EASTERN SONGS
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 EASTERN SONGS
 
 TANCRED AND BIANDRADA.
 
 EASTERN SONGS 
 
 BY 
 
 BEN KENDIM 
 
 William Blackwood 8c Sons 
 
 Edinburgh and London 
 
 1911 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 PR 
 
 TO 
 <SMY MOTHER 
 
 881890
 
 I HAVE to thank the Editors of the 
 ' Spectator,' the ' Cornhill Magazine,' 
 and the 'Westminster Gazette/ for 
 their kind permission to reprint verses 
 which they have published from time 
 to time.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Ballad of Tancred and Biandrada. Italy . . I 
 
 Two Ways. Malay, 1903 5 
 
 The Insurgents' Song. Serfidje, 1904 ... 6 
 
 Bismarck. Italy, 1906 10 
 
 The Impenitent. Tetton, M., 1906 . . -13 
 Ballad of King Henry. Teversal . . .14 
 
 Galahad (a New Version). Red Sea, 1903 . . 16 
 
 Korea. Japan, 1903 18 
 
 The Holy Half-wit The Scholar .... 20 
 
 The Crusader 25 
 
 Damascus Gate. London, 1908 .... 26 
 Sardinian Song. Sassari, 1907 .... 27 
 
 The Grand Vizier. Ceylon 29 
 
 The Albanian in the Yemen. Constantinople . 30 
 The Book-Lover . . . . . . -34 
 
 The Mountaineer. London, 1907 . . . 36 
 The Saint in the Desert 38
 
 x Contents. 
 
 The Monk. 1908 42 
 
 By Jeddah Town. Sydney, 1908 .... 43 
 
 Success and Failure. Melbourne, 1908 ... 47 
 
 The Lahz 48 
 
 Turkish Proverbs 50 
 
 E poi . Egypt, 1908 . . . .51 
 
 Monte di Rosamarina 54 
 
 The Dreamer and the Armenian Fortune-Teller . 55 
 
 Michael Angelo's Dawn. Riyeka, 1906 ... 58 
 
 Grace before Sleep. London, 1909 ... 60 
 
 A Song of Rivers. London, 1909 .... 62 
 
 The Ballad Yvonne. London, 1909 ... 67 
 Ahmed Ali on Woman's Suffrage. Constantinople, 
 
 1910 70 
 
 Semanghellina and the Mad blooded Youth. 
 
 Seville, 1910 74
 
 POEMS. 
 
 A BALLAD OF TANCRED AND 
 BIANDRADA. 
 
 To E. 
 
 THE wind was half asleep among the pine, 
 
 The moon rose trembling in a faint, red flame, 
 
 A drowsy fragrance filled the mountain vine, 
 When down the mountain Tancred came. 
 
 He strode through shadowy woods ; gay in the 
 
 strength 
 
 Of life, he sought the violence of the sea, 
 And through the shadows his sword's naked length 
 Answered the moonlight's purity. 
 A
 
 A Ballad of Tancred and Biandrada. 
 
 He felt a furious lust of mastery, 
 
 An eagerness to fight the foam and tide, 
 
 To strike the slumber from the sea, or die 
 In the possession of his bride. 
 
 She stole like holy incense from the wood, 
 To bring calm worship to the Virgin's shrine, 
 
 Intent on prayer, forgetful if she stood 
 Or knelt, to Mary of the Pine. 
 
 The tender stars were tangled in her hair, 
 
 The dewdrops fought for light about her feet, 
 
 She was so beautiful a man would swear 
 God's Mother walked to make night sweet. 
 
 She came a Queen, unconscious, unaware 
 Of all her wealth and weight of sovereignty, 
 
 Her kingdom but an innocence so rare 
 That all men paid it fealty. 
 
 She prayed for dead folks that she never knew, 
 Her prayers were like white arrows archers loose, 
 
 A flash of light ascending through the blue, 
 In the deep stillness of God's Truce.
 
 A Ballad of Tancred and Biandrada. 3 
 
 The silver of the moonlight grew more dim, 
 His ears were deaf to the sea's wistful call, 
 
 To watch one red leaf was enough for him, 
 A leaf her hair caught in its fall. 
 
 A child she knelt, where light and shadows wed, 
 He watched the reverence of her attitude, 
 
 The adoration of her bended head, 
 That was so fair against the wood. 
 
 She said, " Give men the peace my spirit shows," 
 (Through moonlit peace her thoughts went up 
 to God;) 
 
 She prayed, " Give me the peace that no man knows, 
 
 Your thought when first You made the rose, 
 
 Your miracle before repose," 
 
 Then to her side Prince Tancred trod. 
 
 Prince Tancred spoke, " Will you teach me to pray, 
 Interpret what I cannot understand, 
 
 God, answered by each woodland way, 
 The praise of His by sea and land ? " 
 And " Yes," she said, and took his hand.
 
 4 A Ballad of Tancred and Biandrada. 
 
 She gave him seven kisses, kisses sweet, 
 But only one, the first, in Mary's name. 
 
 She bowed her head. The dew that touched his 
 
 feet 
 Flashed in her hair in points of flame. 
 
 Once more she sought the Virgin of the Pine, 
 But where before she knelt, Biandrada lay. 
 
 She wept, " O where I lost it by your shrine, 
 Give back to me my power to pray."
 
 TWO WAYS. 
 
 GOOD-BYE, my friend, our ways part here, 
 The dawn grows white, for us to start ; 
 
 We've travelled far, and without fear, 
 We never thought our ways would part. 
 
 The highroad was not made for me, 
 I want the woods where dawn lies wet. 
 
 Your goal lies onward, where you see ; 
 The forest hills hide mine as yet. 
 
 You thought my way would still be yours, 
 Straight as an arrow in its track ? 
 
 Good-bye again ; don't wait or pause ; 
 It's I who turn aside or back. 
 
 Your steps ring on the causeway clear, 
 All men may see the road you pass. 
 
 You will not see my way, nor hear 
 My steps among the secret grass.
 
 THE INSURGENTS' SONG. 
 
 YE who preach to us patience, how deep do ye 
 
 deem our wrong? 
 O rulers of Christian nations, have ye waited in 
 
 patience long ? 
 Have ye prayed on the open hill, out under the 
 
 naked sky, 
 " God grant that the Kurd may kill, that our women 
 
 at home may die " ? 
 
 Have ye mocked at the Sacred Name, for the sake 
 
 of another's life, 
 Nor flinched at the filthy shame, that sears like a 
 
 red-hot knife ? 
 Have ye known what was past despair, as ye stooped 
 
 to a dying wife, 
 O ye who have said, " Forbear ; have done with your 
 
 wanton strife " ?
 
 The Insurgents' Song. 7 
 
 We have watched how an old priest dies, from the 
 
 sickness that men call fear, 
 Blank dread in his tortured eyes, we have heard what 
 
 we would not hear ; 
 We have listened to children's cries ; seen when we 
 
 would be blind 
 Maids treated in shameful wise. We have waited, 
 
 we know our mind. 
 
 Have ye fled in the sickly dawn, before it was yet 
 
 too late, 
 With a child on your arm, new-born, leaving cripples 
 
 to find their fate ? 
 Our altars were foul with mud, when we came to the 
 
 homes we fled, 
 Smelt the reek of our kinsmen's blood, thanked God 
 
 that the dead were dead. 
 
 By the fires of our own homes, red, we have lifted 
 
 our hands to God, 
 We have sworn that we would not tread the way that 
 
 our fathers trod,
 
 8 The Insurgents' Song. 
 
 We have sworn to the gentle Christ for vengeance 
 
 alone to live, 
 For the sum of their guilt sufficed. Let God, if He 
 
 can, forgive. 
 
 O Lords who are strong and wise, shall we take what 
 
 our masters give ? 
 Better die as a wild beast dies than live as the cattle 
 
 live. 
 Is there one of your words unbroken, your promise 
 
 of pleasant things ? 
 Our innocent dead are token of the worth of the 
 
 words of kings. 
 
