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:
I praise His name, for He is Great,
And Loving, and Compassionate;
And for the gift of love I give—
The breath of life whereby I live —
He gives me back, in overflow,
His children's love, where'er I go.
Deep sunk in sin the man must be
That has no friendly word for me.
I pass through tribes whose trade is death,
And not a sabre quits the sheath;
For, strong and cruel as they prove,
The sons of men are weak to Love.
The humblest gifts to them I bring;
Yet in their hearts I rule, a king.
IND me a bower, in silent dells embayed, And trebly guarded from each wind that blows,
Where the blue noon o'erroofs the tranquil shade,
And poppies breathe an odor of repose; Where never noises from the distant world Disturb the happy calm of soul and sense, But in thy haven every sail is furled, Divinest Indolence!
There shall I summon all melodious measures, And feel the hymns to thee, I sing to other Pleasures.
Within thy realm the vexing tempests die
That strip the leaves from Life's aspiring tree,
And fairer blossoms open in thy sky,
To richer fruits maturing peacefully.
What is the clangor of Ambition's car
To thine eternal silence? To thy rest,
What are the stormy joys that shake the breast,
And Passion's cloud, that leaves the thunder-scar?
On brows that burn with Toil's relentless fever
Thy pitying hand is laid, and they have peace for-
Far from thee drift the shattered hulks of life;
But the wrecked spirit slumbers at thy feet,
And, harbored now from every wave of strife,
Feels the strong pulses of Existence beat.
There hears the heart its native language, free
From the world's clamor; with enlightened eyes
There doth the soul its features recognise,
And read its destiny!
The dark enigmas which perplexed the sense
Fade in the wisdom, born of Indolence.
Yea, let men struggle, toil, exult, and win
The pygmy triumphs which they fret to wear;
But I will fly the curse of primal sin,
And in thy lap the peace of Eden share.
Serener than a star on Twilight's breast,
A sea-flower, deep below the tropic waves,
Or sparry foliage of the dædal caves,
My life shall blossom in thine arms of rest.
My breath grows calm; my weary eyelids close;
And the pursuing Fates have left me to repose.
JAUGHTER of Egypt, veil thine eyes!
I cannot bear their fire;
Nor will I touch with sacrifice
Those altars of Desire.
For they are flames that shun the day,
And their unholy light
Is fed from natures gone astray
In passion and in night.
The stars of Beauty and of Sin,
They burn amid the dark,
Like beacons that to ruin win
The fascinated bark.
Then veil their glow, lest I forswear
The hopes thou canst not crown,
And in the black waves of thy hair
My struggling manhood drown!
OU ask, O Frank! how Love is born
Within these glowing climes of Morn,
Where envious veils conceal the charms
That tempt a Western lover's arms,
And how, without a voice or sound,
From heart to heart the path is found,
Since on the eye alone is flung
The burden of the silent tongue.
You hearken with a doubtful smile
Whene'er the wandering bards beguile
Our evening indolence with strains
Whose words gush molten through our veins, —
The songs of Love, but half confessed,
Where Passion sobs on Sorrow's breast,
And mighty longings, tender fears,
Steep the strong heart in fire and tears.
The source of each accordant strain
Lies deeper than the Poet's brain.
First from the people's heart must spring
The passions which he learns to sing;
They are the wind, the harp is he,
To voice their fitful melody,-
The language of their varying fate,
Their pride, grief, love, ambition, hate,
The talisman which holds inwrought
The touchstone of the listener's thought; .
That penetrates each vain disguise,
And brings his secret to his eyes.
For, like a solitary bird
That hides among the boughs unheard
Until some mate, whose carol breaks,
Its own betraying song awakes,
So, to its echo in those lays,
The ardent heart itself betrays.
Crowned with a prophet's honor, stands
The Poet, on Arabian sands;
A chief, whose subjects love his thrall,
The sympathizing heart of all.
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