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
On which his ancient eyry stands,
Towards east and west, o’er cinnamon bowers,
And o’er the desert’s arid sands!
He sees the red sirocco wheeling
Its sandy clouds along the waste,
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,
By storms that far beneath him rise!
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!
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!
These views the Phœnix, troubled never
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,
And bids his glorious pinion lighten
Above the thunder and the storm!