Let thyself bend and call thy servitor,
  Inhabitant of Tunis—­city green. 
  I will apologize and come to thee,
  O cruel one, with heavy frontlets dark. 
  We’ve heard the story of thy deeds so fine. 
  From common brass whene’er thou walk’st abroad,
  Thou drawest silver pure, queen of thy time,
  ’Mongst men illumined by thy piety. 
  The wretch, led on by love, accosted thee. 
  Receiving grace, despite his base design
  He was, nathless, forgiven and saved from sin;
  So was it from eternity decreed. 
  They all consulted thee, queen of thy day,
  And thou didst answer:  “This man truly loved. 
  Pour him a cup of wine.”  By thee he came
  Unto perfection’s acme, step by step. 
  Our Lord, all-powerful, gave to thee this power.

These are thy merits, fairest citizen! 
To whom God gave strength irresistible. 
O beauty with enchanting eyes, Aycha,
Our queen.

             Si Alimed Khoudja, greatest bard
  Of all that time, has said:  “I wrote these words
  The year one thousand one hundred just,
  But thou who read’st these lines, where’er it be,
  Add to these numbers, after ninety-eight.” 
  Now I salute all those united here
  And him who hates me here I steep in scorn. 
  Why? why?  El Mannoubyya!  Why?

SAYD AND HYZYYA

  Give me your consolation, noble friends;
  The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb. 
  A burning fire consumes my aching breast;
  I am undone.  Alas!  O cruel fate! 
  My heart’s with slim Hyzyya in the grave.

  Alas! we were so happy a short while
  Ago, just like the prairie flow’rs in spring;
  How sweet to us was life in those dear days! 
  Now like a phantom’s shadow she has gone,
  That young gazelle, of utter loveliness. 
  Removed by stern, inevitable fate.

  When she walked forth, not looking right or left,
  My beauteous loved one rendered fools the wise. 
  Impressed thus was the great bey of the camp. 
  A gleaming poniard rested in his belt. 
  He went hemmed in by soldiers and a horde
  Of horsemen, glad to follow where he led. 
  All haste to bring him costly gifts.  He bore
  A sabre of the Ind, and with one stroke
  He cleaved a bar of iron, split a rock. 
  How many rebels fell beneath his blow! 
  Haughty and proud, he challenged all who came. 
  Enough now we have glorified the bey. 
  Speak, singer, in a song that’s sweet and new,
  The praises of the dainty girl I loved,
  The daughter of good Ahmed ben el Bey.

  Give me your consolation, noble friends;
  The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb. 
  A burning fire consumes my aching breast;
  I am undone!  Alas!  O cruel fate!