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THE FLAMINGO.

[IN THE DESERT.]

Thin and pale the moon is shining
Where the Arab tents are spread;
But the cloudy sky before me,
And around the burning desert,
Both are red:
And where their hues are most like blood,
Mirrored in the sluggish flood,
Down the long, black neck of land,
I see the red Flamingo stand.
That bird accurst, I saw it first
On a wild and angry dawn;
I was wakened from my slumbers
By Zulcika's stifled screaming—
She was gone!

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Stolen by a turbaned horseman,
Mounted on a barb so black:
I saw her garments waving white,
And I followed day and night,
In the red Flamingo's track.
Three whole moons have I pursued it,
With a swift and noiseless tread;
Like a dreamer whom the demons
With a baleful lamp are leading
To the dead.
Happy are the dead! But I—
I can never, never die,
Until my hands are red.
But red they will be soon,
For I turn my back upon the moon,
And follow the bird that doubles its speed,
Eager to see the horseman bleed,
And dabble its beak, as I my hands,
In the blood that shall crimson the desert sands!