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Article THE WELL OF THE DESERT. Page 1 of 3 →
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The Well Of The Desert.
THE WELL OF THE DESERT .
The adventure upon which the following sketch is foun ed , actually occurred to a young French Brother and Officer while serving in Egypt . THE MASON IN ITALY .
When Gallia ' s chief marshall'd his steel-clad bands By the lone pyramids on Egypt ' s sands , " Frenchmen I" he cried , " upon your deeds look down Three thousand years of glory and renown . ' Survey your ranks—think of your former fame , Nor stain the wreath that consecrates your name : A hero ' s triumph , or a noble grave ;
Death or the laurel—symbol for the brave . " Napoleon knew—and few have known so well—To touch the soldier ' s heart—to breathe the spell That wakens courage in the battle hour , Nerves the young arm with the enthusiast ' s power , Dreams ill defeat but of victory still , And gives the countless breasts one soul—one will .
" They come , " he cried , as the Egyptian host llush'd o ' er the plain their headlong valour lost ; " Charge , Frenchmen , charge 1 couch well the deadly lance , Strike for your homes ; strike for the name of France !" 'Twere foreign to my purpose here to tell , How the rash foe in the encounter fell ; Onward the victors swept , a human flood , Tracking their desert-path with Arab blood . Then the pale crescent veil'd her silver li ght , And sat beneath the eagle ' s holder flight . -
Then the fierce soldier waved the blood-stain'd swor 1 , And prostrate Egypt own'dher Gallic lord . The battle o ' er—at morning ' s earliest dawn , On his light Arab charger gaily borne , Attended only by a swarthy guitle , Sworn to conduct him to the Nilus side , The young Demourville sought the desert plain , d
Cross'but with toil and long-enduring pain—A sea of sand , where arid billows rise , And the hot simoom sweeps the cloudless skies ; Where the mirage , curse of the burning waste , Allures the traveller ' s steps , but flies his taste ; Draws him still trusting on—still from him flies—Till , lost , bewilder d , the lone wanderer dies .
Long had they journey'd ; the bright eastern sun , In the mid arch of day resplendent hung ; When , lo ! before their aching , sand-scorch'd eyes The graceful palm trees' welcome shadows rise . Nature ' s best gift amid the desert wild , A mother ' s care for her lost , wandering child . The weary soldier blest the cooling shade , — His frugal , rude repast was quickly made ; By his worn , panting steed he sunk to rest , His toil forgot , in grateful slumber blest .
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
The Well Of The Desert.
THE WELL OF THE DESERT .
The adventure upon which the following sketch is foun ed , actually occurred to a young French Brother and Officer while serving in Egypt . THE MASON IN ITALY .
When Gallia ' s chief marshall'd his steel-clad bands By the lone pyramids on Egypt ' s sands , " Frenchmen I" he cried , " upon your deeds look down Three thousand years of glory and renown . ' Survey your ranks—think of your former fame , Nor stain the wreath that consecrates your name : A hero ' s triumph , or a noble grave ;
Death or the laurel—symbol for the brave . " Napoleon knew—and few have known so well—To touch the soldier ' s heart—to breathe the spell That wakens courage in the battle hour , Nerves the young arm with the enthusiast ' s power , Dreams ill defeat but of victory still , And gives the countless breasts one soul—one will .
" They come , " he cried , as the Egyptian host llush'd o ' er the plain their headlong valour lost ; " Charge , Frenchmen , charge 1 couch well the deadly lance , Strike for your homes ; strike for the name of France !" 'Twere foreign to my purpose here to tell , How the rash foe in the encounter fell ; Onward the victors swept , a human flood , Tracking their desert-path with Arab blood . Then the pale crescent veil'd her silver li ght , And sat beneath the eagle ' s holder flight . -
Then the fierce soldier waved the blood-stain'd swor 1 , And prostrate Egypt own'dher Gallic lord . The battle o ' er—at morning ' s earliest dawn , On his light Arab charger gaily borne , Attended only by a swarthy guitle , Sworn to conduct him to the Nilus side , The young Demourville sought the desert plain , d
Cross'but with toil and long-enduring pain—A sea of sand , where arid billows rise , And the hot simoom sweeps the cloudless skies ; Where the mirage , curse of the burning waste , Allures the traveller ' s steps , but flies his taste ; Draws him still trusting on—still from him flies—Till , lost , bewilder d , the lone wanderer dies .
Long had they journey'd ; the bright eastern sun , In the mid arch of day resplendent hung ; When , lo ! before their aching , sand-scorch'd eyes The graceful palm trees' welcome shadows rise . Nature ' s best gift amid the desert wild , A mother ' s care for her lost , wandering child . The weary soldier blest the cooling shade , — His frugal , rude repast was quickly made ; By his worn , panting steed he sunk to rest , His toil forgot , in grateful slumber blest .