The dragon-green, the luminous, the dark, the serpent-haunted sea, The snow-besprinkled wine of earth, the white-and-blue-flower foaming sea. Beyond the sea are towns with towers, carved with lions and lily flowers, And not a soul in all those lonely streets to while away the hours. Beyond the towns, an isle where, bound, a naked giant bites the ground: The shadow of a monstrous wing looms on his back: and still no sound. Beyond the isle a rock that screams like madmen shouting in their dreams, From whose dark issues night and day blood crashes in a thousand streams. Beyond the rock is Restful Bay, where no wind breathes or ripple stirs, And there on Roman ships, they say, stand rows of metal mariners. Beyond the bay in utmost West old Solomon the Jewish King Sits with his beard upon his breast, and grips and guards his magic ring: And when that ring is stolen, he will rise in outraged majesty, And take the World upon his back, and fling the World beyond the sea. 'This is the song of the North Gate's master, Who singeth fast, but drinketh faster.' I am the gay Aleppo Gate: a dawn, a dawn and thou art there: Eat not thy heart with fear and care, O brother of the beast we hate! Thou hast not many miles to tread, nor other foes than fleas to dread; Homs shall behold thy morning meal, and Hama see thee safe in bed. Take to Aleppo filigrane, and take them paste of apricots, And coffee tables botched with pearl, and little beaten brassware pots: And thou shalt sell thy wares for thrice the Damascene retailers' price, And buy a fat Armenian slave who smelleth odorous and nice. Some men of noble stock were made: some glory in the murder-blade: Some praise a Science or an Art, but I like honourable Trade! Sell them the rotten, buy the ripe! Their heads are weak; their pockets burn. Aleppo men are mighty fools. Salaam Aleikum! Safe return! 'This is the song of the South Gate Holder, A silver man, but his song is older.' I am the Gate that fears no fall: the Mihrab of Damascus wall, The bridge of booming Sinai: the Arch of Allah all in all. O spiritual pilgrim, rise: the night has grown her single horn: The voices of the souls unborn are half adream with Paradise. To Meccah thou hast turned in prayer with aching heart and eyes that burn: Ah, Hajji, whither wilt thou turn when thou art there, when thou art there? God be thy guide from camp to camp: God be thy shade from well to well; God grant beneath the desert stars thou hear the Prophet's camel bell. And God shall make thy body pure, and give thee knowledge to endure This ghost-life's piercing phantom-pain, and bring thee out to Life again. And God shall make thy soul a Glass where eighteen thousand Æons pass, And thou shalt see the gleaming Worlds as men see dew upon the grass. And son of Islam, it may be that thou shalt learn at journey's end Who walks thy garden eve on eve, and bows his head, and calls thee Friend. THE DYING PATRIOT