But it is in poetry that we must look for whatever of originality and beauty there is in Malay literature, a fact not to be wondered at if we consider the softness and mellifluence of the language, which lends itself easily to the requirements of rhyme and rhythm. Two chief forms of poetry are recognized--the _pantun_ and the _shaïr_. THE PANTUN.--The _pantun_ in Malay literature corresponds to the lyric verse of Western lands. It consists of one or many quatrains, as the case may be, the lines usually from ten to twelve syllables in length. However, if worse comes to worst, the Malay poet with true poetic license suits himself in preference to others, and frequently employs as few as six or as many as thirteen syllables in a line. The length of a syllable is determined by tonic accent, but penult syllables not ending in a consonant are long, those ending in silent _i_ are short. But here, too, the Malay often departs from theory, and his rhymes, instead of being always exact, are constructed for the eye and not for the ear; and as for the short lines, they have to be drawled out into a legitimate scansion. The lines are not written one below another as with us, but the second opposite the first, the third under the second and opposite the fourth, and so on. The _pantun_ is much employed in improvisation, the stanzas being recited alternately by the two taking part. To the Malayan mind the beauty of this kind of verse lies in the artistic perfection of each quatrain by which it is made to veil some charming metaphor, which in turn serves in the last two lines to point a moral or express some sentiment of love or friendship, depending on the allegory of the preceding. To illustrate: _Tinggih tinggih pokok lamburi Sayang puchok-nia meniapa awan Habis teloh puwas kuchari Bagei punei menchari kawan._ _Bulan trang bintang berchaya Burong gagah bermakan padi Teka tuan tiada perchaya Bela dada, melihat hati._ The lamburi tree is tall, tall, Its branches sweep the sky; My search is vain, and o'er is all, Like a mate-lorn dove am I. Clear is the moon, with stars agleam, The raven wastes in the padi field; O my beloved, when false I seem, Open my breast, my heart is revealed. * * * * * The waves are white on the Kataun shore, And day and night they beat; The garden has white blossoms o'er, But only one do I think sweet. Deeper yet the water grows, Nor the mountain rain is stilled; My heart more longing knows, And its hope is unfulfilled.