That flight of locusts-Jew, and Greek, and Frank,
Who had corrupted Egypt and her power,
By all their mercenary thoughts and acts,
And sent him there, brave soldier as he was,
To go beg service at the Sultan's hand.
Yet Ibrahim's heart was still a noble one;
No man could contradict him and not fear
Some awful vengeance ;-was this story known?"
Once, when in Syria he had let war loose,
And was reducing, under one strong sway,
Druses, and Christians, and Mohammedans,
He heard that his last child, the favourite
Born of a favou'rite wife, had been let fall
By a young careless Nubian nurse, and hurt,
So as to cripple it through all its days.
No word of anger passed the warrior's lips,—
No one would think the story on his mind
Rested a single moment. But due time
Brought round his glad return, and he once more
Entered his hall, within which, on each side,
Long marble stairs curved towards the balcony,
Where right and left the women's chambers spread;
Upon the landing stood the glad Hareem
To welcome him with music, shouts, and songs;
Yet he would not ascend a single step,
But cried-" Where is the careless Nubian girl
That let my child fall on the stony ground?"
Trembling and shrieking down one marble flight
She was pushed forward, till she reached the floor :
Then Ibrahim caught her in one giant grasp,
Dragged her towards him, and one brawny hand
Tight-twisting in her long and glossy hair,
And with the other drawing the sharp sword
Well known at Nezib and at Koniah,
Sheer from her shoulders severed the young head,
And casting it behind him, at few bounds
Cleared the high stair and to his bosom pressed
The darling wife his deed had just reveng'd.
O! he is god-like in his hour of rage!
His wrath is like the plague that falls on man
With indiscriminate fury, and for this
His name is honoured through the spacious East,
Where all things powerful meet their just reward."
The Soldier paused; and surely some one else Had taken up the burden of a tale ;
But at that moment through the cypress stems
Shot the declining crimson of the sun
Full on the faces of that company,
Who for some instants in deep silence watched
The last appearance of the ruddy rim,
And, little needing the clear warning voice
Which issued round the neighbou'ring minaret,—
Bidding all earthly thoughts and interests
Sink in their breasts as sunk that fiery sun-
Bowed, old and young, their heads in blest accord,
Believers in one Prophet and one God!
WHY should a man raise stone and wood
Between him and the sky?
Why should he fear the brotherhood
Of all things from on high?
Why should a man not raise his form
As shelterless and free
As stands in sunshine or in storm
The mountain and the tree?
Or if we thus, as creatures frail,
Before our time should die,
And courage and endurance fail
Weak Nature to supply ;-
Let us at least a dwelling choose,
The simplest that can keep
From parching heat and noxious dews
Our pleasure and our sleep.
The Fathers of our mortal race,
While still remembrance nursed Traditions of the glorious place
Whence Adam fled accursed,Rested in tents, as best became Children, whose mother earth Had overspread with sinful shame The beauty of her birth.
In cold they sought the sheltered nook,
In heat the airy shade,
And oft their casual home forsook
The morrow it was made;
Diverging many separate roads,
They wandered, fancy-driven,
Nor thought of other fixed abodes
Than Paradise or Heaven.
And while this holy sense remained,
'Mid easy shepherd cares,
In tents they often entertained
The Angels unawares :
And to their spi'rits fervid gaze
The myste'ry was revealed,
How the world's wound in future days
Should by God's love be healed.
Thus we, so late and far a link
Of generation's chain,
Delight to dwell in tents and think
The old world young again;
With Faith as wide and Thought as narrow
As theirs, who little more
From life demanded than the sparrow
Gay-chirping by the door.
The Tent! how easily it stands,
Almost as if it rose
Spontaneous from the green or sand,
Express for our repose:
Or, rather, it is we who plant
This root, where'er we roam,
And hold, and can to others grant,
The comforts of a home.
Make the Divan-the carpets spread,
The ready cushions pile;
Rest, weary heart! rest, weary head!
From pain and pride awhile:
And all your happiest memories woo,
And mingle with your dreams
The yellow desert glimmeʼring through
The subtle veil of beams.
We all have much we would forget-
Be that forgotten now!
And placid Hope, instead, shall set
Her seal upon your brow:
Imagination's prophet eye
By her shall view unfurled
The future greatnesses that lie
Hid in the Eastern world.
To slavish tyrannies their term
Of terror she foretells;
She brings to bloom the faith whose germ
In Islam deeply dwells;
Accomplishing each mighty birth
That shall one day be born
From marriage of the western earth
With nations of the morn!
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