 Ye are girdled with safety, Preachers, ye know that 
 
 your lives are sure, 
 Ye would give us your wisdom, Teachers, and bid us 
 
 "Endure, endure," 
 Ye never have hated night for the sake of those that 
 
 are dear, 
 Ye say, "Ye are mad with fright" by God, we have 
 
 met with fear.
 
 The Insurgents' Song. 9 
 
 Now listen to us, O Lords, to your " brethren " about 
 
 to die, 
 Have done with your oaths and words, or be damned 
 
 with your own damned lie, 
 For surely as Christ was slain, and surely as Christ 
 
 arose, 
 We have called on you, called in vain. Now we 
 
 fight to that end God knows.
 
 10 
 
 BISMARCK. 
 
 5n dRemoriam. 
 
 (Cf. BUSCH.) 
 
 To R. A. 
 
 You planned a splendid Empire, fit to greet 
 As sister, the fair Monarchies that shone of old. 
 The kings who crouched, you scorned beneath your 
 
 feet, 
 
 To you men's cry for mercy was an idle bleat, 
 You forged your Empire, shod with steel and 
 
 crowned in gold. 
 
 To you the misery of sword and flame, 
 The supplication of the women whose sons die, 
 Was half a jest. You made your iron name, 
 And gave your Empire life through roots of 
 treachery.
 
 Bismarck. 1 1 
 
 France felt the venom of your bitter hate, 
 You struck the mem'ry that was Austria to the'mud, 
 And gallant Denmark groaned beneath your rod, 
 While in your heart you bade the English wait 
 To pay their toll of gold and agony of blood. 
 
 You planned superbly, like an architect 
 
 Who dedicates his soul to stone, to the stone's hurt. 
 
 You smirched your work, and left your Empire 
 
 wreck't, 
 Beneath the legacy of all your load of dirt. 
 
 By your vitality you fired a force, 
 
 Whose cunning conquered kings in devious subtle 
 
 ways, 
 
 You made a trick of marriage and divorce, 
 And when you touched them even lovely things grew 
 
 coarse, 
 Beneath the tyranny of your coarse phrase. 
 
 Years shall record your gift of cruel patience, 
 Blood, constant, drop by drop, anointed your grim 
 
 throne. 
 
 Your name stinks in the nostrils of the nations, 
 Your work stands sick with infamy, and stands alone.
 
 1 2 Bismarck. 
 
 You made your violent Empire, haughty, strong, 
 And in its way you trampled corn and wasted fruit, 
 Invoked great God to witness your worst wrong, 
 And gave your creature music, in the piteous song 
 That rose from conquered streets beneath the 
 Prussian boot. 
 
 Yours was the glory never to relent, 
 
 Till guiltless, humbled countries gratified your 
 
 mood, 
 
 The curses of the conquered made your life content, 
 In death receive your wreath of " Teuton " gratitude. 
 
 Pray then that you be utterly forgot, 
 
 You and your triumphs, mean bargains of your 
 
 trade, 
 
 Friendship a feint, your sacrament a plot, 
 Your lies the twins of oaths, your kiss before your 
 
 shot, 
 Creator of the people you betrayed.
 
 THE IMPENITENT. 
 
 To M. H. 
 
 I WENT a pilgrim to a shrine, 
 
 But at the shrine I could not pray, 
 
 For, Heaven help me, on the way 
 I revelled in a foreign wine. 
 
 I trod a noonday path through trees, 
 
 Where leaves were cool and shadows deep 
 
 And calm as twilight on dim seas, 
 
 That fills the heart and soul with sleep. 
 
 I passed an inn, blue waves below, 
 Blue sky, a mountain's height above, 
 
 And there I saw the wine I love 
 Red wine that the Italians grow. 
 
 Now much as I desire to pray 
 
 At that saint's grave where candles shine, 
 If once again I pass that way, 
 
 I'll revel in the foreign wine.
 
 BALLAD OF KING HENRY. 
 
 To K. A. 
 
 DEAD is King Henry, dead of his pain, 
 
 Dead in his marble palace at Liege ; 
 
 He has fought with the Saxon, fought with the Dane, 
 
 Striven with France and conquered Lorraine, 
 
 Great in the battle, stiff in the siege, 
 
 But a mist from the hills stole out one night, 
 
 And darkened his eyes of their windy light. 
 
 Dead is King Henry, dead of his grief, 
 
 Tired was the Emperor, spent was the Conqueror, 
 
 Enemies had he, passing belief, 
 
 Son of his body, Duke of his fief, 
 
 Only the poor man, he was his follower, 
 
 Worshipped his Kaiser, died for his chief.
 
 Ballad of King Henry. 1 5 
 
 They have borne him away, his few cavaliers, 
 
 From Liege on to Aix, from Aix to Cologne, 
 
 His litter the shafts of sycamore spears, 
 
 A pine for his coffin, and poor men his peers, 
 
 Who followed the wind to conquer a throne, 
 
 But stars are the candles that burn round his head, 
 
 And the river he fought for shall make him a bed. 
 
 The Pope he would send his spirit to Hell, 
 
 And cast forth his body on to the wold, 
 
 But his warriors loved him, they loved him well, 
 
 They marched with him singing, from Rhine to 
 
 Moselle, 
 
 The poor folk followed, too many to tell, 
 They have covered his bier with red marigold, 
 And the Bishop of Liege has rung him a knell. 
 
 The Lord Pope sleeps in porphyry, 
 
 Wrapped in a golden sheet, 
 But the splendid soul of King Henry 
 
 Sits at Our Lady's feet.
 
 i6 
 
 GALAHAD. 
 
 A NEW VERSION. 
 
 HER hair was brown, but dusted gold 
 Shone on it, by a young wind blown 
 
 It lived in light and seemed to hold 
 The sun or starshine for its own. 
 
 Her eyes were like Our Lady's, grey, 
 They ransomed light for other light, 
 
 They were a day-dream of the day, 
 The echo of a perfect night. 
 
 The beauty of her face compelled 
 All thought, all reason, everything, 
 
 Yet half withdrew and just withheld 
 The crown of its imagining.
 
 Galahad. 1 7 
 
 Her step was like a soft leaf's fall 
 That wakes the sleeper in a wood. 
 
 It came, and when it went then all 
 
 Had gone from life that seemed most good. 
 
 One instant, for a moment's space, 
 
 She stood before him where he prayed ; 
 
 He felt her eyes, he felt her face, 
 
 The wind that touched her in the glade. 
 
 He left his prayer, forgot the place, 
 
 Forgot his vision of the Grail, 
 He saw her eyes, her hair, her face 
 
 His hilt-cross struck the altar rail. 
 
 The music ceased like daylight spent 
 He never cast one glance behind, 
 
 But followed on the way she went 
 A hidden way, and hard to find.
 
 18 
 
 KOREA. 
 To CYNTHIA. 
 
 BETWEEN two seas there lies a land I know, 
 A land of sand, high-breasted hills most dear 
 To listless winds and streams that hardly flow 
 So burdened with dead leaves for half the year, 
 A land of sand, too desolate for fear. 
 
 It is a place of grief, beyond belief, 
 With miseries too manifold to mourn. 
 Soft-feathered winds of spring bring no relief, 
 And summer gives no golden crown to corn, 
 A stricken place, whose face God keeps forlorn. 
 
 From winter till the autumn's creeping gold 
 Has flushed the forests, Memory is made 
 The King of all, a great Lord, sullen-souled, 
 He holds the mountain and the plain afraid, 
 A monstrous King whose kingdom has decayed.
 
 Korea. 19 
 
 There day gives way to day, as dream to dreams, 
 
 And men are intimate with death as sleep ; 
 
 White - robed they pray dead gods beside dead 
 
 streams, 
 
 By stagnant streams that wander to the deep ; 
 And still, by plain and hill half-shadows creep.
 
