When Father Time swings round his scythe, <br /> Entomb me 'neath the bounteous vine, <br />So that its juices, red and blithe, <br /> May cheer these thirsty bones of mine. <br /> <br />"Elsewise with tears and bated breath <br /> Should I survey the life to be. <br />But oh! How should I hail the death <br /> That brings that--vinous grace to me!" <br /> <br />So sung the dauntless Saracen, <br /> Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains <br />That, curst of Allah, loathed of men, <br /> The faithless one shall die in chains. <br /> <br />But one vile Christian slave that lay <br /> A prisoner near that prisoner saith: <br />"God willing, I will plant some day <br /> A vine where liest thou in death." <br /> <br />Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave <br /> With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows; <br />Where rots the martyred Christian slave <br /> Allah, and only Allah, knows!<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/abu-midjan/
