Unto the fourth-" Thy goods the thief may take;
But into Wisdom's house he can not break."
Unto the fifth-"Thy goods decrease the more
Thou givest; but use enlarges Wisdom's store."
Unto the sixth-" Wealth tempts to evil ways;
But the desire of Wisdom is God's praise."
Unto the seventh-"Divide thy wealth, each part
Becomes a pittance. Give with open heart
Thy wisdom, and each separate gift shall be
All that thou hast, yet not impoverish thee."
Unto the eighth-" Wealth can not keep itself;
But Wisdom is the steward even of pelf."
Unto the ninth-"The camels slowly bring
Thy goods; but Wisdom has the swallow's wing."
And lastly, when the tenth did question make,
These were the ready words which Ali spake-
"Wealth is a darkness which the soul should fear;
But Wisdom is the lamp that makes it clear."
Crimson with shame the questioners withdrew,
And they declared-"The Prophet's words were true;
The mouth of Ali is the golden door
When his friends to Ali bore
These words, he smiled and said: “And should they ask
The same until my dying day, the task
Were easy for the stream from Wisdom's well,
Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.”
THE ARAB TO THE PALM.
NEXT to thee, O fair gazelle!
O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;
Next to the fearless Nedjidee,
Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;
Next to ye both I love the Palm,
With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;
Next to ye both I love the Tree
Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three
With love, and silence, and mystery!
Our tribe is many, our poets vie
With any under the Arab sky;
Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.
The marble minarets that begem
Cairo's citadel-diadem
Are not so light as his slender stem.
He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance
As the Almehs lift their arms in dance,—
A slumberous motion, a passionate sign,
That works in the cells of the blood like wine.
Full of passion and sorrow is he,
Dreaming where the beloved may be.
And when the warm south-winds arise,
He breathes his longing in fervid sighs-
Quickening odours, kisses of balm,
That drop in the lap of his chosen Palm.
The sun may flame and the sands may stir,
But the breath of his passion reaches her.
O Tree of Love! by that love of thine,
Teach me how I shall soften mine!
Give me the secret of the sun,
Whereby the woo'd is ever won!
If I were a King, O stately Tree!
A likeness, glorious as might be,
In the court of my palace I'd build for thee!
With a shaft of silver, burnish'd bright,
And leaves of beryl and malachite :
With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze,
And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase :
And there the poets, in thy praise,
Should night and morning frame new lays—
New measures sung to tunes divine;
But none, O Palm! should equal mine!
FROM the Desert I come to thee
On a stallion shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire!
Under thy window I stand,
And the midnight hears my cry:
I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!
Look from thy window and see
My passion and my pain;
I lie on the sands below,
And I faint in thy disdain.
Let the night-winds touch thy brow
With the heat of my burning sigh,
And melt thee to hear the vow
Of a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold!
My steps are nightly driven,
By the fever in my breast,
To hear from thy lattice breathed
The word that shall give me rest.
Open the door of thy heart,
And open thy chamber door,
And my kisses shall teach thy lips
The love that shall fade no more
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars are old,
And the leaves of the Judgment
Book unfold.
WIND AND SEA.
THE Sea is a jovial comrade,
He laughs wherever he goes;
His merriment shines in the dimpling lines
That wrinkle his hale repose;
He lays himself down at the feet of the Sun,
And shakes all over with glee,
And the broad-back'd billows fall faint on the shore,
In the mirth of the mighty Sea!
But the Wind is sad and restless,
And cursed with an inward pain;
You may hark as you will, by valley or hill,
But you hear him still complain.
He wails on the barren mountains,
And shrieks on the wintry sea;
He sobs in the cedar, and moans in the pine,
And shudders all over the aspen tree.
Welcome are both their voices,
And I know not which is best,
The laughter that slips from the Ocean's lips,
Or the comfortless Wind's unrest.
There's a pang in all rejoicing,
A joy in the heart of pain,
And the Wind that saddens, the Sea that gladdens, Are singing the self-same strain !
JULIA C. R. DORR.
Born at Charleston, South Carolina, 1825—
WHAT SHE THOUGHT.
MARION Show'd me her wedding gown
And her veil of gossamer lace to-night,
And the orange blooms that to-morrow morn
Shall fade in her soft hair's golden light.
But Philip came to the open door;
Like the heart of a wild rose glow'd her cheek, And they wander'd off through the garden paths, So blest that they did not care to speak.
I wonder how it seems to be loved;
To know you are fair in some one's eyes;
That upon some one your beauty dawns
Every day as a new surprise.
To know that whether you weep or smile,
Whether your mood be grave or gay,
Somebody thinks you all the while
Sweeter than any flower of May!
I wonder what it would be to love;
That, I think, would be sweeter far-
To know that one out of all the world
Was lord of your life, your king, your star!
They talk of love's sweet tumult and pain;
I am not sure that I understand,
Though a thrill ran down to my finger-tips,
Once when somebody-touch'd my hand.
I wonder what it would be to dream
Of a child that might one day be your own, Of the hidden springs of your life a part, Flesh of your flesh, and bone of your bone.
Marion stoop'd one day to kiss
A beggar's babe, with a tender grace, While some sweet thought, like a prophecy, Look'd from her pure Madonna face.
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