 20 
 
 THE HOLY HALF-WIT THE 
 SCHOLAR. 
 
 (DUOLOGUE.) 
 To E. C. 
 
 WHICH is the way you travel, and do you travel far, 
 And is the light you follow the daylight or a star ? 
 Oh, do you rise at morning, and when the sun sets, 
 
 red, 
 Find rest in a green valley, and moss to make your 
 
 bed? 
 
 I do not follow sun or star, nor any lights that wane, 
 My spirit knows her minister. I feel nor drought 
 
 nor rain. 
 
 To tired feet no way is sweet ; I journey past desire, 
 It is my goal to cleanse my soul in her white-kindled 
 
 fire.
 
 The Holy Half-wit The Scholar. 21 
 
 But on your weary marches have you no trusted 
 
 friend, 
 
 A comrade in the desert, to cheer you and defend, 
 With songs as clear as water, and a sword that's 
 
 keen and gay, 
 Against the scorching sands, or the tribes that bar 
 
 the way ? 
 
 I travel east and travel west, and like a child at play, 
 I play with leaves when I take rest to wait what God 
 
 shall say. 
 There are no tribes to bid me halt ; my spirit leaves 
 
 behind 
 Dead weeds of passion that my fault has sown when 
 
 I was blind. 
 
 You wander past dim gardens, where lovely wild 
 
 flowers grow, 
 Where night that shuts the lilies comes with the 
 
 flireflies' glow ; 
 At dusk you pass by maidens with wreaths upon their 
 
 hair, 
 To seek a shadowy Majesty who heeds no shadow 
 
 prayer.
 
 22 The Holy Half -wit The ScJiolar. 
 
 The budding leaves, the leaves that fade, dead leaves 
 
 the wind blows by, 
 By Him commanded, sun and shade, are God and 
 
 He is I. 
 For east or west the way I trod is south and north 
 
 the same 
 The end and the beginning God, and God is not a 
 
 name. 
 
 There's pain in the beginning, our mother's pain at 
 
 birth ; 
 There's pain in losing, winning, till earth goes back 
 
 to earth. 
 Inshallah in the morning, when the dew is on the 
 
 grass, 
 We'll drink our wine together, let clouds and wisdom 
 
 pass. 
 
 I'll drink of wine with you, my friend, though 
 
 friendlier is my rill, 
 
 That rises at the rainbow's end, beside the daffodil. 
 I have no rule but the one thought that leads me on 
 
 the way, 
 The lesson that my soul was taught she ponders 
 
 night and day.
 
 The Holy Half -wit The Scholar. 23 
 
 You tire your head with thinking where poplar 
 
 breezes blow, 1 
 Then let your thoughts like wild doves roost at the 
 
 afterglow. 
 You have not prayed at Meccah, do you keep 
 
 Ramadan ? 
 Old man, you crave a saintship, your saintship's not 
 
 begun. 
 
 Yes, thou art right, for I delayed and squandered 
 what I had, 
 
 And though at many shrines I prayed my soul was 
 never glad. 
 
 But now the whole world is my shrine, I never ask 
 Him "why," 2 
 
 The beetle in the dust His sign, His sign the rain- 
 bow sky. 
 
 The meaning of the promise that you bestow on men 
 Is this, " Forego your pleasure, for God shall give 
 again," 
 
 1 Kavak yelleri, the poplar breezes blow in his head, a 
 Turkish synonym for madness or restlessness. 
 
 2 Bichun. He of whom no reasons are inquired. One of the 
 names of God.
 
 24 The Holy Half -wit The Scholar. 
 
 You rise above our weakness and count yourself a 
 
 saint ; 
 I pray the wind of Heaven, blow sweet with this 
 
 world's taint. 
 
 A child that passed fell on the way. He said, " Wait 
 
 but a while," 
 When comfort made the child as gay, he left him 
 
 with a smile, 
 The man had gone. He mused, "Words have but 
 
 little use. They fail. 
 
 Between the path I trod and tread, a loaf of bread, 
 Between the living and the dead, God knows, so 
 
 frail a veil," 
 
 And took his staff, for he was lame.
 
 THE CRUSADER. 
 
 YOUR face holds that which men might seek, 
 As great knights sought the Holy Grail, 
 
 With thoughts more pure than man may speak, 
 In deeds as splendid where men fail. 
 
 Your voice is like the sound of things 
 That every hillman knows and loves, 
 
 The wind on harps of many strings, 
 The pine-trees answer to the doves. 
 
 The revelation that you are 
 
 Is this and more than this to me, 
 
 The harbour lights, however far, 
 That lost men cry to on the sea.
 
 26 
 
 DAMASCUS GATE. 
 TO v. 
 
 SHE went to bargain in the city, 
 And passed a beggar by her gate, 
 
 And he was wretched, so from pity 
 She gave, because his need was great. 
 
 And this was like her, that she gave 
 
 In charity without a thought 
 A coin of gold, for " gold can save," 
 
 (She said) " what gold has never bought." 
 
 The beggar followed where she went, 
 
 Forgot his hunger for a star, 
 And when at last, her money spent, 
 
 She could not buy in the bazaar, 
 
 He said, " Take back your gift, I pray, 
 Do me this honour, once my due." 
 
 She bought with it red silk, and grey, 
 And that was very like her, too.
 
 2 7 
 
 SARDINIAN SONG. 
 
 To ALATHEA. 
 
 TAKE my hand, and come with me, 
 And we will unlock the gate, 
 To the way of porphyry, 
 And the woods of pomegranate. 
 Take the key at break of day 
 (Hushed the dawn and cool the grass), 
 Calm anemonies the way, 
 And your eyes as calm as they, 
 White the way white feet shall pass. 
 
 You will give me keys to Heaven, 
 Rest in groves of pomegranate ? 
 It's a weary way to Heaven, 
 And the doors are shut to hate. 
 There's a path that threads the pine, 
 Till it's faint, and spent, and lost ; 
 There's a sorrow that is mine, 
 By a Cross among the pine, 
 And it's I must pay its cost.
 
 28 Sardinian Song. 
 
 White anemonies are still, 
 When the friendly fern-winds cease, 
 But I know a hidden hill 
 Standing in a deeper peace. 
 Once you knew that hill at least, 
 Cara mia Maddelena, 
 Tell your burden to the priest, 
 At confession turn you east, 
 Scorda tu la tua pena. 
 
 I have wanted, wanted rest, 
 But there comes the call I hear, 
 And I must fulfil my quest, 
 Oh, its end is very near. 
 For the way that I must tread 
 Ends among the whispering trees, 
 Where low litanies are said, 
 By the dying leaves and dead, 
 And no birds sing overhead, 
 Nor are there anemonies.
 
 2 9 
 
 THE GRAND VIZIER. 
 
 To C. F. M. 
 
 AND I will be a Queen, said she, and you my Grand 
 
 Vizier, 
 And Uncle George shall rule my house, and John be 
 
 charioteer. 
 And he picked cowslips in the field, which she gave 
 
 back to him, 
 And they enjoyed the summer day until the day 
 
 grew dim. 
 
 And later as the years went by, she did become a 
 
 Queen, 
 But Uncle George said, "Thank you, no"; John's 
 
 grave had long been green. 
 The boy worked well as Grand Vizier, but not with 
 
 all his heart, 
 He thought "To pick her cowslips would be a 
 
 better part."
 
 THE ALBANIAN IN THE YEMEN. 
 To KIAZIM BEY. 
 
 Is there rest beneath a palm-tree and contentment 
 
 in its shade, 
 In the splendour of the desert, where high resolves 
 
 are made ? 
 Level tracks of yellow marches where the sunrise 
 
 bids us start, 
 On to warfare in the morning, when a man must 
 
 play his part. 
 
 Camels know their place for kneeling, and the pigeon 
 
 knows her tree, 
 But the Yemen sands are burning, and the desert 
 
 winds hate me; 
 I shall have no rest from marching till the coolness 
 
 of the shade 
 Of the cypresses of Prisrend, when my debt of hate 
 
 is paid.
 
