Like sheep, we’re doom’d to travel o’er
    The fated track to all assign’d,
  These follow those that went before,
    And leave the world to those behind.

  As the flock seeks the pasturing shade,
    Man presses to the future day,
  While death, amidst the tufted glade,
    Like the dun robber,[A] waits his prey.

[A] The wolf.

EXTEMPORE VERSES[27]

  Lowering as Barkaidy’s face
    The wintry night came in,
  Cold as the music of his bass,
    And lengthen’d as his chin.

  Sleep from my aching eyes had fled,
    And kept as far apart,
  As sense from Ebn Fahdi’s head,
    Or virtue from his heart.

  The dubious paths my footsteps balk’d,
    I slipp’d along the sod,
  As if on Jaber’s faith I’d walk’d,
    Or on his truth had trod.

  At length the rising King of day
    Burst on the gloomy wood,
  Like Carawash’s eye, whose ray
    Dispenses every good.

Ebn Alramacram.

[27] The occasion of the following composition is thus related by
     Abulfeda.  Carawash, Sultan of Mousel, being one wintry evening
     engaged in a party of pleasure along with Barkaidy, Ebn Fahdi, Abou
     Jaber, and the improvisatore poet, Ebn Alramacram, resolved to
     divert himself at the expense of his companions.  He therefore
     ordered the poet to give a specimen of his talents, which at the
     same time should convey a satire upon the three courtiers, and a
     compliment to himself.  Ebn Alramacram took his subject from the
     stormy appearance of the night, and immediately produced these
     verses.

ON THE DEATH OF A SON[28]

  Tyrant of man!  Imperious Fate! 
    I bow before thy dread decree,
  Nor hope in this uncertain state
    To find a seat secure from thee.

  Life is a dark, tumultuous stream,
    With many a care and sorrow foul,
  Yet thoughtless mortals vainly deem
    That it can yield a limpid bowl.

  Think not that stream will backward flow,
    Or cease its destin’d course to keep;
  As soon the blazing spark shall glow
    Beneath the surface of the deep.

  Believe not Fate at thy command
    Will grant a meed she never gave;
  As soon the airy tower shall stand,
    That’s built upon a passing wave.

  Life is a sleep of threescore years,
    Death bids us wake and hail the light,
  And man, with all his hopes and fears,
    Is but a phantom of the night.

Aly Ben Mohammed Altahmany.

[28] Aly Ben Mohammed was a native of that part of Arabia called Hejaz;
     and was celebrated not only as a poet, but as a politician.

TO LEILA