SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought. How many weary centuries has it been About those deserts blown! How many strange vicissitudes has seen, How many histories known! Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite Trampled and passed it o'er, When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight His favorite son they bore. Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth Held close in her caress, Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith Illumed the wilderness; Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms And singing slow their old Armenian psalms Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, And resolute in heart! These have passed over it, or may have passed! And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; Before my dreamy eye Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, And, borne aloft by the sustaining blast, Dilates into a column high and vast, A form of fear and dread. |