TO A FEMALE CUP-BEARER[17]

  Come, Leila, fill the goblet up,
    Reach round the rosy wine,
  Think not that we will take the cup
    From any hand but thine.

  A draught like this ’twere vain to seek,
    No grape can such supply;
  It steals its tint from Leila’s cheek,
    Its brightness from her eye.

Abd Alsalam Ben Ragban.

[17] Abd Alsalam was a poet more remarkable for abilities than morality. 
     We may form an idea of the nature of his compositions from the
     nickname he acquired amongst his contemporaries of Cock of the
     Evil Genii.  He died in the 236th year of the Hegira, aged near
     eighty.

MASHDUD ON THE MONKS OF KHABBET[18]

  Tenants of yon hallow’d fane! 
    Let me your devotions share,
  There increasing raptures reign—­
    None are ever sober there.

  Crowded gardens, festive bowers
    Ne’er shall claim a thought of mine;
  You can give in Khabbet’s towers—­
    Purer joys and brighter wine.

  Tho’ your pallid faces prove
    How you nightly vigils keep,
  ’Tis but that you ever love
    Flowing goblets more than sleep.

  Tho’ your eye-balls dim and sunk
    Stream in penitential guise,
  ’Tis but that the wine you’ve drunk
    Bubbles over from your eyes.

[18] The three following songs were written by Mashdud, Rakeek, and
     Rais, three of the most celebrated improvisators in Bagdad, at an
     entertainment given by Abou Isy.

RAKEEK TO HIS FEMALE COMPANIONS

  Tho’ the peevish tongues upbraid,
    Tho’ the brows of wisdom scowl,
  Fair ones here on roses laid,
    Careless will we quaff the bowl.

  Let the cup, with nectar crown’d,
    Thro’ the grove its beams display,
  It can shed a lustre round,
    Brighter than the torch of day.

  Let it pass from hand to hand,
    Circling still with ceaseless flight,
  Till the streaks of gray expand
    O’er the fleeting robe of night.

  As night flits, she does but cry,
    “Seize the moments that remain”—­
  Thus our joys with yours shall vie,
    Tenants of yon hallow’d fane!

DIALOGUE BY RAIS

  Rais: 

  Maid of sorrow, tell us why
    Sad and drooping hangs thy head? 
  Is it grief that bids thee sigh? 
    Is it sleep that flies thy bed?

  Lady: 

  Ah!  I mourn no fancied wound,
    Pangs too true this heart have wrung,
  Since the snakes which curl around
    Selim’s brows my bosom stung.

  Destin’d now to keener woes,
    I must see the youth depart,
  He must go, and as he goes
    Rend at once my bursting heart.