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Translated by B. Taylor
WHEN over Niger’s banks is breaking | |
| Another century’s morning star, | |
| The new-born Phœnix, first awaking, | |
| Expands his purple pinions far! | |
| He gazes, from the mountain towers | 5 |
| On which his ancient eyry stands, | |
| Towards east and west, o’er cinnamon bowers, | |
| And o’er the desert’s arid sands! | |
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| He sees the red sirocco wheeling | |
| Its sandy clouds along the waste, | 10 |
| And streams through palmy valleys stealing, | |
| Where the plumed ostrich speeds in haste. | |
| There waves the Moorish flag of battle; | |
| There sound at night the jackal’s cries; | |
| There caravans are chased as cattle, | 15 |
| By storms that far beneath him rise! | |
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| Southward, he sees the Caffre rangers, | |
| In gathering hordes, for fight arrayed; | |
| Northward, the tents of hostile strangers | |
| Are pitched beneath the fig-tree’s shade! | 20 |
| There swords are red, where, far-extending, | |
| Their squadrons combat on the sand, | |
| And France’s battle-cries are blending | |
| With those of Abdel Kader’s band! | |
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| These views the Phœnix, troubled never | 25 |
| With War’s wild rage, or Party’s sway, | |
| But from his nest, with proud endeavor, | |
| Fans their polluting dust away! | |
| And still, where vales in sunshine brighten, | |
| He gathers spices round his form, | 30 |
| And bids his glorious pinion lighten | |
| Above the thunder and the storm! * * * * * | |
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