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Him half abashed the royal host withdrew
Into a room, the curtained doorway through.
Silent behind the folds of purple closed,

In marble life the statues stood disposed;
From the high ceiling, perfume breathing, hung
Lamps rich, pomegranate-shaped, and golden-swung.
Gorgeous the board with massive metal shone,
Gorgeous with gems arose in front a throne:
These through the Orient lattice saw the sun.
If gold there was, of meat and bread was none

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Save one small loaf; this stretched his hand and took
Ahab Mohammed, prayed to God, and broke:
One half his yearning nature bid him crave,
The other gladly to his guest he gave.
"I have no more to give," he cheerily said:
"With thee I share my only loaf of bread."
Humbly the stranger took the offered crumb
Yet ate not of it, standing meek and dumb;
Then lifts his eyes, - the wondering Ahab saw
His rags fall from him as the snow in thaw.
Resplendent, blue, those orbs upon him turned;
All Ahab's soul within him throbbed and burned.

"Ahab Mohammed," spoke the vision then,
"From this thou shalt be blessèd among men.

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Go forth — thy gates the Mede bewildered flees,

And Allah thank thy people on their knees.
He who gives somewhat does a worthy deed,
Of him the recording angel shall take heed.
But he that halves all that his house doth hold,

His deeds are more to God, yea more than finest gold."

HENRY ROOTES JACKSON

THE RED OLD HILLS OF GEORGIA

The red old hills of Georgia!
So bold and bare and bleak,
Their memory fills my spirit
With thoughts I cannot speak.
They have no robe of verdure,
Stript naked to the blast;
And yet of all the varied earth
I love them best at last.

The red old hills of Georgia!
My heart is on them now;
Where, fed from golden streamlets,
'Oconee's waters flow!

I love them with devotion,

Though washed so bleak and bare;

How can my spirit e'er forget

The warm hearts dwelling there?

I love them for the living,

The generous, kind, and gay;

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Gone from those hills unfed ?
There bravery and kindness
For aye go hand in hand,

Upon your washed and naked hills,

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My own, my native land!"

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The red old hills of Georgia !
I never can forget;

Amid life's joys and sorrows,

My heart is on them yet;And when my course is ended, When life her web has wove,

Oh! may I then, beneath those hills, Lie close to them I love!

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