I 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 trado 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.



Find 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 calm forever.


Where thou dost sit, the shadow of Despair

Fell never; Hate and Envy thence depart; Turn from thy gate the baffled hounds of Care,

And the great strength of slumber fills the heart. Even Love himself, far exiled, in thy bower,

From the bright paths of rapture which he trod,

Folds up his wing: in Indian Song, the god
Was born beneath the sleepy lotus-flower.
The only fugitive escaped the riot,
His presence glorifies thy charmed elysian quiet.


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 recognize,

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 pigmy 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.

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