Sore was the famine throughout all the bounds
Of Israel, when Elijah, by command
Of God, journeyed to Cherith's failing brook.
No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale;
The withering herbage dies; among the palms
The shrivell'd leaves send to the summer gale
An autumn rustle; no sweet songster's lay
Is warbled from the branches; scarce is heard
The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around,
And trusts in God, and lays his silver'd head
Upon the flowerless bank; serene he sleeps,
Nor wakes till dawning: then with hands enclasp'd,
And heavenward face, and eye-lids closed, he prays
To Him who manna on the desert shower'd,
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush:
Entranced the man of God remains: till roused
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart,
He sees the ravens fearless by his side
Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food.