 The Albanian in the Yemen. 31 
 
 There are vultures in the Yemen, not the eagles of 
 
 my land, 
 There are red flowers in the Yemen, but at home 
 
 wild Lady's hand 1 
 Grows around my house at Prisrend where each year 
 
 the same storks nest ; 
 Oh to hear their wings a-clapping, when my friends 
 
 and I take rest ! 
 
 Shall I come again at evening, to the valley of our 
 
 Drin, 
 See the afterglow through twilight where as white 
 
 as a girl's skin 
 Snow is shining on the mountains, and above the 
 
 snow a star, 
 Inshallah in the evening, but takdir tedbiri bozar ? 2 
 
 I would give the rest of life before I reach the Calm 
 Abode 3 
 
 But to see the mountain faces that the racing fire- 
 light showed, 
 
 1 Lady's hand, Turkish name for honeysuckle. 
 
 2 Takdir tedbiri bozar, God's decree breaks man's intention. 
 J Ikhtihali-dar-i-baka, the Abode of Permanence.
 
 32 The Albanian in the Yemen. 
 
 And with friends to sit and finger the old pedlar's 
 
 wares, Ferhan, 
 Hear them call at dawn, and linger by the crimson 
 
 erghawan. 1 
 
 There behind the harem windows, lattice windows 
 
 that look blind, 
 Just beyond the swaying cypresses, I know what I 
 
 shall find, 
 Pertev endaz, nuri ainem, she whose voice is attar 
 
 sweet, 2 
 And whose love is to my spirit as the rain is to the 
 
 wheat. 
 
 If I find my foe from Debra, and I never see her 
 
 face, 
 I have many friends in Prisrend, there'll be stones 
 
 to mark the place 3 
 
 1 Erghawan, Judas trees. 
 
 2 Pertev endaz, &c., casting rays, darling of my soul. 
 
 3 When a man is killed because of jak (blood), in Albania, 
 they mark the place with white stones.
 
 The Albanian in the Yemen. 33 
 
 So my spirit shall find quiet, with my head below 
 
 white stones, 
 When the melting snow has roused the Drin till all 
 
 his water drones. 
 
 The white Drin and the black Drin, fierce brethren 
 
 of a feud, 
 They storm the savage winter, a gallant mountain 
 
 brood ; 
 But the challenge of their turmoil will be music dear 
 
 to me, 
 Who hate the tide of crawling sand and the sand-red 
 
 sea.
 
 34 
 
 THE BOOK-LOVER. 
 
 You only love a light that's far, 
 
 You fix your eyes upon a star 
 
 And will not look where glowworms are, 
 
 Nor lamps that light men down the street. 
 
 You have, you think, a perfect creed, 
 Your gospel heals no wounds that bleed, 
 You look too high to care or heed 
 Whether you trample rose or weed 
 Beneath inexorable feet. 
 
 On earth you miss the best of all, 
 
 You do not hear the wild birds call, 
 
 Nor music of the waterfall, 
 
 And winds that are more musical 
 
 Than David's harp that soothed King Saul.
 
 The Book- Lover. 35 
 
 There is no Heaven where you fare, 
 Nor where you seek Him is God there, 
 But emptiness that is despair. 
 
 You pass your hope by in a dream, 
 And barter truth for things that seem ; 
 My paradise of wood and stream 
 Is nearer Heaven than you deem.
 
 THE MOUNTAINEER. 
 
 I PAY my court in the open day, 
 A song and a laugh and a shining blade. 
 The hermit who hears me forgets to pray, 
 The sunburnt peasant throws down his spade, 
 The merchant of spices grows tired of trade, 
 When I am in love in the noon of May. 
 
 The envious anchorite marks my way, 
 
 The shepherd forgets that his sheep have strayed 
 
 Through the green of the vines to the olive's grey, 
 
 The trader curses his sordid trade, 
 
 Amber and rubies, Chinese jade 
 
 " Better, far better his lot," they say.
 
 The Mountaineer. 37 
 
 If love be in vain, I will take my sword, 
 
 No part of my joy will I leave behind, 
 
 But swimming the rivers I cannot ford, 
 
 I shall come to the hills that are always kind, 
 
 My hills I would seek, though my eyes were blind, 
 
 More dear to my feet than soft lawns abroad. 
 
 If love is not mine, there is this for me, 
 
 A cliff full of shadows where beech leaves fall, 
 
 The song of the wind on a sunlit sea, 
 
 The sound of the waves that are free, free, free, 
 
 While the evening star lights my festival.
 
 THE SAINT IN THE DESERT. 
 
 (A DUOLOGUE.) 
 
 Is there certainty of Heaven, an abode for when 
 
 I die? 
 
 Man dare not be apostate beneath an evening sky ; 
 I stretch my hand towards it, yet I fear to touch 
 
 the ark, 
 There is hope while twilight lingers, shall I find it 
 
 after dark? 
 
 The fly that's caged in amber, be sure she has a soul, 
 And nothing passes through the world, but pays 
 
 the world a toll. 
 
 I know the way to freedom ; believe, distracted one, 
 The fly shall leave the amber when her prison days 
 
 are done.
 
 The Saint in the Desert. 39 
 
 Instruction is for morning, your philosophy is late, 
 Though evening's kin to daybreak, there is night 
 
 beyond the gate. 
 
 I have no time for lessons, and but little time to wait, 
 For written on my forehead is the burden of my fate. 
 
 The stars that shine above you are but sisters in 
 
 their light 
 To shadows of wild violet leaves that sheathe the 
 
 fireflies' flight. 
 For light and shadow had one birth, and light 
 
 shadow's twin ; 
 The robe of our humanity, O seeker, know, is sin. 
 
 The mirages of mystics, they are a subtle wine, 
 And food for that great holiness, which, desert saint, 
 
 is thine. 
 
 But I want real water, before night covers me, 
 No pledge of plenty by a far, intangible, pale sea. 
 
 As you may learn a language, forget it and recall, 
 As blinded men remember the autumn leaves red fall,
 
 4O The Saint in the Desert. 
 
 Look back, my friend, remember. Did you travel 
 
 once this way 
 With Solomon, the ancient king, who knew what 
 
 wild birds say? 
 
 I draw my sword on shadows, I know not where 
 
 to thrust, 
 In streams of clearest water, I taste the red grapes 
 
 must; 
 Your words of consolation are like the waves that 
 
 sigh, 
 A pleasant song for living men, no comfort when 
 
 they die. 
 
 Before you reach that point in time your spirit thinks 
 
 the end, 
 
 Know death and resurrection two faces of a friend, 
 Know each step indispensable towards the goal you 
 
 march, 
 The way you conquer, part of you, yourself the 
 
 sands that parch.
 
 The Saint in the Desert. 41 
 
 Ah, give me help to free myself from all entangling 
 
 thoughts, 
 O seneschal of keys that lead to cool and quiet 
 
 courts ; 
 
 My spirit burns her eagerness for rest I cannot reach, 
 As spray that fails to touch the flowers sinks seaward 
 
 on the beach.
 
 TH-E MONK. 
 
 To B. L. 
 
 DELIGHT has got so many ways, I found her once 
 
 in wine, 
 
 In turbulent, hot-headed day, a-harvesting the vine ; 
 A mountain flower, a scented weed, she grows in low 
 
 and lofty places ; 
 I tasted all her bitter seed, and know how manifold 
 
 her grace is. 
 
 Now I have fought on many fields and travelled 
 
 many soils, 
 And seen that sometimes he who yields brings home 
 
 the better spoils. 
 Since I have bid good-bye to pleasure, monastic calm 
 
 shall now be mine, 
 And I will study at my leisure what joys there are, 
 
 apart from wine.
 
 43 
 
 BY JEDDAH TOWN. 
 
 To L. 
 
