[19] Ebn Alrumi is reckoned by the Arabian writers as one of the most excellent of all their poets. He was by birth a Syrian, and passed the greatest part of his time at Emessa, where he died A.H. 283. ON A VALETUDINARIAN So careful is Isa, and anxious to last, So afraid of himself is he grown, He swears thro' two nostrils the breath goes too fast, And he's trying to breathe thro' but one. _Ebn Alrumi_. ON A MISER "Hang her, a thoughtless, wasteful fool, She scatters corn where'er she goes"-- Quoth Hassan, angry at his mule, That dropt a dinner to the crows. _Ebn Alrumi_. TO CASSIM OBIO ALLAH[20] Poor Cassim! thou art doom'd to mourn By destiny's decree; Whatever happens it must turn To misery for thee. Two sons hadst thou, the one thy pride, The other was thy pest; Ah, why did cruel death decide To snatch away the best? No wonder thou shouldst droop with woe, Of such a child bereft; But now thy tears must doubly flow, For, ah! the other's left. _Aly Ben Ahmed Ben Mansour_. [20] Aly Ben Ahmed distinguished himself in prose as well as poetry, and an historical work of considerable reputation, of which he was the author, is still extant. But he principally excelled in satire, and so fond was he of indulging this dangerous talent that no one escaped his lash; if he could only bring out a sarcasm, it was matter of indifference to him whether an enemy or a brother smarted under its severity. He died at Bagdad A.H. 302. A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY[21] When born, in tears we saw thee drown'd, While thine assembled friends around, With smiles their joy confest; So live, that at thy parting hour, They may the flood of sorrow pour, And thou in smiles be drest! [21] The thought contained in these lines, appears so natural and so obvious, that one wonders it did not occur to all who have attempted to write upon a birthday or a death. TO A CAT Poor Puss is gone! 'Tis fate's decree-- Yet I must still her loss deplore, For dearer than a child was she, And ne'er shall I behold her more. With many a sad presaging tear This morn I saw her steal away, While she went on without a fear Except that she should miss her prey. I saw her to the dove-house climb, With cautious feet and slow she stept Resolv'd to balance loss of time By eating faster than she crept. Her subtle foes were on the watch, And mark'd her course, with fury fraught, And while she hoped the birds to catch, An arrow's point the huntress caught. In fancy she had got them all, And drunk their blood and suck'd their breath; Alas! she only got a fall, And only drank the draught of death. Why, why was pigeons' flesh so nice, That thoughtless cats should love it thus? Hadst thou but liv'd on rats and mice, Thou hadst been living still, poor Puss.