And with hot tearless eyes still hurried on,
Bearing the child girt by its cruel chain,
All thought save of her cherish'd burden gone,
Fearful alone lest other eyes should guess
The feeble thing her longing arms did press.

At last they saw the babe was weaker growing,
That soon the little spark of life must fade,
So, spite of all her prayers, and wild tears flowing,
Beside a spring the sleeping child they laid,
And bid her onward, heedless of her woe
But on the earth she fell, and would not go.

They raised her up, and bound her on a steed,
And so march'd onward on their weary way--
For there was none to help her in her need,
And thus they travell'd eastward all the day,
But when they rested, and on each bow'd head
Sleep heavy lay, the mother rose and fled.

And speeding swiftly with a lapwing's flight,
Backward she hurried to the little spring,
Led by a power that knoweth not the night,
But flies through darkness with unerring wing;
And so e'er morning shimmer'd in the East,
She clasp'd her dead babe to her panting breast.

At morn they miss'd her, and the women said,
"She seeks her babe beside the distant well,
There wilt thou find her, if she be not dead,