 THERE were ten Arabs in the plain, who met him 
 
 with his guide; 
 The sheikh of them rode forward then, to talk at 
 
 eventide. 
 He said, " The desert is a place where rarely strangers 
 
 thrive, 
 Give up your horse, give up your gun, and you'll go 
 
 home alive." 
 
 He answered to the Arab sheikh, "Peace on you 
 
 and your kin, 
 But I shall give my horse to-night to ostlers at the 
 
 inn.
 
 44 By Jeddah Town. 
 
 My race is not a humble folk whom such as you 
 
 bid walk ; 
 Have you no powder with your ten that one comes 
 
 out to talk?" 
 
 And silence fell between the two. The Moslem 
 
 pulled his rein, 
 Then, " Here's the truth of El Hejaz, why should 
 
 brave men be slain? 
 You have ten Beduw lances, four Beduw shots to 
 
 fear," 
 But gaily laughed the Englishman, " I have five 
 
 bullets here." 
 
 " It's full a league to Jeddah town, the evening will 
 
 be done 
 Before you reach the tomb of Eve and the Turkish 
 
 garrison ; 
 Resign yourself to Allah's will, and see to-morrow's 
 
 sun, 
 And go in peace, you cannot fight, for we are ten 
 
 to one."
 
 By Jeddah Town. 45 
 
 They shot at him against the light, and twice they 
 
 missed him wide, 
 When swiftly up behind him came Mahmoud, his 
 
 desert guide. 
 He shot his guide, and still he had four bullets that 
 
 he stored, 
 And when his horse fell, wounded, three. He would 
 
 not use his sword. 
 
 They followed him as kites that mark a stag that 
 
 soon must die ; 
 Unfalteringly he held his way, his gallant head was 
 
 high. 
 Eleven fighters crossed the sand, their shadows grew 
 
 apace, 
 While ten of them were taught the truth about his 
 
 English race. 
 
 They had but one shot still to fire. The world was 
 
 very still, 
 And safety shone from Eve's white tomb, that shone 
 
 a tiny hill.
 
 46 By Jeddah Town. 
 
 Their last shot failed, and he went on content that 
 
 he had won, 
 And glad to see the glory of the blood-red setting 
 
 sun. 
 
 The desert is a cruel place, where strangers rarely 
 
 thrive. 
 He shot his horse, he shot his guide, but he walked 
 
 home alive.
 
 47 
 
 SUCCESS AND FAILURE. 
 
 SOMEWHAT above, beyond the others, 
 
 I strove to find a lordly place ; 
 They would not be the less my brothers 
 
 Because I conquered in the race, 
 
 I won myself a little crown, 
 
 Called to my friends, " Come, sit with me," 
 But in the end myself went down, 
 
 With them threw pebbles in the sea.
 
 4 8 
 
 THE LAHZ. 
 
 HE helped me in the desert, for he carried half my 
 
 load, 
 And, singing in a foreign tongue, he strove to cheer 
 
 the road. 
 And though our converse was but short, I wished at 
 
 the day's end 
 The scanty best the desert gives to him who'd been 
 
 my friend. 
 
 And afterwards I passed the place, and found one, 
 
 desolate, 
 
 Belaboured by a Syrian, whose blows told of his hate. 
 I knew that Syrian captain, I knew and loathed him 
 
 well, 
 And took his weapon as I said, " Go with your kin 
 
 to Hell."
 
 The Lahz. 49 
 
 And he went down the winding road, amazed at 
 
 God's decree, 
 And left the sick man whom he beat to talk awhile 
 
 with me. 
 And it was he who cheered the way, when he had 
 
 power to sing; 
 He had no power of singing now, nor strength for 
 
 wayfaring.
 
 TURKISH PROVERBS. 
 
 LOOK not for help from friends in need, 
 Nor vaunt the courage of your steed, 
 Trust not the metal of his breed, 
 For so you are undone indeed. 
 
 Trust in your wife if she should swear, 
 As you would trust in streams to bear 
 The rings of gold that honour her. 
 
 Put confidence in sheep that stray, 
 In promises to bind a Bey, 
 Or if you choose in the Last Day, 
 And woe betide you when you pay.
 
 E POI . 
 
 To M. V. 
 
 THE wind is lazy on the sea, the ripple sleeps below 
 
 the vine ; 
 The world's a dream for you and me, a dream that 
 
 will not long be mine ; 
 But for this hour let us together find on the cliff a 
 
 sheltered place, 
 Where I can lie on thyme and heather, and hear you 
 
 speak and watch your face. 
 
 If one should come to you and say, " Bad is my life, 
 
 my fault is such," 
 Would you then turn your eyes away, refuse to him 
 
 your hand to touch ?
 
 52 E poi . 
 
 And if he told you of his grief for deeds of his, what 
 should he fear ? 
 
 Would you help him with your belief, or say, " Good- 
 bye," my dear, my dear? 
 
 If one in need sought you, as I, not wanting right 
 
 nor seeking grace, 
 But still in love with the blue sky, yet more the 
 
 lover of your face, 
 What would your answer be to him, and would you 
 
 look at the bright sea, 
 Or where the shadows are so dim they hide your eyes 
 
 and thoughts from me ? 
 
 The perfect days are very few, and rarely happiness 
 
 as near, 
 So I'm content to be with you, and watch your face, 
 
 my dear, my dear. 
 This dream is all that we shall share, I will not risk 
 
 my golden hour, 
 For once in life I will not dare, unless you bid who 
 
 have the power.
 
 Epoi . 53 
 
 I find no comfort in a church, where priests remit 
 
 men's foolish sin. 
 Your gift is peace from restless search, peace for 
 
 your sake I would not win. 
 I'll ask no thing and nothing tell, but watch the 
 
 sunset with you here ; 
 We'll give the sun a friend's farewell, and then, 
 
 Good-night, my dear, my dear.
 
 54 
 
 MONTE DI ROSAMARINA. 
 
 DREAMS have come to me and gone,- 
 Amber-coloured, sunlight-lit, 
 
 Rainbow thoughts that rested on 
 Star dust of the infinite. 
 
 Till the master dream on wings, 
 Touched my spirit made me wise, 
 
 Showed me workmen, sages, kings, 
 The Crusaders' odyssies. 
 
 Then I thought in doing things, 
 Shadow things, no wisdom lies, 
 
 Nor in work or wanderings, 
 But in watching summer skies. 
 
 Dreams will come to me and go, 
 (Clouds reflected in the sea) 
 
 And alone of all I know, 
 Hold my idle soul in fee.
 
 55 
 
 THE DREAMER AND THE 
 ARMENIAN FORTUNE-TELLER. 
 
 SHE told his fortune by a well, among dark poplars 
 
 near the sea, 
 With incantation, charm, and spell at dusk she 
 
 practised sorcery. 
 Into her ear well water spoke, below the swift white 
 
 birds flew by, 
 Unhappy spirits of poor folk, the Bosphorus was 
 
 their destiny. 
 
 Her face was veiled. She said, "Oh fool, your 
 
 constellation once was high ; 
 You were a leader born to rule, but now a straw the 
 
 stream drifts by. 
 For, foolish follower of fire, and soul in vain 
 
 endeavour spent, 
 You planned your Palace of Desire, and homeless 
 
 left your ragged tent.
 
 56 The Dreamer and the 
 
 And one you worshipped, you brought this, your 
 
 homage, frankincense, and myrrh, 
 When she had rather have your kiss than high 
 
 allegiance, worshipper. 
 A many things you leave behind, who pass in dreams 
 
 from star to star, 
 And miss the best beside you, blind. Illusion is 
 
 your tutelar. 
 
 Deep down the water tells your life, you'll walk a 
 
 way where slaves have ridden, 
 A mendicant you'll serve your wife, and sit forlorn 
 
 when guests are bidden. 
 Your covenant with ghosts of Spring is all too late 
 
 when Autumn's there, 
 O glorious beggar, sorry king, of the unanswered 
 
 prayer. 
 
