So did I lie in Irem's breast.
Sweeter than Life and stronger than Death
Was every draught of that blissful breath;
Warmer than Summer came its glow
To the youthful heart in a mighty flood,
And sent its bold and generous blood
To water the world in its onward flow.
There, where the Garden of Irem lies,
Are the roots of the Tree of Paradise,
And happy are they who sit below,
When into this world of Strife and Death
The blossoms are shaken by Allah's breath.

THE BIRTH OF THE HORSE.

FROM THE ARABIC.

HE South-wind blows from Paradise, -
A wind of fire and force;
And yet his proudest merit is
That he begat the Horse.

When Allah's breath created first
The noble Arab steed, -

The conqueror of all his race
In courage and in speed,

To the South-wind He spake : From thee
A creature shall have birth,
To be the bearer of my arms

And my renown on Earth.

The pride of all the Faithful, he—

The terror of their foes:

Rider and Horse shall comrades be
In battle and repose.

Then to the perfect Horse He spake:
Fortune to thee I bring;

Fortune, as long as rolls the Earth,
Shall to thy forelock cling.

Without a pinion winged thou art,
And fleetest with thy load;
Bridled art thou without a rein,
And spurred without a goad.

Men shall bestride thee who have made
Their fame, their service, mine;
And, when they pray upon their way,
Their prayers shall count as thine.

The worship which thy master speaks
Thou sharest silently;

By mutual fate he rises up,

Or falls to Earth with thee.

THE WISDOM OF ALI.

AN ARAB LEGEND.

HE Prophet once, sitting in calm debate,
Said: "I am Wisdom's fortress; but

the gate

Thereof is Ali." Wherefore, some who

heard,

With unbelieving jealousy were stirred;

And, that they might on him confusion bring, Ten of the boldest joined to prove the thing. "Let us in turn to Ali go," they said,

"And ask if Wisdom should be sought instead Of earthly riches; then, if he reply

To each of us, in thought, accordantly,
And yet to none, in speech or phrase, the same,
His shall the honor be, and ours the shame."

Now, when the first his bold demand did make, These were the words which Ali straightway spake :

"Wisdom is the inheritance of those Whom Allah favors; riches, of his foes."

Unto the second he said: "Thyself must be Guard to thy wealth; but Wisdom guardeth thee."

Unto the third: " By Wisdom wealth is won;
But riches purchased wisdom yet for none."

Unto the fourth: " Thy goods the thief may take; But into Wisdom's house he cannot break."

Unto the fifth : 66
Thy goods decrease the more
Thou giv'st; 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 cannot 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

Of Wisdom."

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."

AN ORIENTAL IDYL.

SILVER javelin which the hills

Have hurled upon the plain below, The fleetest of the Pharpar's rills,

Beneath me shoots in flashing flow.

I hear the never-ending laugh

Of jostling waves that come and go, And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff The sherbet cooled in mountain snow.

The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars
Beneath the canopy of shade;

And in the distant, dim bazaars
I scarcely hear the hum of trade.

No evil fear, no dream forlorn,

Darkens my heaven of perfect blue;
My blood is tempered to the morn,
My very heart is steeped in dew.

What Evil is I cannot tell ;

But half I guess what Joy may be ;
And, as a pearl within its shell,
The happy spirit sleeps in me.

I feel no more the pulse's strife, —
The tides of Passion's ruddy sea,
But live the sweet, unconscious life
That breathes from yonder jasmine tree.

Upon the glittering pageantries
Of gay Damascus' streets I look

As idly as a babe that sees

The painted pictures of a book.

Forgotten now are name and race;
The Past is blotted from my brain;
For Memory sleeps, and will not trace
The weary pages o'er again.