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This was the doom for a Moslem found With foot profane on their holy ground, This was for sullying the pure waves free Unto them alone—'twas their God's decree.

A change came o'er his wandering look— The mother shriek'd not then, nor shook: Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood, Rending her mantle to staunch its flood; But it rush'd like a river which none may stay, Bearing a flower to the deep away. That which our love to the earth would chain, Fearfully striving with Heaven in vain, That which fades from us, while yet we hold, Clasp'd to our bosoms, its mortal mould, Was fleeting before her, afar and fast; One moment—the soul from the face had pass'd!

Are there no words for that common wo? —Ask of the thousands, its depth that know!