 Then like an arrow evening shone, on its illumined 
 
 way to night, 
 Bright from its quiver, it was gone, a lightning 
 
 darkness sheathed its light.
 
 Armenian Fortime- Teller. 57 
 
 The poppies of the Golden Horn glowed red among 
 
 the asphodel ; 
 Her voice was mingled with the night and water 
 
 murmuring from the well. 
 
 He weighed the parables she said, how much he 
 
 wished, how much achieved ; 
 The poplars whispered overhead, and gave him 
 
 counsel, many-leaved 
 The afterglow just held the place, the sea grew 
 
 poplar-dark and pale. 
 He came to life, said, " Show your face," and when 
 
 she would not, snatched her veil. 
 
 The homage she desired he gave ; the young moon 
 
 saw, but she was dim, 
 They talked no more of king or slave she left all 
 
 sorcery for him. 
 He gave his homage like a man, yet like a man his 
 
 tribute took. 
 She told his fortune in the well, and saw her own 
 
 but would not look.
 
 MICHAEL ANGELO'S DAWN. 
 
 To H. C. D. 
 
 YOUR eyes have penetrated to the naked end, 
 Stared through the aching emptiness of space ; 
 
 In the inexorable years, was there no friend 
 
 To bring some thought of gladness to your face ? 
 
 Did you find nothing in the hills and forests, fair, 
 Nor flower, nor fern, nor cedar trees with shade, 
 
 And beauty but a mirage, mocking your despair, 
 Long silence and shadows, your answer when you 
 prayed ? 
 
 I would that I could read what made you sad and 
 wise, 
 
 And robed in silence, why you change continually, 
 As changes come where even the great stillness lies, 
 
 To those who watch, familiar with the sea.
 
 Michael Angela s Dawn. 59 
 
 I think as every generation passes by, 
 
 There are some souls that keep the cool of dawn, 
 Whose eyes on cloudy days reflect the clear blue sky, 
 
 Whose feet at noon still tread a frozen lawn. 
 
 The eagerness that once you surely had was spent 
 As seed on sand, as toil upon the sea, 
 
 Did God Whose thought was in the dawn He sent, 
 Send only that grey light to comfort thee? 
 
 Ascetic, splendid dreamer, was this the end of dreams 
 Faith lost, and hope that over-shot the mark, 
 
 Lost in the light of fickle mountain streams, 
 
 While tides were marching dawnward through the 
 dark?
 
 6o 
 
 GRACE BEFORE SLEEP. 
 
 To M. 
 
 OUR Lord was born in a poor place, 
 Where caravans of travellers lay, 
 
 But over Him the Virgin's face 
 Was like my dream of you to-day. 
 
 Was like my dream, when dawn was there, 
 And still with dawn the lingering night, 
 
 Unseen, but known in the sweet air, 
 Like bells that ring beyond the sight. 
 
 Our Lady Mary was not proud 
 Among poor folk at Bethlehem, 
 
 But great men waited in the crowd 
 For her kind look to fall on them.
 
 Grace before Sleep. 61 
 
 The Syrian merchant paused to heed 
 The prayers of beggars by the gate ; 
 
 The Roman lord drew in his steed, 
 To let men pass of low estate. 
 
 Red rubies are not made from rust, 
 Yet misers threw their money down, 
 
 To buy an aureole from the dust, 
 
 And weave themselves an evening crown. 
 
 And some there were whose gains were made 
 
 In ways that honest men despise, 
 Who left their shameful carrion trade, 
 
 Because they saw the Virgin's eyes. 
 
 Let saints implore for worlds to be, 
 
 And young knights pray for deeds to do. 
 
 May Mary of her charity 
 
 Grant me to-night one dream of you.
 
 62 
 
 A SONG OF RIVERS. 
 
 To M. 
 
 LIGHTS upon the yellow Tiber are too beautiful to 
 
 tell, 
 But the ancient poets praised them, and dead 
 
 emperors loved them well, 
 Dim cathedral lights at evening, flash from all the 
 
 hills of Rome. 
 He's a stately river, Tiber. There's a better stream 
 
 at home. 
 
 Fierce by vineyards and by castles, in a fury flows 
 
 the Rhine, 
 And he sets the blood a pulsing like a draught of 
 
 gallant wine.
 
 A Song of Rivers. 63 
 
 Loud his roar through quiet cities. In a rage he 
 
 seeks the sea, 
 And the peasants mourn his plunder. There's a 
 
 finer stream for me. 
 
 Still the Douro makes a music that it made for 
 
 Moors in Spain, 
 Of the wind in highland valleys, and the wrath of 
 
 winter rain, 
 Music fit for knights in armour, when the valiant 
 
 trumpets call, 
 But I yearn to hear the murmur of an English 
 
 waterfall. 
 
 There's a torrent in Albania, where the faint red 
 
 garnets glow, 
 Through the feud of waters, like the ghosts of blood, 
 
 shed long ago. 
 Women wail by those sad waters for the sorrows that 
 
 are there, 
 And the oak-trees mourn for ever over drooping 
 
 maidenhair.
 
 64 A Song of Rivers. 
 
 Oh, the moonlit Seine is silver, and I know not what 
 
 she sings, 
 But her song is surely haunted by the sweep of white 
 
 swans' wings. 
 Like a sword she cleaves the night, and carries 
 
 memories to the sea, 
 Frosted gowns, and nobles courting, and a great 
 
 king's revelry. 
 
 There are streams that are not waters. The Italian 
 fishers know 
 
 How the dolphins thread with silver tracks the wist- 
 ful afterglow, 
 
 Glades that cut a tangled forest, tides that sever seas 
 asleep, 
 
 Oh, it's loved they are by cavaliers and the sailors 
 of the deep. 
 
 There's a pathway to the sunset, shines across a sea 
 
 I love, 
 There's the Milky Way of Heaven that the angels 
 
 ford above,
 
 A Song of Rivers. 65 
 
 There's a pageant on the wheatfield when the 
 
 shadows flung aside, 
 Morning lights a lane of poppies, in a narrow scarlet 
 
 tide. 
 
 By old sluices, weirs, and channels, and deserted 
 torrent ways, 
 
 By processions and their incense, like a scented 
 summer haze, 
 
 By the lovely lakes of lilies, where the fairy wood- 
 lands are, 
 
 By the light that rends the Heavens at the falling of 
 a star, 
 
 By the Bosphorus and Jordan, by all Pagan streams 
 
 and Frank, 
 By the dog-rose and the myrtle, and the wild-flowers 
 
 on their bank, 
 By the Spring-song of the rivers when their life is 
 
 treasured snow, 
 By the waterfalls of all the world, my stream's the 
 
 best I know. 
 
 E
 
 66 A Song of Rivers. 
 
 You shall one day see my river where the pines and 
 
 willows meet, 
 Find a shallow filled with sunlight, let it sparkle 
 
 round your feet ; 
 When I watch your face reflected in the stillness of 
 
 a pool, 
 I shall call my river still more dear, O you most 
 
 beautiful.
 
 THE BALLAD YVONNE. 
 
 To MAURICE. 
 
 AND so good-bye, my dear, she said. Go conquer 
 
 foreign lands ; 
 My soul shall be in your white sword, my heart is in 
 
 your hands. 
 My dear and gallant warrior, no tears shall dim my 
 
 eyes ; 
 Farewells should be in morning light, not under 
 
 rain-blue skies. 
 
 And this shall be my comfort, each night that you 
 
 are gone, 
 To sing the song that you love best, the Ballad of 
 
 Yvonne ; 
 And if perchance a harpstring breaks, no need of 
 
 news for me, 
 But oh the bitter silence then, till death shall set me 
 
 free.
 
 68 The Ballad Yvonne. 
 
 He answered her : O dreamt-of girl, I do not yearn 
 
 to fight ; 
 I long to lie on lilies, here, and watch the herons' 
 
 flight. 
 I would not conquer one small star, while Earth has 
 
 such a store, 
 Of moss for weary soldiers, and flowers to make a 
 
 floor. 
 
