“ Hasten! * * * But what see I Through fleecy mists of dawn? Look ye afar! .Nay, timid maidens—there is naught to fear! Borne toward the sea from desert ’neath north star It seems to be an ancient palm comes near. When it has floated by, To Pyramids ’twill hie. But hold! No tree draws nigh!
" If I may believe mine eyesIt is the bark of Hermes, or the shellOf Isis, wafted gently by light breeze.But no : a skiff of reeds rides rippling swellAnd bears an infant slumbering in sweet ease.Wave-rocked beneath the skies,As peacefully it liesAs on breast whence it flies.
" It sleeps; to see its bed, Afloat, there on the restless river’s flow Could make one believe it was a white dove’s nest. To and fro, at the will of the winds that blow The cot comes down upon the water’s breast. A wet grave it has fled, For ’neath the infant’s head The gulf moves deep and dread.
“ He opes his eyes! O haste,Ye maids of Memphis! Look! Alas, he cries!What mother cruel could thus her child confideTo these rude waves? With arms outstretched he lies,A few frail reeds 'twixt him and threatening tide.Heartless was she who placedThee on this water-wasteBy death to be effaced!”