THE INCONSISTENT

TO A LADY, UPON HER REFUSAL OF A PRESENT OF MELONS, AND HER REJECTION OF THE

ADDRESSES OF AN ADMIRER.

Translated into English Verse by J. D. Carlyle, BD

When I sent you my melons, you cried out with scorn,

   "They ought to be heavy, and wrinkled, and yellow:"

 When I offered myself, whom those graces adorn,

   You flouted, and called me an ugly old fellow!

A SERENADE TO HIS SLEEPING MISTRESS

BY ALI BEN ABD ALGANY, OF CORDOVA.

Translated into English Verse by J. D. Carlyle, BD

Sure Harut's * potent spells were breathed

   Upon that magic sword, thine eye;

 For if it wounds us thus while sheathed,

   When drawn 'tis vain its edge to fly.

How canst thou doom me, cruel fair,

   Plunged in the hell ** of scorn, to groan?

 No idol e'er this heart could share

   This heart has worshipped thee alone.

Footnotes:

* A wicked angel, who is permitted to tempt mankind by teaching them magic: see the legend respecting him in Sale's Koran.

** The poet here alludes to the punishments denounced in the Koran against those who worship a plurality of gods: "their couch shall be in hell, and over them shall be coverings of fire." Sur. 2.

VERSES ADDRESSED TO HIS DAUGHTERS, DURING HIS IMPRISONMEN

BY MOTAMMED BEN ABAD, SULTAN OF SEVILLE.

Translated into English Verse by J. D. Carlyle, BD

"Upon a certain festival," says Ebn Khocan, a contemporary writer, "during the confinement of Motammed, he was waited upon by his children, who came to receive his blessing, and to offer up their prayers for his welfare. Amongst these some were females, and their appearance was truly deplorable. They were naturally beauteous as the moon, but, from the rags which covered them, they seemed like the moon under an eclipse: their feet were bare and bleeding, and every trace of their former splendour was completely effaced. At this melancholy spectacle their unfortunate father gave way to his sorrow in the following verses."]

With jocund heart and cheerful brow,

   I used to hail the festal morn:

 How must Motammed greet it now?--

   A prisoner, helpless and forlorn;

While these dear maids, in beauty's bloom,

   With want oppressed, with rags o'erspread,

 By sordid labours at the loom

   Must earn a poor, precarious bread.

Those feet, that never touched the ground

   Till musk or camphor strewed the way,

 Now, bare and swoll'n with many a wound,

   Must struggle through the miry clay.

Those radiant cheeks are veiled in woe,

   A shower descends from every eye;

 And not a starting tear can flow

   That wakes not an attending sigh.

Fortune, that whilom owned my sway,

   And bowed obsequious to my nod,

 Now sees me destined to obey,

   And bend beneath oppression's rod.

Ye mortals, with success elate,

   Who bask in Hope's delusive beam,

 Attentive view Motammed's fate,

   And own that bliss is but a dream.