EXTEMPORE VERSES[44] (BY EBN ALRAMACRAM) Lowering as Barkaidy's face The wintry night came in, Cold as the music of his bass, And lengthened as his chin. Sleep from my aching eyes had fled, And kept as far apart, As sense from Ebn Fahdi's head, Or virtue from his heart. The dubious paths my footsteps balked, I slipp'd along the sod, As if on Jaber's faith I'd walked, Or on his truth had trod. At length the rising King of day Burst on the gloomy wood, Like Carawash's eye, whose ray Dispenses every good. ON THE DEATH OF A SON[45] (BY ALI BEN MOHAMMED ALTAHMANY) Tyrant of man! Imperious Fate! I bow before thy dread decree, Nor hope in this uncertain state To find a seat secure from thee. Life is a dark, tumultuous stream, With many a care and sorrow foul, Yet thoughtless mortals vainly deem That it can yield a limpid bowl. Think not that stream will backward flow, Or cease its destined course to keep; As soon the blazing spark shall glow Beneath the surface of the deep. Believe not Fate at thy command Will grant a meed she never gave; As soon the airy tower shall stand, That's built upon a passing wave. Life is a sleep of threescore years, Death bids us wake and hail the light, And man, with all his hopes and fears, Is but a phantom of the night. ON MODERATION IN OUR PLEASURES[46] (BY ABU ALCASSIM EBN TABATABA) How oft does passion's grasp destroy The pleasure that it strives to gain? How soon the thoughtless course of joy Is doomed to terminate in pain? When prudence would thy steps delay, She but restrains to make thee blest; Whate'er from joy she lops away, But heightens and secures the rest. Wouldst thou a trembling flame expand, That hastens in the lamp to die? With careful touch, with sparing hand, The feeding stream of life supply. But if thy flask profusely sheds A rushing torrent o'er the blaze, Swift round the sinking flame it spreads, And kills the fire it fain would raise. THE VALE OF BOZAA[47] (BY AHMED BEN YUSEF ALMENAZY) The intertwining boughs for thee Have wove, sweet dell, a verdant vest, And thou in turn shalt give to me A verdant couch upon thy breast. To shield me from day's fervid glare Thine oaks their fostering arms extend, As anxious o'er her infant care I've seen a watchful mother bend. A brighter cup, a sweeter draught, I gather from that rill of thine, Than maddening drunkards ever quaff'd, Than all the treasures of the vine. So smooth the pebbles on its shore, That not a maid can thither stray, But counts her strings of jewels o'er, And thinks the pearls have slipped away. TO ADVERSITY[48] (BY ABU MENBAA CARAWASH)