Hail, chastening friend Adversity! 'Tis thine The mental ore to temper and refine, To cast in virtue's mold 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 formed, great artist, by thy magic hand, I gleam a sword to conquer and command. ON THE INCOMPATIBILITY OF PRIDE AND TRUE GLORY[49] (BY ABU ALOLA) Think not, Abdallah, pride and fame Can ever travel hand in hand; With breast opposed, 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 increased is lessened 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 lengthened space from day. THE DEATH OF NEDHAM ALMOLK (BY SHEBAL ADDAULET) Thy virtues famed through every land, Thy spotless life, in age and youth, Prove thee a pearl, by nature's hand, Formed out of purity and truth. Too long its beams of Orient light Upon a thankless world were shed; Allah has now revenged the slight, And called it to its native bed. TO A LADY No, Abla, no—when Selim tells Of many an unknown grace that dwells In Abla's face and mien, When he describes the sense refined, That lights thine eye and fills thy mind, By thee alone unseen. 'Tis not that drunk with love he sees Ideal charms, which only please Through passion's partial veil, 'Tis not that flattery's glozing tongue Hath basely framed an idle song, But truth that breathed the tale. Thine eyes unaided ne'er could trace Each opening charm, each varied grace, That round thy person plays; Some must remain concealed from thee, For Selim's watchful eye to see, For Selim's tongue to praise. One polished mirror can declare That eye so bright, that face so fair, That cheek which shames the rose; But how thy mantle waves behind, How float thy tresses on the wind, Another only shows. AN EPIGRAM[50] Whoever has recourse to thee Can hope for health no more, He's launched into perdition's sea, A sea without a shore. Where'er admission thou canst gain, Where'er thy phiz can pierce, At once the Doctor they retain, The mourners and the hearse. ON A LITTLE MAN WITH A VERY LARGE BEARD (BY ISAAC BEN KHALIF) How can thy chin that burden bear? Is it all gravity to shock? Is it to make the people stare? And be thyself a laughing stock? When I behold thy little feet After thy beard obsequious run, I always fancy that I meet Some father followed by his son.