Then gather, with a trembling hand
And tearful eye, the trodden sand,
Where the departing foot was set,
To wear it for an amulet ;
Praying it may he Allah's will
Their friends should meet no omen ill,
No slave deformed, nor men at strife,
Nor raven boding loss of life ;
Rather a warrior richly clad,
Or a young matron gay and glad,
Who her soft girdle will unbind,
And give it fluttering to the wind,
To insure for them a safe return.
And for herself a gift to earn.
Meanwhile, the human flood sweeps on
Through olive-groves, rough steeps adown,
Through viny vales, o'er sandy wastes,
Alternate, till at length it rests
Beneath the walls of old Zowan ;
There sleeps the weary caravan.