“The almond blossoms in the vale;
    The aloe from the rock
  Throws out its long and prickly leaves,
    Nor dreads the tempest’s shock: 
      A blessed land, I ween, is that,
        Though luckless is its Bey. 
  There lies the sea—­beyond lies France! 
    Her banners in the air
  Float proudly and triumphantly—­
    A salvo! come, prepare! 
      And loud and long the mountains rang
        With that glad artillery.”

  VII.

  “’Tis they!” exclaimed the aged Scheik. 
    “I’ve battled by their side—­
  I fought beneath the Pyramids! 
    That day of deathless pride—­
      Red as thy turban, Moor, that eve,
        Was every creek in Nile! 
  But tell me—­” and he griped his hand—­
    “Their Sultaun.  Stranger, say—­
  His form—­his face—­his posture, man? 
    Thou saw’st him in the fray? 
      His eye—­what wore he?” But the Moor
        Sought in his vest awhile.

  VIII.

  “Their Sultaun, Scheik, remains at home
    Within his palace walls: 
  He sends a Pasha in his stead
    To brave the bolts and balls. 
      He was not there.  An Aga burst
        For him through Atlas’ hold. 
  Yet I can show thee somewhat too. 
    A Frankish Cavalier
  Told me his effigy was stamped
    Upon this medal here—­
      He gave me with others
        For an Arab steed I sold.”

  IX.

  The old man took the golden coin: 
    Gazed steadfastly awhile,
  If that could be the Sultaun
    Whom from the banks of Nile
      He guided o’er the desert path—­
        Then sighed and thus spake he—­
  “’Tis not his eye—­’tis not his brow—­
    Another face is there: 
  I never saw this man before—­
    His head is like a pear! 
      Take back thy medal, Moor—­’tis not
        That which I hoped to see.”

EPITAPH OF CONSTANTINE KANARIS

FROM THE GERMAN OF WILHELM MUeLLER

  I am Constantine Kanaris: 
    I, who lie beneath this stone,
  Twice into the air in thunder
    Have the Turkish galleys blown.

  In my bed I died—­a Christian,
    Hoping straight with Christ to be;
  Yet one earthly wish is buried
    Deep within the grave with me—­

  That upon the open ocean
    When the third Armada came,
  They and I had died together,
    Whirled aloft on wings of flame.

  Yet ’tis something that they’ve laid me
    In a land without a stain: 
  Keep it thus, my God and Saviour,
    Till I rise from earth again!

THE REFUSAL OF CHARON[4]

FROM THE ROMAIC

  Why look the distant mountains
    So gloomy and so drear? 
  Are rain-clouds passing o’er them,
    Or is the tempest near? 
  No shadow of the temptest
    Is there, nor wind nor rain—­
  ’Tis Charon that is passing by,
    With all his gloomy train.