 At ease we'll watch the herons fly, until the day is 
 
 done, 
 And you shall sing me, on your harp, the Ballad of 
 
 Yvonne ; 
 
 But if again I crave for fight, or love another maid, 
 That is the way of men-at-arms, who serve a fickle 
 
 trade. 
 
 Fat monks have got an easy life, rich men can lie 
 a-bed, 
 
 But my long sword is my highway, and love turns 
 steel to lead. 
 
 So I will love you, maid of dreams, until the sun 
 goes down, 
 
 Then put a helmet on my head, you take my rose- 
 leaf crown.
 
 The Ballad Yvonne. 69 
 
 She said : The Ballad of Yvonne is known in every 
 
 land; 
 Who ever helped a beggar, or kissed a poor girl's 
 
 hand, 
 Who prays to Mary at the Dawn, who dreams of 
 
 Galilee, 
 He hears the song some few can sing, from bird and 
 
 stream and sea. 
 
 So go your way, my guest last night, you miss the 
 
 sweetest tune ; 
 Men pause in Rome to hear it, and beneath the 
 
 Syrian moon, 
 It lies in lovers' greetings, and the clash of sword 
 
 and spear, 
 A music fit for gentlemen, not mercenaries, to hear. 
 
 There are Italian Cavaliers, who conquer when they 
 
 kneel, 
 Whose spirit is a sword more fine than your Toledo 
 
 steel. 
 You are not hawk to heron, nor the mountain 
 
 eagles' game, 
 So go your way, paid man-at-arms, the twilit way 
 
 you came.
 
 AHMED ALI 
 ON WOMAN'S SUFFRAGE. 
 
 Ahmed All happened to be travelling at the time of the 
 Declaration of the Constitution, which he ostentatiously ap- 
 plauded. His enthusiasm was less five months later, when he 
 returned to find a distinctly altered household. 
 
 THERE'S purpose in the marching of a man who 
 
 comes and goes, 
 There's meaning and God's vigour in the melting 
 
 of the snows, 
 But Women tread a way that leads where only 
 
 Allah knows. 
 
 When seaweed binds a storm at sea, when spiders 
 break the oak, 
 
 When architects can make a mosque of rainbow, 
 night and smoke, 
 
 In those dear distant days a man will rule his women- 
 folk.
 
 Ahmed AH on Woman's Suffrage. 71 
 
 Earth has no corner-stone for them, they put the 
 
 world on edge ; 
 They pave Life's way with prickly things, the cactus 
 
 is their hedge ; 
 And what they love to honour most, they love still 
 
 more to pledge. 
 
 Once I was Lord of Caravans. I took my ease in 
 
 state, 
 A-drinking sherbet by a stream, with pretty girls 
 
 to wait, 
 Who brought me grapes of Trebizond, and seeds 
 
 of pomegranate. 
 
 My eunuchs kept my palace-door : the peace of my 
 Serai 
 
 Was like calm Judas-trees at night, beneath a wind- 
 less sky : 
 
 No Pasha in all Turkey had such quiet hours as I. 
 
 I find no consolation in my marching caravans ; 
 More restful far than my own house are Anatolian 
 
 khans, 
 Where every couch has fifty fleas, but all the fleas 
 
 are man's.
 
 72 Ahmed AH on Woman's Suffrage. 
 
 My palace is unquiet, for my women seek to find 
 A magic box of mastery to teach all men their mind, 
 Beyond the wish of God to grant, or husbands who 
 are kind. 
 
 A voice comes out from this machine of paper, string, 
 
 and wood ; 
 The vote of damsels that desire the claims our sires 
 
 withstood. 
 Weak women wailing for a sword to man their 
 
 womanhood. 
 
 It is a cursed new device, no good for Peace or War ; 
 No saint has ever craved it nor one astronomer ; 
 And though it's sold in Prankish towns, 'tis not in 
 this bazaar. 
 
 They say this Toy's an amulet for measles and 
 
 divorce, 
 And it can govern mighty Fate, as reins a frantic 
 
 horse ; 
 Once more I'll give them sweets, and then God's 
 
 law (that is, man's force).
 
 Ahmed AH on Woman's Suffrage. 73 
 
 There's sunset on the Bosphorus, the Conqueror's 
 
 golden stream, 
 And all the peace of Paradise in gardens where I 
 
 dream, 
 And peace as deep as the deep sea inside my cool 
 
 Harim. 
 
 When toys alone make women glad, then songs shall 
 
 mortar bricks. 
 
 My Harim is united by the tune of falling sticks. 
 God gave to man His strength (to use), to women 
 
 gave He tricks. 
 
 There's things that are a pity : some actions are a 
 
 sin, 
 But Turks were born to soldiering, and soldiers have 
 
 to win ; 
 Before you conquer men, My Friends, first rule your 
 
 women kin !
 
 SEMANGHELLINA AND THE 
 MAD-BLOODED YOUTH. 
 
 To G. A. L. 
 
 " HERE is a gallant horse for sale, clean pastern, 
 
 flowing mane; 
 His dam was of the Arab breed, his sire was bred 
 
 in Spain. 
 This horse was surely foaled to bear the Sultan's 
 
 Grand Vizier, 
 His master is a reverend man" (so cried the 
 
 auctioneer) ; 
 "Three hundred pounds is all the price we ask a 
 
 mountaineer." 
 
 Then forward sprang a wild young man ; mad 
 
 mountain blood had he: 
 " I boast an ancient lineage, a goodly guarantee ;
 
 Semanghellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth. 75 
 
 Five times a-day I say my prayers; I fast at 
 
 Ramadan : 
 I have no gold, but much I'll win for you in 
 
 Serbistan, 
 If you will trust the honour of a hill-bred fighting 
 
 man." 
 
 That wise old merchant pondered, as he stroked his 
 
 beard of white ; 
 He loved all subtle bargaining, at dawn, at noon, 
 
 at night. 
 " If thou wilt swear to give to me all gain you get 
 
 abroad, 
 A blessing on thy wildness and strength to thy long 
 
 sword ; 
 Then mount the horse in Allah's name, and ride him 
 
 as his Lord." 
 
 The mad-blood youth rode out to raid the realm of 
 
 Serbistan ; 
 He halted not for brigands, and he tarried at no 
 
 khan;
 
 76 Semanghellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth. 
 
 There was no torrent of the hills, that wrecks a 
 
 caravan, 
 Nor any wrath of waters that one-half as fiercely 
 
 ran, 
 As the blood that urged the wildness of that wild 
 
 young man. 
 
 The King was on his balcony, about him stood his 
 
 kin ; 
 The courtiers all fell silent, as the youth rode to the 
 
 inn. 
 He called a Servian ostler, " Fetch me fodder for my 
 
 steed, 
 Fetch water to refresh him, and the best corn for 
 
 his feed." 
 "Oh, hasten thou," a herald cried. "Of thee the 
 
 King hath need." 
 
 He fed his horse and said his prayers, then hied 
 
 him to the King : 
 He gave him low obeisance, but shrewd, hard 
 
 bargaining.
 
 Semanghellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth. 77 
 
 " Nine hundred pounds my horse's price. My Lord, 
 
 he hath no peer." 
 The Elders spoke together long : " O Lord our 
 
 King, give ear; 
 We dare not tax the people thus this stallion's 
 
 price is dear." 
 
 An ancient greybeard planned a plot (he sought a 
 
 courtier's place) : 
 "We'll trap him with our cunning, and entice him 
 
 with a face ; 
 Now listen, gentle Majesty, praise God for this wise 
 
 plan : 
 Let girls with roses in their hair attend at the 
 
 maidan, 
 And love will fight our battle with this wild young 
 
 hill-bred man." 
 
 And so upon the morrow stood the men of high 
 
 estate, 
 Where lovely girls were brought like doves beyond 
 
 the palace gate.
 
