Blest are the tenants of the tomb! With envy I their lot survey! For Sayid shares the solemn gloom, And mingles with their mouldering clay. Dear youth! I'm doom'd thy loss to mourn When gathering ills around combine; And whither now shall Malec turn, Where look for any help but thine? At this dread moment when the foe My life with rage insatiate seeks, In vain I strive to ward the blow, My buckler falls, my sabre breaks. Upon thy grassy tomb I knelt, And sought from pain a short relief-- Th' attempt was vain--I only felt Intenser pangs and livelier grief. The bud of woe no more represt, Fed by the tears that drench'd it there, Shot forth and fill'd my laboring breast Soon to expand and shed despair. But tho' of Sayid I'm bereft, From whom the stream of bounty came, Sayid a nobler meed has left-- Th' exhaustless heritage of fame. Tho' mute the lips on which I hung, Their silence speaks more loud to me Than any voice from mortal tongue, "What Sayid was let Malec be." _Abd Almalec Alharithy_. [2] Abd Almalec was a native of Arabia Felix. The exact period when he flourished is unknown, but as this production is taken from the Hamasa it is most probable that he was anterior to Mohammedanism. THE DEATH OF HIS MISTRESS[3] Dost thou wonder that I flew Charm'd to meet my Leila's view? Dost thou wonder that I hung Raptur'd on my Leila's tongue? If her ghost's funereal screech Thro' the earth my grave should reach, On that voice I lov'd so well My transported ghost would dwell:-- If in death I can descry Where my Leila's relics lie, Saher's dust will flee away, There to join his Leila's clay. _Abu Saher Alhedily_. [3] The sentiment contained in this production determines its antiquity. It was the opinion of the Pagan Arabs that upon the death of any person a bird, by them called Manah, issued from his brain, which haunted the sepulchre of the deceased, uttering a lamentable scream. ON AVARICE[4] How frail are riches and their joys? Morn builds the heap which eve destroys; Yet can they have one sure delight-- The thought that we've employed them right. What bliss can wealth afford to me When life's last solemn hour I see, When Mavia's sympathizing sighs Will but augment my agonies? Can hoarded gold dispel the gloom That death must shed around his tomb? Or cheer the ghost which hovers there, And fills with shrieks the desert air? What boots it, Mavia, in the grave, Whether I lov'd to waste or save? The hand that millions now can grasp, In death no more than mine shall clasp. Were I ambitious to behold Increasing stores of treasured gold, Each tribe that roves the desert knows I might be wealthy if I chose:-- But other joys can gold impart, Far other wishes warm my heart-- Ne'er may I strive to swell the heap, Till want and woe have ceas'd to weep.