Abu midjan
When Father Time swings round his scythe,Entomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,So that its juices, red and blithe,May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.
"Elsewise with tears and bated breathShould I survey the life to be.But oh! How should I hail the deathThat brings that--vinous grace to me!"
So sung the dauntless Saracen,Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordainsThat, curst of Allah, loathed of men,The faithless one shall die in chains.
But one vile Christian slave that layA prisoner near that prisoner saith:"God willing, I will plant some dayA vine where liest thou in death."
Lo, over Abu Midjan's graveWith purpling fruit a vine-tree grows;Where rots the martyred Christian slaveAllah, and only Allah, knows!
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.