 78 Semanghellina and the Mad- Blooded Youth. 
 
 The youth rode out from arches where the light was 
 
 faint and dim, 
 And though he loved no maid of them, their hearts 
 
 went out to him ; 
 For horse and man were fine to see high courage, 
 
 splendid limb. 
 
 Dawn rode no lighter on the winds than he upon 
 
 his horse ; 
 No sweat was on his stallion's neck when he reined 
 
 in his course. 
 The angry Elders cursed aloud that greybeard and 
 
 his creed. 
 The ancient rascal answered them, " One girl can 
 
 help indeed : 
 You have forgot the King's own child ; she shall 
 
 obtain the steed. 
 
 " Semanghellina's beauty is beyond the stars and 
 
 sun ; 
 If he but see and speak to her, his valour is 
 
 undone.
 
 Semanghellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth. 79 
 
 The racing steeds are good for those who charge 
 
 upon the foe; 
 It's mules that carry merchandise, more swift than 
 
 chargers go. 
 And though your blades be sharp, my Lords, by 
 
 God your wits are slow." 
 
 The youth rode from dark portals with the sunshine 
 
 on his face, 
 Upon a steed that touched the ground as wild deer 
 
 in the chase. 
 Around the maidan once he went, swift as a wild 
 
 bird flies, 
 And twice he went, but then he saw Semanghellina's 
 
 eyes. 
 He reined his steed, and saw nought else beneath 
 
 the noonday's skies. 
 
 The Princess came to his salute ; she stroked his 
 
 horse's mane 
 (That ancient greybeard prophesied, "My scheme 
 
 will not be vain").
 
 8o Semanghellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth, 
 
 The youth spoke of his contract; then, "O Lady, 
 
 come with me; 
 There's nought can overtake my horse from Belgrade 
 
 to the sea, 
 And leave your father's house, my soul, to learn 
 
 what love can be." 
 
 She answered him, " O my two eyes ! O splendid 
 
 to behold ! 
 Within the palace of my sire I have a cup of 
 
 gold; 
 I have a woven cloak of gold, the pockets in it 
 
 nine, 
 And many liras each contains that shall be yours 
 
 and mine. 
 Now listen to my counselling. Make thou no hasty 
 
 sign." 
 
 She said, "The noontide sun is strong and in his 
 
 fiercest mood, 
 His strength hath come in a good hour to madden 
 
 thy wild blood ;
 
 Semanghellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth. 8 1 
 
 Now cry aloud for water, and it's I will serve thy 
 
 need." 
 The youth swayed in the saddle, and, " I faint upon 
 
 my steed ; 
 Oh, bring a cup to quench my thirst, and God reward 
 
 the deed." 
 
 She came to him all dressed in gold across the 
 
 noonday sand ; 
 He swung her to the saddle with the gold cup in 
 
 her hand. 
 Oh, loud the outcry in Belgrade. No steed that 
 
 had a lord 
 Stood idle in the stables then ; each sheath gave up 
 
 its sword ; 
 But he had left them all behind before he reached 
 
 the ford. 
 
 Then fell upon that greybeard knave the angry 
 
 nobles' blows, 
 While through the summer they rode on to high 
 
 Albanian snows. 
 
 F
 
 82 Semanghellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth. 
 
 The summer was their comrade, and God's mercy in 
 
 the showers, 
 They crossed clear streams of water, and they lay on 
 
 banks of flowers ; 
 Between the two his bare sword gleamed throughout 
 
 the midnight hours. 
 
 They rested on a lawn of green, when suddenly he 
 
 cried, 
 " A curse on empty journeys, and a curse upon this 
 
 ride; 
 
 O Allah, give him trouble, the steed that I bestride." 
 The maiden answered, " O my soul ! Whatever else 
 
 betide, 
 Your sword is safe beside you and your love is by 
 
 your side, 
 A proper pair to cheer a man and fill a chief with 
 
 pride." 
 
 He answered her, "In Ipek, where the mountain 
 
 clansmen are, 
 An ancient merchant bargains in the gloom of the 
 
 bazaar ;
 
 Semanghellina and the Mad- Blooded Youth. 83 
 
 He ponders on my coming and forecasts the wealth 
 
 I bring : 
 I bear a golden tribute and the daughter of a 
 
 King. 
 I may not tarry longer, dear, to hear the wild bird 
 
 sing." 
 
 Semanghellina made reply, "I was not won by 
 
 force ; 
 With my whole heart I came to you to mount your 
 
 gallant horse. 
 The woods are full of music, see the lovely glades 
 
 of green. 
 Forget your idle promises, and what those wild 
 
 words mean : 
 For you shall lead a warrior band, and I will be your 
 
 Queen." 
 
 He said, "My coral rosary has ninety -nine red 
 
 beads, 
 The names of the All-Merciful, where each a wound 
 
 that bleeds ;
 
 84 Semanghellina and the Mad- Blooded Youth. 
 
 And I could staunch the hurt of them by treachery 
 
 and lie, 
 By Allah and His Prophet and the Saints that 
 
 testify, 
 I would not be an infidel ; a Moslem I would die." 
 
 They travelled swiftly through the hills ; at night the 
 
 moon was strong. 
 They paused no more by rivers, nor to hear the wild 
 
 birds' song. 
 At last they came to Ipek town, beneath the evening 
 
 star, 
 And found the merchant where he sat outside the 
 
 old bazaar : 
 " It's fast we've come," the wild youth said ; " it's fast 
 
 we've come and far." 
 
 " Now hear the tale I have to tell, O Master of the 
 
 Horse : 
 I've robbed a King and country, and I conquered 
 
 fraud by force.
 
 Semanghellina and the Mad- Blooded Youth. 85 
 
 By Allah who is merciful to all of the true creed, 
 By Him, the great Disposer, I have been true 
 
 indeed ; 
 So if thou judge me faithful, Lord, then grant my 
 
 work its meed. 
 
 "There's sorrow in the Palace, they mourn in 
 
 Serbistan 
 The gains that I have got you and the glory of my 
 
 clan ; 
 The King grieves for his daughter and the wrecking 
 
 of a plan, 
 A scheme of guile and cunning that an ancient 
 
 wretch began, 
 To steal away the wisdom of a young mad-blooded 
 
 man. 
 
 " Here is a cup of gold I bring and plenteous golden 
 
 store, 
 And such a gold-embroidered coat was never seen 
 
 before ;
 
 86 Semanghellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth. 
 
 The work is of the Moorish kind, from Jerez or 
 
 Xenil, 
 The garment bears the name of God. Your horse 
 
 waits for your will, 
 To ride to Prisrend in the plain or Dibra on the 
 
 hill. 
 
 " And last of all, Effendiler, a maid I bring to you, 
 A very flower of loveliness that keeps dawn's freshest 
 
 dew; 
 She has a Christian King to sire, so she is yashmak 
 
 free. 
 My soul yearns for her beauty as the Greeks desire 
 
 the sea. 
 Then reckon out our contract now; God's grace 
 
 abide with thee." 
 
 That ancient merchant thought awhile, a -fingering 
 
 his beads : 
 " I sing the praise of Allah's name ; may He requite 
 
 thy deeds.
 
 SemangJiellina and the Mad-Blooded Youth. 87 
 
 Mad-blooded one, you take no thought like pilgrims 
 
 when they start, 
 But Allah loves a generous man, He loves a generous 
 
 heart. 
 Oh, warm my welcome home, my son, to whom I 
 
 bade depart. 
 
 " Mine is the cloak and half its wealth ; I'll take the 
 
 cup of gold ; 
 The horse is thine and half the wealth; the girl is 
 
 yours to hold. 
 My life has lain in bargaining ; I know the subtle 
 
 phrase 
 That makes the maidens buy my silk, that wins the 
 
 women's praise. 
 God does not care for twining paths ; go on in your 
 
 straight ways."
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 CHIVERSITY OF CALIFOKNT* 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 PR 
 
 6021 
 
 K299e