It is night, and a stillness profound
Folds the camp; Arabs stealthily creep
Here and there in the moonlight beyond,
With ears eagerly bent for a sound
From the garrison, watchful and weak;
O’er the tents welcome night‐breezes sweep,
Bringing balm unto brow and to cheek
Of men scorched by a pitiless sun
To a hue almost swarthy and deep
As the hue of the foe they would shun.