Up and march! the timbrel's sound

Wakes the slumbering camp around;

Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone,

Armed sleeper, up, and on!

Long and weary is our way

O'er the burning sands to-day;

But to pilgrim's homeward feet

Even the desert's path is sweet.

When we lie at dead of night,

Looking up to heaven's light,

Hearing but the watchmans tone

Faintly chanting "God is one,"[24]

Oh what thoughts then o'er us come

Of our distant village home,

Where that chant when evening sets

Sounds from all the minarets.

Cheer thee!—soon shall signal lights,

Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights,

Kindling quick from man to man,

Hail our coming caravan:[25]

Think what bliss that hour will be!

Looks of home again to see,

And our names again to hear

Murmured out by voices dear.

* * * * *

So past the desert dream away,

Fleeting as his who heard this lay,

Nor long the pause between, nor moved

   The spell-bound audience from that spot;

While still as usual Fancy roved

   On to the joy that yet was not;—

Fancy who hath no present home,

But builds her bower in scenes to come,

Walking for ever in a light

That flows from regions out of sight.

But see by gradual dawn descried

   A mountain realm-rugged as e'er

   Upraised to heaven its summits bare,

Or told to earth with frown of pride

   That Freedom's falcon nest was there,

Too high for hand of lord or king

To hood her brow, or chain her wing.

'Tis Maina's land—her ancient hills,

The abode of nymphs—her countless rills

And torrents in their downward dash

   Shining like silver thro' the shade

Of the sea-pine and flowering ash—

   All with a truth so fresh portrayed

As wants but touch of life to be

A world of warm reality.

And now light bounding forth a band

   Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance—

Nymphs with their lovers hand in hand

Linked in the Ariadne dance;

And while, apart from that gay throng,

A minstrel youth in varied song

Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills

Of these wild children of the hills,

The rest by turns or fierce or gay

As war or sport inspires the lay

Follow each change that wakes the strings

And act what thus the lyrist sings:—