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.

The Caliph Radhi Billah.

[24] Radhi Billah, son to Moctader, was the twentieth Caliph of the
     house of Abbas, and the last of these princes who possessed any
     substantial power.

ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE

  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
    Deem’d 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?

The Caliph Radhi Billah.

TO A DOVE

  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.

Serage Alwarak.

ON A THUNDER STORM

  Bright smil’d the morn, till o’er its head
  The clouds in thicken’d foldings spread
      A robe of sable hue;
  Then, gathering round day’s golden king,
  They stretch’d their wide o’ershadowing wing,
      And hid him from our view.

  The rain his absent beams deplor’d,
  And, soften’d into weeping, pour’d
      Its tears in many a flood;
  The lightning laughed with horrid glare;
  The thunder growl’d, in rage; the air
      In silent sorrow stood.

Ibrahim Ben Khiret Abou Isaac.

TO MY FAVORITE MISTRESS

  I saw their jealous eyeballs roll,
    I saw them mark each glance of mine,
  I saw thy terrors, and my soul
    Shar’d ev’ry pang that tortur’d thine.

  In vain to wean my constant heart,
    Or quench my glowing flame, they strove;
  Each deep-laid scheme, each envious art,
    But wak’d my fears for her I love.