[17] Abd Alsalam was a poet more remarkable for abilities than morality. We may form an idea of the nature of his compositions from the nickname he acquired amongst his contemporaries of Cock of the Evil Genii. He died in the 236th year of the Hegira, aged near eighty. MASHDUD ON THE MONKS OF KHABBET[18] Tenants of yon hallow'd fane! Let me your devotions share, There increasing raptures reign-- None are ever sober there. Crowded gardens, festive bowers Ne'er shall claim a thought of mine; You can give in Khabbet's towers-- Purer joys and brighter wine. Tho' your pallid faces prove How you nightly vigils keep, 'Tis but that you ever love Flowing goblets more than sleep. Tho' your eye-balls dim and sunk Stream in penitential guise, 'Tis but that the wine you've drunk Bubbles over from your eyes. [18] The three following songs were written by Mashdud, Rakeek, and Rais, three of the most celebrated improvisators in Bagdad, at an entertainment given by Abou Isy. RAKEEK TO HIS FEMALE COMPANIONS Tho' the peevish tongues upbraid, Tho' the brows of wisdom scowl, Fair ones here on roses laid, Careless will we quaff the bowl. Let the cup, with nectar crown'd, Thro' the grove its beams display, It can shed a lustre round, Brighter than the torch of day. Let it pass from hand to hand, Circling still with ceaseless flight, Till the streaks of gray expand O'er the fleeting robe of night. As night flits, she does but cry, "Seize the moments that remain"-- Thus our joys with yours shall vie, Tenants of yon hallow'd fane! DIALOGUE BY RAIS _Rais_: Maid of sorrow, tell us why Sad and drooping hangs thy head? Is it grief that bids thee sigh? Is it sleep that flies thy bed? _Lady_: Ah! I mourn no fancied wound, Pangs too true this heart have wrung, Since the snakes which curl around Selim's brows my bosom stung. Destin'd now to keener woes, I must see the youth depart, He must go, and as he goes Rend at once my bursting heart. Slumber may desert my bed, Tis not slumber's charms I seek-- 'Tis the robe of beauty spread O'er my Selim's rosy cheek. TO A LADY WEEPING[19] When I beheld thy blue eyes shine Thro' the bright drop that pity drew, I saw beneath those tears of thine A blue-ey'd violet bath'd in dew. The violet ever scents the gale, Its hues adorn the fairest wreath, But sweetest thro' a dewy veil Its colors glow, its odors breathe. And thus thy charms in brightness rise-- When wit and pleasure round thee play, When mirth sits smiling in thine eyes, Who but admires their sprightly ray? But when thro' pity's flood they gleam, Who but must love their soften'd beam? _Ebn Alrumi_.