Upon my head, the burial of my pride,
The ashen soil, wherein I plant the tree
Of Penitence. The people saw, and cried,
May God reward thee, Hassan! Truly, thou,
Whom men have honored, addest to thy brow
The crowning lustre of Humility:
As thou abasest, God exalteth thee!'
Which when I heard, I shed such tears of shame
As might erase the record of my blame,
And from that time I have not dared to curse
The unrighteous, since the man who seemeth worse
Than I, may purer be; for, when I fell,
Temptation reached a loftier pinnacle.
Therefore, O Man! be Charity thy aim:
Praise cannot harm, but weigh thy words of blame.
Distrust the Virtue that itself exalts,
But turn to that which doth avow its faults,
And from Repentance plucks a wholesome fruit.
Pardon, not Wrath, is God's best attribute."
"The tale, O Poet! which thy lips have told,"
I said, "is words of rubies set in gold.
Precious the wisdom which from evil draws
Strength to fulfil the good, of Allah's laws.
But lift thy head, O Hassan ! Thine own words
Shall best console thee, for my tongue affords
No phrase but thanks for what thou hast bestowed;
And yet I fain would have thee shake the load
Of shame from off thy shoulders, seeing still
That by this fall thou hast increased thy will
To do the work which makes thee truly blest."
Hassan Ben Khaled wept, and smote his breast:
"Hold! hold, O Man!" he cried: “why make
me feel
A deeper shame! Why force me to reveal
That Sin is as the leprous taint no art
Can cleanse the blood from? In my secret heart
I do believe I hold at dearer cost
The vanished Pleasure, than the Virtue lost."
So saying, he arose and went his
And Allah grant he go no more astray.
10, ask of men that know my name,
And they the truth will speak,
That I'm the terror of the strong,
The helper of the weak.
My spear has made the dragon brood
Succumb to galling bands,
And tossed before the jaws of War
The forage he demands.
I steer my horse through stormy fights,
As a seaman steers his craft;
My joy, to splinter on my breast
The foeman's flying shaft.
I am the latest laid to rest,
The earliest in the fight,
And while the others idly feast,
I rub my harness bright.
And while the booty they divide
I heap the ranks of slain,
And when they scorn my poverty,
I scorn their greed of gain.
A illah il' Allah!" the muezzin's call
Comes from the minaret, slim and tall,
That looks o'er the distant city's wall.
"La illah il' Allah!" the Faithful heed, With God and the Prophet this hour to plead: Whose ear is open to hear their need.
The sun is sunken; no vapor mars
The path of his going with dusky bars.
The silent Desert awaits the stars.
I bend the knee and I stretch the hand,
I strike my forehead upon the sand,
And I pray aloud, that He understand.
Not for my father, for he is dead;
Not in my wandering brothers' stead, -
For myself alone I bow the head.
God is Great, and God is Just:
He knoweth the hearts of the children of dust, He is the Helper; in Him I trust.
My sword is keen and my arm is strong
With the sense of unforgotten wrong,
And the hate that waits and watches long.
God, let me wait for year on year,
But let the hour at last appear,
When Vengeance makes my honor clear.
Once let me strike till he is slain;
His blood will cleanse my sabre's stain,
And I shall stand erect again.
Till then, I wander to and fro,
Wide as the desert whirlwinds go,
And seek, by the sun and stars, my foe.
Better than Stamboul's courts of gold,
Whose harems the Georgian girls infold,
Whiter than snow, but not so cold:
Better than Baghdad's garden bowers,
Or fountains that play among Persian flowers;
Better than all delights and powers,
The deed God's justice will abide, —
The stern atonement, long denied,
That righteous Vengeance gives to Pride.
AM no chieftain, fit to lead
Where spears are hurled and warriors bleed;
No poet, in my chanted rhyme
To rouse the ghosts of ancient time;
No magian, with a subtle ken
To rule the thoughts of other men ;
Yet far as sounds the Arab tongue
My name is known to old and young.
My form has lost its pliant grace,
There is no beauty in my face,
There is no cunning in my arm,
The Children of the Sun to charm;
Yet, where I go, my people's eyes
Are lighted with a glad surprise,
And in each tent a couch is free,
And by each fire a place, for me.
They watch me from the palms, and some
Proclaim my coming ere I come.
The children lift my hand to meet
The homage of their kisses sweet;
With manly warmth the men embrace,
The veiled maidens seek my face,
And eyes, fresh kindled from the heart,
Keep loving watch when I depart.
On God, the Merciful, I call,
To shed His blessing over all:
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