"Allahu!" Cried he.

"In all Koordistan Lives there not so brave a man As this Robber Kurroglou!" HAROUN AL RASCHID One day, Haroun Al Raschid read A book wherein the poet said:-- "Where are the kings, and where the rest Of those who once the world possessed?
"They're gone with all their pomp and show, They're gone the way that thou shalt go.
"O thou who choosest for thy share The world, and what the world calls fair, "Take all that it can give or lend, But know that death is at the end!" Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head: Tears fell upon the page he read.
KING TRISANKU Viswamitra the Magician, By his spells and incantations, Up to Indra's realms elysian Raised Trisanku, king of nations.
Indra and the gods offended Hurled him downward, and descending In the air he hung suspended, With these equal powers contending.
Thus by aspirations lifted, By misgivings downward driven, Human hearts are tossed and drifted Midway between earth and heaven.
A WRAITH IN THE MIST "Sir, I should build me a fortification, if I came to live here." -- BOSWELL'S Johnson.
On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, Who is it that walks by the shore, So gay with his Highland blue bonnet, So brave with his targe and claymore?
His form is the form of a giant, But his face wears an aspect of pain; Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth?
Can this be Sir Allan McLean?
Ah, no! It is only the Rambler, The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court, And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth, He would wall himself round with a fort.
THE THREE KINGS Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.
The star was so beautiful, large, and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere, And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.
Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well.
"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews." And the people answered, "You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain, Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.
And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king." So they rode away; and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David where Christ was born.
And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned.
And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human but divine.
His mother Mary of Nazareth Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.
They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King, The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, The myrrh for the body's burying.
And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the Angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne.
Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.
SONG Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care; To stay at home is best.
Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best.
Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; The bird is safest in its nest; O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky; To stay at home is best.
THE WHITE CZAR The White Czar is Peter the Great.

Batyushka, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs.
Dost thou see on the rampart's height That wreath of mist, in the light Of the midnight moon?
O, hist! It is not a wreath of mist; It is the Czar, the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! He has heard, among the dead, The artillery roll o'erhead; The drums and the tramp of feet Of his soldiery in the street; He is awake! the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! He has heard in the grave the cries Of his people: "Awake! arise!" He has rent the gold brocade Whereof his shroud was made; He is risen! the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! From the Volga and the Don He has led his armies on, Over river and morass, Over desert and mountain pass; The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! He looks from the mountain-chain Toward the seas, that cleave in twain The continents; his hand Points southward o'er the land Of Roumili! O Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! And the words break from his lips: "I am the builder of ships, And my ships shall sail these seas To the Pillars of Hercules! I say it; the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! "The Bosphorus shall be free; It shall make room for me; And the gates of its water-streets Be unbarred before my fleets.
I say it; the White Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar! "And the Christian shall no more Be crushed, as heretofore, Beneath thine iron rule, O Sultan of Istamboul! I swear it; I the Czar, Batyushka! Gosudar!" DELIA Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is thy remembrance.

Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee.

