Hail, chastening friend Adversity! 'Tis thine The mental ore to temper and refine, To cast in virtue's mould the yielding heart, And honor's polish to the mind impart. Without thy wakening touch, thy plastic aid, I'd lain the shapeless mass that nature made; But form'd, great artist, by thy magic hand, I gleam a sword to conquer and command. _Abou Menbaa Carawash_. [31] The life of this prince was checkered with various adventures; he was perpetually engaged in contests either with the neighboring sovereigns, or the princes of his own family. After many struggles he was obliged to submit to his brother, Abou Camel, who immediately ordered him to be seized, and conveyed to a place of security. ON THE INCOMPATIBILITY OF PRIDE AND TRUE GLORY[32] Think not, Abdallah, pride and fame Can ever travel hand in hand; With breast oppos'd, and adverse aim, On the same narrow path they stand. Thus youth and age together meet, And life's divided moments share; This can't advance till that retreat, What's here increas'd, is lessen'd there. And thus the falling shades of night Still struggle with the lucid ray, And e'er they stretch their gloomy flight Must win the lengthen'd space from day. _Abou Alola_. [32] Abou Alola is esteemed as one of the most excellent of the Arabian poets. He was born blind, but this did not deter him from the pursuit of literature. Abou Alola died at Maara in the year 449, aged eighty-six. THE DEATH OF NEDHAM ALMOLK Thy virtues fam'd thro' every land, Thy spotless life, in age and youth, Prove thee a pearl, by nature's hand, Form'd out of purity and truth. Too long its beams of Orient light Upon a thankless world were shed; Allah has now reveng'd the slight, And call'd it to its native bed. _Shebal Addaulet_. LINES TO A LOVER When you told us our glances soft, timid and mild, Could occasion such wounds in the heart, Can ye wonder that yours, so ungovern'd and wild, Some wounds to our cheeks should impart? The wounds on our cheeks are but transient, I own, With a blush they appear and decay; But those on the heart, fickle youths, ye have shown To be even more transient than they. _Waladata_. VERSES TO MY DAUGHTERS[33] With jocund heart and cheerful brow I used to hail the festal morn-- How must Mohammed greet it now?-- A prisoner helpless and forlorn. While these dear maids in beauty's bloom, With want opprest, with rags o'erspread, By sordid labors at the loom Must earn a poor, precarious bread. Those feet that never touched the ground, Till musk or camphor strew'd the way, Now bare and swoll'n with many a wound. Must struggle thro' the miry clay. Those radiant cheeks are veil'd in woe, A shower descends from every eye, And not a starting tear can flow, That wakes not an attending sigh.