Amid whose rocks his little chapel stood: But lo! what vision bursts upon his gaze! Domes, spires and churches, ’neath the sunset rays, Gleaming ’mid many a green and palmy wood. The wayward Genii, he remembered, loved To weave such cities of the filmy light. Begun and finished in a single night; But still his wonder grew, as lost he roved Through streets and squares built of substantial stone, Where late the camel-herds were browsing lone, And gleamed the crescent from the minaret. Was he awake?—the crowd around him spoke A strange, rough tongue—new wonders on him broke, And wonder filled the eyes of all he met. A Fakir passed. Of him he wildly asks Who, what, and where he is? With wondering smile, Answers the Moslem, “From a northern isle, Whose iron-coast a frozen girdle clasps, Came Islam’s foes, and this rich city grand Is the creation of the Infidel— The haughty lords of radiant Indian land— A tale most sad for Moslem lips to tell!” A hundred years had fled since he had chased The spirit-bird, swift as a dream effaced; And that sweet warbler was a sainted sprite, Sent from its rest, to lead so good a man To Christian light—for so the legend ran Which cheered my vigil on the ocean bright. * * * * * A FEW WORDS ON SECRET WRITING. BY EDGAR A. POE.