Long past midnight, disanointed, Prone upon his breast he lay, Warring on that hour appointed: But behold! at break of day,-- As if heaven itself had spoken,-- Blown across the bannered bay, Over mart and mosque outbroken, Came the silver-solemn chime For some parted spirit’s token! Mahmoud, with free breath sublime, Summoned one whose snow-locks heaving Made the vision of hoar Time; And the red tides of thanksgiving On his lifted brow, he said: ‘In my city of the living, Which, proclaimed of bells, is dead?’ And the gray beard answered: ‘Master, One who yesternight for bread At thy gateway’s bronze pilaster Begged in vain: blind Selim, he, Victim of the old disaster.’ And the vassal suddenly Looked on his hard lord with wonder, For those tears were strange to see. II. Yet again, where boughs asunder Held the wavy orchard-tent, Sun-empurpled clusters under In changed mood the Caliph went; And anew heard sounds upgather, (Chidings with caressings blent, As the voice once of his father): ‘Haughty heart! not thou wert wise, Rich, belovèd; Selim, rather, ‘Islam’s prince in Allah’s eyes! Even the meek, in his great station, Freehold had of Paradise.’ III. When the plague-wind’s desolation Pierced Bassora’s burning wall, Circled with a kneeling nation Whom his mercies held in thrall, Died the Caliph, whispering tender Counsel to his liegemen tall: ‘One last service, children! render Me, whose pride the Lord forgave: Not by our supreme Defender, ‘Not beside the holy wave, Not in places where my race is Lay me! but in Selim’s grave.’ THE RISE OF THE TIDE. A FISHERMAN gray, one night of yore, His nets upgathered, plied the oar, Right merrily heading for a haven, While summer winds blew blithe before. He sat beneath his pennon white; His arms were brown, his eye was bright; Twice twenty years his breast had carried A ribbon from Lepanto’s fight. A cove he spied at sunset’s edge, With pleasant trees and margin-sedge; And barefoot went by stakes down-driven Thro’ shallows wading from the ledge, The boat drawn after; but behold! A check fell on his venture bold: He stood imprisoned, vainly leading The ropes in whitening fingers old. Within that black and marshy sound His weight had sunken; he was bound Knee-deep! and as he beat and struggled, The mocking ripples danced around. Long since the wood-thrush ceased her song; The summer wind grew fierce and strong; The shuddering moon went into hiding; Down came the storm to wreak him wrong. Against the prow he leaned his chin, Thinking of all his strength had been; Then turned, and laughed with courage steady: ‘O ho! what straits we twain are in!’