But the sealed fountain, in pulses strong,

      O'erflowed his silence, and burst in song.

              "Oh! the wine

              Of the vine

                Is a feeble thing;

              In the rattle

              Of battle

                The true grapes spring.

              "When on force

              Of the horse,

                The arm flung abroad

              Is sweeping,

              And reaping

                The harvest of God.

              "When the fear

              Of the spear

                Makes way for its blow;

              And the faithless

              Lie breathless

                The horse-hoofs below.

              "The wave-crest,

              Round the breast,

                Tosses sabres all red;

              But under,

              Its thunder

                Is dumb to the dead.

              "They drop

              From the top

                To the sear heap below;

              And deeper,

              Down steeper,

                The infidels go.

              "But bright

              Is the light

                On the true-hearted breaking;

              Rapturous faces,

              Bent for embraces,

                Wait on his waking.

              "And he hears

              In his ears

                The voice of the river,

              Like a maiden,

              Love-laden,

                Go wandering ever.

              "Oh! the wine

              Of the vine

                May lead to the gates;

              But the rattle

              Of battle

                Wakes the angel who waits.

              "To the lord

              Of the sword

                Open it must;

              The drinker,

              The thinker,

                Sits in the dust.

              "He dreams

              Of the gleams

                Of their garments of white:

              He misses

              Their kisses,

                The maidens of light.

              "They long

              For the strong,

                Who has burst through alarms,

              Up, by the labour

              Of stirrup and sabre,

                Up to their arms.

      "Oh! the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost;

      But the wine of the fight is the joy of a host."

      When Saad came home from the far pursuit,

      He sat him down, and an hour was mute.

      But at length he said: "Ah! wife, the fight

      Had been lost full sure, but an arm of might

      Sudden rose up on the crest of the war,

      With its sabre that circled in rainbows afar,

      Took up the battle, and drove it on—

      Enoch sure, or the good St. John.

      Wherever he leaped, like a lion he,

      The fight was thickest, or soon to be;

      Wherever he sprang, with his lion cry,

      The thick of the battle soon went by.

      With a headlong fear, the sinners fled;

      We followed—and passed them—for they were dead.

      But him who had saved us, we saw no more;

      He had gone, as he came, by a secret door;

      And strange to tell, in his holy force,

      He wore my armour, he rode my horse."

      The lady arose, with her noble pride,

      And she walked with Saad, side by side;

      As she led him, a moon that would not wane,

      Where Midjan counted the links of his chain!

      "I gave him thy horse, and thy armour to wear;

      If I did a wrong, I am here to bear."

      "Abu Midjan, the singer of love and of wine!

      The arm of the battle—it also was thine?

      Rise up, shake the fetters from off thy feet;

      For the lord of the battle, are fetters meet?

      Drink as thou wilt—till thou be hoar—

      Let Allah judge thee—I judge no more."

      Abu Midjan arose and flung aside

      The clanging fetters, and thus he cried:

      "If thou give me to God and his decrees,

      Nor purge my sin by the shame of these;

      I dare not do as I did before—

      In the name of Allah, I drink no more."