MASHDUD ON THE MONKS OF KHABBET[18]

Tenants of yon hallow'd fane!

Let me your devotions share, There increasing raptures reign-- None are ever sober there.

Crowded gardens, festive bowers Ne'er shall claim a thought of mine; You can give in Khabbet's towers-- Purer joys and brighter wine.

Tho' your pallid faces prove How you nightly vigils keep, 'Tis but that you ever love Flowing goblets more than sleep.

Tho' your eye-b.a.l.l.s dim and sunk Stream in penitential guise, 'Tis but that the wine you've drunk Bubbles over from your eyes.

[18] The three following songs were written by Mashdud, Rakeek, and Rais, three of the most celebrated improvisators in Bagdad, at an entertainment given by Abou Isy.

RAKEEK TO HIS FEMALE COMPANIONS

Tho' the peevish tongues upbraid, Tho' the brows of wisdom scowl, Fair ones here on roses laid, Careless will we quaff the bowl.

Let the cup, with nectar crown'd, Thro' the grove its beams display, It can shed a l.u.s.tre round, Brighter than the torch of day.

Let it pa.s.s from hand to hand, Circling still with ceaseless flight, Till the streaks of gray expand O'er the fleeting robe of night.

As night flits, she does but cry, "Seize the moments that remain"-- Thus our joys with yours shall vie, Tenants of yon hallow'd fane!

DIALOGUE BY RAIS

_Rais_:

Maid of sorrow, tell us why Sad and drooping hangs thy head?

Is it grief that bids thee sigh?

Is it sleep that flies thy bed?

_Lady_:

Ah! I mourn no fancied wound, Pangs too true this heart have wrung, Since the snakes which curl around Selim's brows my bosom stung.

Destin'd now to keener woes, I must see the youth depart, He must go, and as he goes Rend at once my bursting heart.

Slumber may desert my bed, Tis not slumber's charms I seek-- 'Tis the robe of beauty spread O'er my Selim's rosy cheek.

TO A LADY WEEPING[19]

When I beheld thy blue eyes shine Thro' the bright drop that pity drew, I saw beneath those tears of thine A blue-ey'd violet bath'd in dew.

The violet ever scents the gale, Its hues adorn the fairest wreath, But sweetest thro' a dewy veil Its colors glow, its odors breathe.

And thus thy charms in brightness rise-- When wit and pleasure round thee play, When mirth sits smiling in thine eyes, Who but admires their sprightly ray?

But when thro' pity's flood they gleam, Who but must love their soften'd beam?

_Ebn Alrumi_.

[19] Ebn Alrumi is reckoned by the Arabian writers as one of the most excellent of all their poets. He was by birth a Syrian, and pa.s.sed the greatest part of his time at Emessa, where he died A.H. 283.

ON A VALETUDINARIAN

So careful is Isa, and anxious to last, So afraid of himself is he grown, He swears thro' two nostrils the breath goes too fast, And he's trying to breathe thro' but one.

_Ebn Alrumi_.

ON A MISER

"Hang her, a thoughtless, wasteful fool, She scatters corn where'er she goes"-- Quoth Ha.s.san, angry at his mule, That dropt a dinner to the crows.

_Ebn Alrumi_.

TO Ca.s.sIM OBIO ALLAH[20]

Poor Ca.s.sim! thou art doom'd to mourn By destiny's decree; Whatever happens it must turn To misery for thee.

Two sons hadst thou, the one thy pride, The other was thy pest; Ah, why did cruel death decide To s.n.a.t.c.h away the best?

No wonder thou shouldst droop with woe, Of such a child bereft; But now thy tears must doubly flow, For, ah! the other's left.

_Aly Ben Ahmed Ben Mansour_.

[20] Aly Ben Ahmed distinguished himself in prose as well as poetry, and an historical work of considerable reputation, of which he was the author, is still extant. But he princ.i.p.ally excelled in satire, and so fond was he of indulging this dangerous talent that no one escaped his lash; if he could only bring out a sarcasm, it was matter of indifference to him whether an enemy or a brother smarted under its severity. He died at Bagdad A.H. 302.

A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY[21]

When born, in tears we saw thee drown'd, While thine a.s.sembled friends around, With smiles their joy confest; So live, that at thy parting hour, They may the flood of sorrow pour, And thou in smiles be drest!

[21] The thought contained in these lines, appears so natural and so obvious, that one wonders it did not occur to all who have attempted to write upon a birthday or a death.

TO A CAT

Poor Puss is gone! 'Tis fate's decree-- Yet I must still her loss deplore, For dearer than a child was she, And ne'er shall I behold her more.

With many a sad presaging tear This morn I saw her steal away, While she went on without a fear Except that she should miss her prey.

I saw her to the dove-house climb, With cautious feet and slow she stept Resolv'd to balance loss of time By eating faster than she crept.