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 Resolved to balance loss of time By eating faster than she crept. Her subtle foes were on the watch, And marked 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 sucked 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 lived on rats and mice, Thou hadst been living still, poor puss. Curst be the taste, howe'er refined, That prompts us for such joys to wish, And curst the dainty where we find Destruction lurking in the dish. FIRE _A Riddle_ The loftiest cedars I can eat, Yet neither paunch nor mouth have I, I storm whene'er you give me meat, Whene'er you give me drink I die. TO A LADY BLUSHING[41] (BY THE CALIPH RADHI BILLAH) Leila, whene'er I gaze on thee My altered cheek turns pale, While upon thine, sweet maid, I see A deep'ning blush prevail. Leila, shall I the cause impart Why such a change takes place? The crimson stream deserts my heart, To mantle on thy face. ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE (BY THE CALIPH RADHI BILLAH) Mortal joys, however pure, Soon their turbid source betray; Mortal bliss, however sure, Soon must totter and decay. Ye who now, with footsteps keen, Range through hope's delusive field, Tell us what the smiling scene To your ardent grasp can yield? Other youths have oft before Deemed their joys would never fade, Till themselves were seen no more Swept into oblivion's shade. Who, with health and pleasure gay, E'er his fragile state could know, Were not age and pain to say Man is but the child of woe? TO A DOVE (BY SERAGE ALWARAK) The dove to ease an aching breast, In piteous murmurs vents her cares; Like me she sorrows, for opprest, Like me, a load of grief she bears. Her plaints are heard in every wood, While I would fain conceal my woes; But vain's my wish, the briny flood, The more I strive, the faster flows. Sure, gentle bird, my drooping heart Divides the pangs of love with thine, And plaintive murm'rings are thy part, And silent grief and tears are mine. ON A THUNDER-STORM (BY IBRAHIM BEN KHIRET ABOU ISAAC)