Sonnets from the Crimea

Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows?

Alone, My Polish Rose, I die, like you.

Beside your grave a while pray let me rest
With other wanderers at some grief's behest.

The tongue of Poland by your grave rings true.
High-hearted, now a young boy past it goes,

Of you it is he sings, My Polish Rose.

THE GRAVES OF THE HAREM

They sleep well here whom Allah loved and kept

And treasured in his vineyard fair and fine,
Most lustrous of the Orient pearls that shine,

Which youth found where the waves of passion swept.
Here, where in peace perpetual they have slept,

A turban beckons where the roses twine,
A banner flutters out in silken line,

And sometimes here a Giaour's name is kept.

Oh! roses of this paradise of old,

The eyes that loved not Allah saw you not,
Nor arms that prayed not eastward could enfold!

But now a Christian treads this hallowed sp