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