The Spectre Caravan

TWAS at midnight, in the Desert, where we rested on the ground;
There my Beddaweens were sleeping, and their steeds were stretched around;
In the farness lay the moonlight on the Mountains of the Nile,
And the camel-bones that strewed the sands for many an arid mile.

With my saddle for a pillow did I prop my weary head,
And my kaftan-cloth unfolded o'er my limbs was lightly spread,
While beside me, as the Kapitaun and watchman of my band,
Lay my Bazra sword and pistols twain a-shimmering on the sand.

And the stillness was unbroken, save at moments by a cry
From some stray belated vulture sailing blackly down the sky,
Or the snortings of a sleeping steed at waters fancy-seen,
Or the hurried warlike mutterings of some dreaming
Beddaween.

When, behold! — a sudden sandquake — and atween the earth and moon
Rose a mighty Host of Shadows, as from out some dim lagoon:
Then our coursers gasped with terror, and a thrill shook every man,
And the cry was, "Allah Akbar! — 'tis the Spectre-
Caravan!"

On they came, their hueless faces toward Mecca evermore;
On they came, long files of camels, and of women whom they bore,
Guides and merchants, youthful maidens, bearing pitchers in their hands,
And behind them troops of horsemen following, sumless as the sands!

More and more! the phantom-pageant overshadowed all the plains,
Yea, the ghastly camel-bones arose, and grew to camel-trains;
And the whirling column-clouds of sand to forms in dusky garbs,
Here, afoot as Hadjee pilgrims — there, as warriors on their barbs!

Whence we knew the Night was come when all whom
Death had sought and found
Long ago amid the sands whereon their bones yet bleach around,
Kise by legions from the darkness of their prisons low and lone,
And in dim procession march to kiss the Kaaba's Holy
Stone.

And yet more and more for ever! — still they swept in pomp along,
Till I asked me, Can the Desert hold so vast a muster-throng?

Lo! the Dead are here in myriads; the whole World of Hades waits,
As with eager wish to press beyond the Babelrnandel
Straits!

Then I spake, " Our steeds are frantic: To your saddles, every one!
Never quail before these Shadows! You are children of the Sun!
If their garments rustle past you, if their glances reach you here,
Cry BismillaJi! — and that mighty Name shall banish every fear.

"Courage, comrades! Even now the moon is waning far a-west,
Soon the welcome Dawn will mount the skies in gold and crimson vest,
And in thinnest air wilt melt away those phantom shapes forlorn,
When again upon your brows you feel the odour-winds of Morn!"