shades. And mystic visions, swift alarms; The fretted spirit flames and fades With clanging calls to prayers or arms. * * * The day is dying, and the sun Hangs like a jewel rich with fire In the deep west of your desire. And o’er the wide plateau is rolled A surge of crinkled sunset gold, Bordered with shadows gray and dun. A horseman with loose, waving hair, Black as the blackest of despair, Wheels into sight and gives you heed, And on its haunches reins his steed, All quivering like a river reed, And sits him like a statue there,— Transfigured in the sunset sea— A bronze, bare sphynx of mystery! A moment thus, in wonder lost, His eagle plumes all backward tossed, Then wheels again, as swift as wind, The wild hair floating free behind. And sunset’s crinkled surges pour Along an empty waste once more! But you, since that fantastic shade Across your desert path has played, Distrust the very ground you tread, And shiver with a nameless dread Till stars drop crimson, and the sky Is wan with heartless treachery. · · · · ·