68
"Weep not for me, loving father, but so thickly comes my
breath,
On my heart is such a pressure — it must be the hand of
death !
Ere I go, one boon I pray thee, for the love thou bearest me,
For the sake of blessed Mary, set thy Moorish captives free !
"There is one they call Abdallah, royal is his step and eye −
Once he was the lord of Tunis, thou hast marked his bearing
high,
And hast read in every gesture, he was Allah's slave, not
thine —
When I lie beside my mother, give him from my hand this
line."
And the sleep no sorrow breaketh then the lovely Ellen slept,
And the promise made her dying faithfully the father kept.
Soon the Arabs o'er the desert their fleet steeds are spur-
ring fast.
High the yellow sand-clouds tossing, like the Simoom's
smothering blast.
