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Tuneless and dull the loose lyre thrums Ill-plucked by fingers strange to skill That change and change the fever'd chords, But still no inspiration comes Though priest and pundit labor still. Lust-urged the clamoring clans denounce Whate'er their sires agreed was good, And swift on faith and fair return With lies the feud-leaders pounce Lest Truth deprive them of their food.
Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal, And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews, And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal, And all their fragrance on the air diffuse. Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns; O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send, That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.
"Then I remember'd how I went, In Joppa, through the public street, One morn when the sirocco spent Its storm of dust with burning heat; "And in the street a leper sate, Shivering with fever, naked, old; Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, The hot wind fever'd him five-fold. "He gazed upon me as I pass'd, And murmur'd: Help me, or I die!
"Yet not such blush, as mounts when health would show, All the heart's hue in that delightful glow; But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care, That for a burning moment fever'd there; And the wild sparkle of her eye seemd caught From high, and lighten'd with electric thought; Though its black orb these long low lashes fringe, Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge."
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