Classic Poem

M OHAMMED prayed, when pious Hassan fell
In battle vanquished by the infidel,
That God might stay the hand of Azrael

The Pitiless, who right nor mercy knew:
“O Allah! Is it well that we, so few
And weak, should fail, who have thy work to do?

“The world and Eblis triumph over Thine,
While weaker grow our dying hopes, and mine
Are all but dead. O Allah! Grant a sign!”

Then straightway was unsmiling Azrael sent,
And stood before the weary Prophet's tent:
“Thy prayer is granted—for thy punishment.

“O'er Islam's hosts the keys of life are thine—
For lo! thy wisdom doth excel Divine—
Watch that thy hand be merciful as mine.”

When next they met the foeman on the field
The sword of Azrael was Islam's shield,
And Death rejoiced to reap a bounteous yield

Great was the joy at first: with prayer and fast
And humble thanks to Allah's mercy, passed
Each day of victory; but at the last,

Grown turbulent and proud with quick-won power
And evil lusts, its ever fatal dower,
The poison weeds of sin began to flower;

And when the Prophet would have stemmed the tide
Of fatal luxury, they him defied:
“Allah is with us! Let the dotard chide.”

Blaspheming some more impiously said:
“With us or not, we neither know nor dread
This God disarmèd. Azrael is dead!”

Once more with troubled soul Mohammed prayed
That God might send another sign to aid.
The answer came,—with it a Moslem blade,

Clutched in the hand of one he loved too well,
A parricide in heart and child of hell;
But Azrael smote him, and the traitor fell.

Mohammed then his impious wish deplored,
And Allah pitying gave back his sword
To Azrael, who wisely served his Lord.