O WHEN the desert blossomed like a mystic silver rose,
And the moon shone on the palace, deep guarded to the gate,
And softly touched the lowly homes fast barred against their foes,
And lit the faces hewn of stone, that seemed to watch and wait–

There came a cry–a rending cry–upon the quivering air,
The sudden wild lamenting of a nation in its pain,
For the first-born sons of Egypt, the young, the strong, the fair,
Had fallen into dreamless sleep–and would not wake again.

And within the palace tower the little prince slept well,
His head upon his mother's heart, that knew no more alarms;
For at the midnight hour–O most sweet and strange to tell–
She too slept deeply as the child close folded in her arms.

Hard through the city rode the king, unarmed, unhelmeted,
Toward the land he loaned his bondsmen, the country kept in peace;
He swayed upon his saddle, and he looked as looked the dead–
The people stared and wondered though their weeping did not cease.
On did he ride to Goshen, and he called 'Arise! Arise!
Thou leader of the Israelites, 'tis I who bid you go!
Take thou these people hence, before the sun hath lit the skies,–
Get thee beyond the border of this land of death and woe!'

Across the plains of Egypt through the shadows of the night
Came the sound as of an army moving onward steadily.
And their leader read his way by the stars' eternal light
While all the legions followed on their journey to the sea.
The moon that shineth overhead once saw these mysteries–
And then the world was young, that hath these many years been old;
If Egypt drank her bitter cup down even to the lees
Who careth now? 'Tis but an ancient tale that hath been told.

Yet still we hear the footsteps–as he goeth to and fro–
Of Azrael, the Angel, that the Lord God sent below,
To Egypt–long ago.