Religion's gems can ne'er adorn The flimsy robe by pleasure worn; Its feeble texture soon would tear, And give those jewels to the air. Thrice happy they who seek th' abode Of peace and pleasure in their God! Who spurn the world, its joys despise, And grasp at bliss beyond the skies. LINES TO HAROUN AND YAHIA[32] (BY THE MUSICIAN, ISAAC AL MOUSELI) Th' affrighted sun ere while he fled, And hid his radiant face in night; A cheerless gloom the world o'erspread— But Haroun came and all was bright. Again the sun shoots forth his rays, Nature is decked in beauty's robe— For mighty Haroun's scepter sways, And Yahia's arm sustains the globe. THE RUIN OF THE BARMECIDES[33] No, Barmec Time hath never shown So sad a change of wayward fate; Nor sorrowing mortals ever known A grief so true, a loss so great. Spouse of the world! Thy soothing breast Did balm to every woe afford; And now no more by thee caressed, The widowed world bewails her lord. TO TAHER BEN HOSIEN[34] A pair of right hands and a single dim eye Must form not a man, but a monster, they cry: Change a hand to an eye, good Taher, if you can, And a monster perhaps may be chang'd to man. [Illustration: THE SONG OF ABU AL SALAM. "Think not that we will take the cup From any hand but thine." ] TO MY MISTRESS[35] (BY ABU TAMMAM HABIB) Ungenerous and mistaken maid, To scorn me thus because I'm poor! Canst thou a liberal hand upbraid For dealing round some worthless ore? To spare 's the wish of little souls, The great but gather to bestow; Yon current down the mountain rolls, And stagnates in the swamp below. TO A FEMALE CUP-BEARER[36] (BY ABU AL SALAM) Come, Leila, fill the goblet up, Beach round the rosy wine, Think not that we will take the cup From any hand but thine. A draught like this 'twere vain to seek, No grape can such supply; It steals its tint from Leila's cheek, Its brightness from her eye. MASHDUD ON THE MONKS OF KHABBET[37] Tenants of yon hallowed 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. Though your pallid faces prove How you nightly vigils keep, 'Tis but that you ever love Flowing goblets more than sleep. Though your eye-balls dim and sunk Stream in penitential guise, 'Tis but that the wine you've drunk Bubbles over from your eyes. RAKEEK TO HIS FEMALE COMPANIONS Though the peevish tongues upbraid, Though the brows of wisdom scowl, Fair ones here on roses laid, Careless will we quaff the bowl.