the traveller's breast. Sweet as the harp of David, the night-breeze and the music of the water come up from the sea: but the ripple and the rustling sound alternate with the hyena's laugh, the jackal's cry, and the wild dog's lengthened howl.
Or, the weather becoming cold, we remain below, and Mohammed Umar returns to read out more "Book of Lights," or some pathetic ode. I will quote in free translation the following production of the celebrated poet Abd al-Rahman al-Burai, as a perfect specimen of melancholy Arab imagery:
The exile is the exile to the coffin and the tomb!
"He hath claims on the dwellers in the places of their birth
Whoso wandereth the world, for he lacketh him a home.
"Then blamer, blame me not, were my heart within thy breast,
The sigh would take the place of thy laughter and thy scorn.
"Let me weep for the sin that debars my soul of rest,
The tear may yet avail,—all in vain I may not mourn![1]
"Woe! woe to thee, Flesh!—with a purer spirit, now
The death-day were a hope, and the judgment-hour a joy!
"One morn I woke in pain, with a pallor on my brow,
As though the dreaded Angel was descending to destroy:
"They brought to me a leech, saying, 'Heal him lest he die!'
On that day, by Allah, were his drugs a poor deceit!
"They stripped me and bathed me, and closed the glazing eye,
And dispersed unto prayers, and to haggle for my sheet.
- ↑ The Moslem corpse is partly sentient in the tomb, reminding the reader of Tennyson:
"I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so;
To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad?"
