Classic Poem

Had I at Mecca's gate been nourished,
Or dwelt on Yemen's glowing sand,
Or from my youth in Sinai flourished,
A sword were now within this hand.

Then would I ride across the mountains
Until to Jethro's land I came,
And rest my flock beside the fountains
Where once the bush broke forth in flame.

And ever with the evening's coolness
My kindred to the tent would throng,
When verses with impassioned fulness
Would stream from me in glowing song.

The treasure of my lips would dower
A mighty tribe, a mighty land,
And as with a magician's power
I'd rule, a monarch, 'mid the sand.

My list'ners are a nomad nation,
To whom the desert's voice is dear;
Who dread the simoon's devastation
And fall before his wrath in fear.

All day they gallop, never idle—
Save by the spring—till set of sun;
They dash with loosely swaying bridle
From Aden unto Lebanon.

At night upon the earth reclining
They watch amid their sleeping herds,
And read the scroll of heaven, shining
With golden-lettered mystic words.

They often hear strange voices mutter
From Sinai's earthquake-shattered height,
While desert phantoms rise and flutter
In wreaths of smoke before their sight.

See!—through yon fissure deep and dim there
The demon's forehead glows amain,
For as with me so 'tis with him there—
In the skull's cavern seethes the brain.

Oh, land of tents and arrows flying!
Oh, desert people brave and wise!
Thou Arab on thy steed relying,—
A poem in fantastic guise!

Here in the dark I roam so blindly—
How cunning is the North, and cold!
Oh, for the East, the warm and kindly,
To sing and ride, a Bedouin bold!