THE ARAB WARRIOR.

FROM THE ARABIC.

O'ER yawning rocks abrupt that scowl
Terrific o'er the ostrich grey,

Where fairies scream and demons howl,
I fearless hold my midnight way.

Though pitchy black around expand

The cavern'd darkness of the tomb,

I fearless stretch my groping hand,
That seems to feel the thickening gloom.

I pass, and on their desert bed

Forsake my weary slumbering band,

That languid droop the drowsy head,

Like berries nodding o'er the sand.

I plunge in darkness overjoy'd,

That seems a circumambient sea,

Though dreary gape the lonely void,
And awful to each man, but me.

Where guides are lost, where shrieks the owl Her dirge, where men in wild affright

Fly the hyena's famish'd howl,

I plunge amid the shades of night.

FROM THE ARABIC

OF TABÂT SHIRRA.

ON REVENGING THE BLOOD OF HIS UNCLE, WHO HAD BEEN MURDERED BY THE CHIEF OF THE TRIBE OF HUDDEIL.

DEEP in the riven rock he lies

His blood no more for

vengeance cries;

Its deadly weight I heave away,
Which grievous on my shoulders lay.
So thought he, on that day of pain,
The chieftain mingled with the slain:
"My sister's son shall 'venge my fame,
That youth whom perils ne'er can tame,
Whose snake-like eyes with venom glow,
When bends his brent brow on the foe."

Sad was the tale, that day of pain,
That such a chief had join'd the slain;
His kindred's bosoms felt the shock;
It struck me like a mighty rock:

So fortune strikes the soul elate

That scorns to truckle to his fate.

How grand a chieftain have we lost!

A sun was he in winter's frost,
Yet still when fiercest heats invade,
To all his tribe a cooling shade.
Spare in his form, of diet spare,
But not from greed or niggard care;
Prudent and wise, at honour's call
His generous hand was spread to all;
To friends a cloud of vernal rain,
A lion on the battling plain.

The path of death, unknown to yield,
He trod, and dauntless press'd the field.
Graceful his steps, with garments fair,
In peace long flow'd his raven hair ;
Gaunt as a wolf in deadly fray,
That hunger-bitten darts on prey.

In him were ever wont to meet

The bitterest bitter, sweetest sweet;
To friends still dearer wont to grow ;

No bitterer morsel to his foe;

With sword deep-jagg'd and sharp at need, He rode grim Terror like a steed.

Far to the south, with weapons bright,
We trod by day, we trod by night,

Each sharp-set youth with sharp-edg'd blade,
Where lambent levin-terrors play'd,

And rathly, e'er the dawn of day,

We reach'd the robbers where they lay.

Sipping sweet slumber's draughts they slept :

They nodded as we near them crept :

They wak'd- but vengeance seiz'd her prey:

Few 'scap'd alive I wot, that day,

What though beneath Huddeila's stroke

Our chieftain's blade of battle broke;

Yet this I live in song to tell,

It broke not till Huddeila fell.
On a harsh soil he stumbling lit
Where many a camel's hoof was split.
A dire repast for many a day
We gave and took of blood and prey.

Now have I seen red vengeance fall,

I, whom extremes can ne'er appal,
Who triumph in my keenest woe,
(So be the same may goad the foe;)
Who, parch'd with vengeance, keenly rear
And drench in blood my thirsty spear.