Lebid Ben Rabiat Alamary.

 [1] The author of this poem was a native of Yemen.  He was contemporary
     with Mohammed and was already celebrated as a poet when the prophet
     began to promulgate his doctrines.  Lebid embraced Islamism and was
     one of the most aggressive helpers in its establishment.  He fixed
     his abode in the city of Cufa, where he died at a very advanced age. 
     This elegy, as is evident, was written previous to Lebid’s conversion
     to Islamism.  Its subject is one that must be ever interesting to
     the feeling mind—­the return of a person after a long absence to
     the place of his birth—­in fact it is the Arabian “Deserted Village.”

THE TOMB OF MANO

  Friends of my heart, who share my sighs! 
  Go seek the turf where Mano lies,
  And woo the dewy clouds of spring,
  To sweep it with prolific wing.

  Within that cell, beneath that heap,
  Friendship and Truth and Honor sleep,
  Beneficence, that used to clasp
  The world within her ample grasp.

  There rests entomb’d—­of thought bereft—­
  For were one conscious atom left
  New bliss, new kindness to display,
  ’Twould burst the grave, and seek the day.

  But tho’ in dust thy relics lie,
  Thy virtues, Mano, ne’er shall die;
  Tho’ Nile’s full stream be seen no more,
  That spread his waves from shore to shore,
  Still in the verdure of the plain
  His vivifying smiles remain.

Hassan Alasady.

TOMB OF SAYID[2]

  Blest are the tenants of the tomb! 
    With envy I their lot survey! 
  For Sayid shares the solemn gloom,
    And mingles with their mouldering clay.

  Dear youth!  I’m doom’d thy loss to mourn
    When gathering ills around combine;
  And whither now shall Malec turn,
    Where look for any help but thine?

  At this dread moment when the foe
    My life with rage insatiate seeks,
  In vain I strive to ward the blow,
    My buckler falls, my sabre breaks.

  Upon thy grassy tomb I knelt,
    And sought from pain a short relief—­
  Th’ attempt was vain—­I only felt
    Intenser pangs and livelier grief.

  The bud of woe no more represt,
    Fed by the tears that drench’d it there,
  Shot forth and fill’d my laboring breast
    Soon to expand and shed despair.

  But tho’ of Sayid I’m bereft,
    From whom the stream of bounty came,
  Sayid a nobler meed has left—­
    Th’ exhaustless heritage of fame.

  Tho’ mute the lips on which I hung,
    Their silence speaks more loud to me
  Than any voice from mortal tongue,
    “What Sayid was let Malec be.”

Abd Almalec Alharithy.