The dark-eyed ancient tribe that never rests
Took up the age-old journey yesterday,
The young on the women's hacks, and -- should they cry
-- Treasure awaits them at the hanging breasts.

On foot, the men, whose shouldered weapons gleam,
Trudge by the wagons where their families lie.
Their gaze is heavy as they scan the sky
With nameless shadows of a distant dream.

The cricket, watching from its sandy bower,
Greets their approach with loudest eloquence;
Cybele makes earth greener for their sake;

The rock becomes a spring, the deserts flower
Before these wanderers, as they march to take
The constant empire of the unknown hence.