I have spoken of the wit of these verses, which is certainly one of their distinguishing qualities. It is quite Attic in its flavor and exquisitely delicate in its combined good-humor and freedom from rancor. An epigram, according to the old definition, should be like a bee; it should carry the sweetness of honey, although it bears a sting at the end. Sometimes the end has a point which does not sting, as in the following quatrain of an Arabic poet:-- "When I sent you my melons, you cried out with scorn, They ought to be heavy and wrinkled and yellow; When I offered myself, whom those graces adorn, You flouted, and called me an ugly old fellow." Martial himself could not have excelled the wit of an epigram addressed to a very little man who wore a very big beard, which thus concludes:-- "Surely thou cherishest thy beard In hope to hide thyself behind it." To study a literature like that of the Arabians, even partially and in a translation, is one of those experiences which enlarge and stimulate the mind and expand its range of impressions with a distinctly elevating and liberalizing effect. It has the result of genuine education, in that it increases our capacity for sympathy for other peoples, making us better acquainted with the language in which they reveal that common human heart which they share with us. E.W. AN ELEGY[1] Those dear abodes which once contain'd the fair, Amidst Mitata's wilds I seek in vain, Nor towers, nor tents, nor cottages are there, But scatter'd ruins and a silent plain. The proud canals that once Rayana grac'd, Their course neglected and their waters gone, Among the level'd sands are dimly trac'd, Like moss-grown letters on a mouldering stone. Rayana say, how many a tedious year Its hallow'd circle o'er our heads hath roll'd, Since to my vows thy tender maids gave ear, And fondly listened to the tale I told? How oft, since then, the star of spring, that pours A never-failing stream, hath drenched thy head? How oft, the summer cloud in copious showers Or gentle drops its genial influence shed? How oft since then, the hovering mist of morn Hath caus'd thy locks with glittering gems to glow? How oft hath eve her dewy treasures borne To fall responsive to the breeze below? The matted thistles, bending to the gale, Now clothe those meadows once with verdure gay; Amidst the windings of that lonely vale The teeming antelope and ostrich stray. The large-eyed mother of the herd that flies Man's noisy haunts, here finds a sure retreat, Here watches o'er her young, till age supplies Strength to their limbs and swiftness to their feet. Save where the swelling stream hath swept those walls And giv'n their deep foundations to the light (As the retouching pencil that recalls A long-lost picture to the raptur'd sight).