"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes."
Thus heard one who shared the tent,
In the far-off Orient,
Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz--
Nobler never loved the stars
Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim
Dawn his courser neighed to him!

He said: "Let the sands be swarmed
With such thieves as I, and thou
Shalt at morning rise, unharmed,
Light as eyelash to the brow
Of thy camel, amber-eyed,
Ever munching either side,
Striding still, with nestled knees,
Through the midnight's oases.

"Who can rob thee an thou hast

One 's the pictur' of his Pa,
And the other of her Ma--
Jes the bossest pair o' babies 'at a mortal ever saw!
And we love 'em as the bees
Loves the blossoms of the trees,
A-ridin' and a-rompin' in the breeze!

One's got her Mammy's eyes--
Soft and blue as Apurl-skies--
With the same sort of a smile, like--Yes,
and mouth about her size,--
Dimples, too, in cheek and chin,
'At my lips jes wallers in,
A-goin' to work, er gittin' home agin.

And the other--Well, they say
That he's got his Daddy's way

The Love that speaks in word and kiss,
That dyes the cheek and fires the eye,
Through surface signs of shallow bliss
That, quickly born, may quickly die;
Sweet, sweet are these to man and woman;
Who thinks them poor is less than human.

But I do know a quavering tone,
And I do know lack-lustre eyes,
Behind the which, dumb and alone,
A stronger Love his labour plies:
He cannot sing or dance or toy--
He works and sighs for other's joy.

In gloom he tends the growth of food,
While others joy in sun and flowers:
None knows the passion of his mood

My love's unchanged--though time, alas!
Turns silver-gilt the golden mass
Of flowing hair, and pales, I wis,
The rose that deepened with that kiss--
The first--before our marriage was.

And though the fields of corn and grass,
So radiant then, as summers pass
Lose something of their look of bliss,
My love's unchanged.

Our tiny girl's a sturdy lass;
Our boy's shrill pipe descends to bass;
New friends appear, the old we miss;
My Love grows old ... in spite of this
My love's unchanged.

We are told of a beautiful land of love,
Of bright jeweled mansions in blue skies above;
Of mansions that glitter with diamonds and gold;
While air of sweet odors their fair walls enfold,
Of heavenly music, soft, thrilling, divine,
Fountains that sparkle, and bright suns that shine,
Birds of gay plumage with song fill the air,
Flowers all lovely and crowns with gems rare.

All this we are told and many things more,
Of Heaven's fair Jordan, an evergreen shore;
Its golden gates ever are standing ajar,
Where fall huge burdens we have carried so far;

I would tell thee of Stella, how she made glad the hours,
So oft calling mother with strewn wreaths and flowers,
Blue eyes fondly glancing, and gleefully dance,
While singing so gayly or skipping, perchance.

Then comes my son Ernest, an affectionate boy,
So true and so thoughtful, never aught but a joy,
E'er steady and happy, eyes earnest and clear;
His dear voice so merry, methinks I still hear.

I would say of Marie, that she is very fair,
With ways of a lady, and golden-waved hair;
She scolds and laughs sweetly, while people all tell,

Weep not for him who, in the battle dying,
Lives in the lays of those he sought to save;
Weep not for him who on the cold turf lying,
Finds in his native land a patriot's grave;
Weep not for him for whom the night wind, sighing,
Spreads o'er his bier the banner of the brave;
But, o'er the ashes of the dead hussar,
Shout to the thunder and the trump of war.

Go weep for her who, by her Love's side sighing,
Gives to the grave the form she loved so well;
And weep for her who meets no soft replying
To the sweet story she would die to tell;

Fare thee well, O Love of Woman!
Lip of Beauty, fare thee well!
Thy soft heart, divinely human,
Holds me by a magic spell.
All that grieves me now to perish
Is the loss of one bright eye,
And I still the vision cherish
While I lay me down to die.

At my headstone, kindly kneeling,
May I beg a votive tear?
Woman, with her pure appealing,
Is my angel at the bier.
Let me have but one such linger,
Praying Christ to help and save,
Let me have but one dear finger
Place a chaplet on my grave.

Though the soldier dies in dying,

As I stroll by the stream where you stray,
A beam is reflected afar,
Which seems, on the waters, a ray--
The ray from a luminous star.
What is it that sweetens my sight,
That lightens the leaf-burthened skies?
What is it, my Love, but the light,--
The light of your beautiful eyes?

As nearer and nearer I roam,
In the month of the rosy-mouthed June,
What is it that throws round your home
The mirage of the mystical moon?
What is it that softens my sight,
That mellows the marvellous skies?
What is it, my Love, but the light,--

I have loved you all my days,
Betsie Brown,
And I'll never cease to praise
Betsie Brown;
Still must I break love's tie,
To act a patriot part,
But I'll yield thee, as I die,
The last throb of my heart,
Betsie Brown!

For my country let me die,
Betsie Brown,
And never grieve nor cry,
Betsie Brown,
But lay me down to sleep
Where my country's tempests rave,
Where its mountain moss can creep
O'er an humble patriot's grave,
Betsie Brown!

And should my boy, with thee,