Sleep, darling; it is best.
ULTIMA THULE DEDICATION TO G.W.G.
With favoring winds, o'er sunlit seas, We sailed for the Hesperides, The land where golden apples grow; But that, ah! that was long ago.
How far, since then, the ocean streams Have swept us from that land of dreams, That land of fiction and of truth, The lost Atlantis of our youth! Whither, oh, whither?
Are not these The tempest-haunted Hebrides, Where sea gulls scream, and breakers roar, And wreck and sea-weed line the shore?
Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! Here in thy harbors for a while We lower our sails; a while we rest From the unending, endless quest.
POEMS BAYARD TAYLOR Dead he lay among his books! The peace of God was in his looks.
As the statues in the gloom Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb, So those volumes from their shelves Watched him, silent as themselves.
Ah! his hand will nevermore Turn their storied pages o'er; Nevermore his lips repeat Songs of theirs, however sweet.
Let the lifeless body rest! He is gone, who was its guest; Gone, as travellers haste to leave An inn, nor tarry until eve.
Traveller! in what realms afar, In what planet, in what star, In what vast, aerial space, Shines the light upon thy face?
In what gardens of delight Rest thy weary feet to-night?
Poet! thou, whose latest verse Was a garland on thy hearse; Thou hast sung, with organ tone, In Deukalion's life, thine own; On the ruins of the Past Blooms the perfect flower at last.
Friend! but yesterday the bells Rang for thee their loud farewells; And to-day they toll for thee, Lying dead beyond the sea; Lying dead among thy books, The peace of God in all thy looks! THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE Is it so far from thee Thou canst no longer see, In the Chamber over the Gate, That old man desolate, Weeping and wailing sore For his son, who is no more?
O Absalom, my son! Is it so long ago That cry of human woe From the walled city came, Calling on his dear name, That it has died away In the distance of to-day?
O Absalom, my son! There is no far or near, There is neither there nor here, There is neither soon nor late, In that Chamber over the Gate, Nor any long ago To that cry of human woe, O Absalom, my son! From the ages that are past The voice sounds like a blast, Over seas that wreck and drown, Over tumult of traffic and town; And from ages yet to be Come the echoes back to me, O Absalom, my son! Somewhere at every hour The watchman on the tower Looks forth, and sees the fleet Approach of the hurrying feet Of messengers, that bear The tidings of despair.
O Absalom, my son! He goes forth from the door Who shall return no more.
With him our joy departs; The light goes out in our hearts; In the Chamber over the Gate We sit disconsolate.
O Absalom, my son! That 't is a common grief Bringeth but slight relief; Ours is the bitterest loss, Ours is the heaviest cross; And forever the cry will be "Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son!" FROM MY ARM-CHAIR TO THE CHILDREN OF CAMBRIDGE Who presented to me on my Seventy-second Birth-day, February 27, 1879, this Chair, made from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's Chestnut Tree.
Am I a king, that I should call my own This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine, Can I proclaim it mine?
Only, perhaps, by right divine of song It may to me belong; Only because the spreading chestnut tree Of old was sung by me.
Well I remember it in all its prime, When in the summer-time The affluent foliage of its branches made A cavern of cool shade.
There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street, Its blossoms white and sweet Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive, And murmured like a hive.
And when the winds of autumn, with a shout, Tossed its great arms about, The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, Dropped to the ground beneath.
And now some fragments of its branches bare, Shaped as a stately chair, Have by my hearthstone found a home at last, And whisper of the past.
The Danish king could not in all his pride Repel the ocean tide, But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme Roll back the tide of Time.
I see again, as one in vision sees, The blossoms and the bees, And hear the children's voices shout and call, And the brown chestnuts fall.
I see the smithy with its fires aglow, I hear the bellows blow, And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat The iron white with heat! And thus, dear children, have ye made for me This day a jubilee, And to my more than three-score years and ten Brought back my youth again.
The heart hath its own memory, like the mind, And in it are enshrined The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought The giver's loving thought.
Only your love and your remembrance could Give life to this dead wood, And make these branches, leafless now so long, Blossom again in song.
JUGURTHA How cold are thy baths, Apollo! Cried the African monarch, the splendid, As down to his death in the hollow Dark dungeons of Rome he descended, Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended; How cold are thy baths, Apollo! How cold are thy baths, Apollo! Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended, As the vision, that lured him to follow, With the mist and the darkness blended, And the dream of his life was ended; How cold are thy baths, Apollo! THE IRON PEN Made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Prisoner of Chillon; the handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution, and bound with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine.
I thought this Pen would arise From the casket where it lies-- Of itself would arise and write My thanks and my surprise.
When you gave it me under the pines, I dreamed these gems from the mines Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines; That this iron link from the chain Of Bonnivard might retain Some verse of the Poet who sang Of the prisoner and his pain; That this wood from the frigate's mast Might write me a rhyme at last, As it used to write on the sky The song of the sea and the blast.
But motionless as I wait, Like a Bishop lying in state Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, And its jewels inviolate.
Then must I speak, and say That the light of that summer day In the garden under the pines Shall not fade and pass away.
I shall see you standing there, Caressed by the fragrant air, With the shadow on your face, And the sunshine on your hair.
I shall hear the sweet low tone Of a voice before unknown, Saying, "This is from me to you-- From me, and to you alone." And in words not idle and vain I shall answer and thank you again For the gift, and the grace of the gift, O beautiful Helen of Maine! And forever this gift will be As a blessing from you to me, As a drop of the dew of your youth On the leaves of an aged tree.
ROBERT BURNS I see amid the fields of Ayr A ploughman, who, in foul and fair, Sings at his task So clear, we know not if it is The laverock's song we hear, or his, Nor care to ask.
For him the ploughing of those fields A more ethereal harvest yields Than sheaves of grain; Songs flush with Purple bloom the rye, The plover's call, the curlew's cry, Sing in his brain.
Touched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower; the lowliest reed Beside the stream Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass, The brighter seem.
He sings of love, whose flame illumes The darkness of lone cottage rooms; He feels the force, The treacherous undertow and stress Of wayward passions, and no less The keen remorse.
At moments, wrestling with his fate, His voice is harsh, but not with hate; The brushwood, hung Above the tavern door, lets fall Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall Upon his tongue.
But still the music of his song Rises o'er all elate and strong; Its master-chords Are Manhood, Freedom, Brotherhood, Its discords but an interlude Between the words.
And then to die so young and leave Unfinished what he might achieve! Yet better sure Is this, than wandering up and down An old man in a country town, Infirm and poor.
For now he haunts his native land As an immortal youth; his hand Guides every plough; He sits beside each ingle-nook, His voice is in each rushing brook, Each rustling bough.
His presence haunts this room to-night, A form of mingled mist and light From that far coast.
Welcome beneath this roof of mine! Welcome! this vacant chair is thine, Dear guest and ghost! HELEN OF TYRE What phantom is this that appears Through the purple mist of the years, Itself but a mist like these?
A woman of cloud and of fire; It is she; it is Helen of Tyre, The town in the midst of the seas.
O Tyre! in thy crowded streets The phantom appears and retreats, And the Israelites that sell Thy lilies and lions of brass, Look up as they see her pass, And murmur "Jezebel!" Then another phantom is seen At her side, in a gray gabardine, With beard that floats to his waist; It is Simon Magus, the Seer; He speaks, and she pauses to hear The words he utters in haste.
He says: "From this evil fame, From this life of sorrow and shame, I will lift thee and make thee mine; Thou hast been Queen Candace, And Helen of Troy, and shalt be The Intelligence Divine!" Oh, sweet as the breath of morn, To the fallen and forlorn Are whispered words of praise; For the famished heart believes The falsehood that tempts and deceives, And the promise that betrays.
So she follows from land to land The wizard's beckoning hand, As a leaf is blown by the gust, Till she vanishes into night.
O reader, stoop down and write With thy finger in the dust.
O town in the midst of the seas, With thy rafts of cedar trees, Thy merchandise and thy ships, Thou, too, art become as naught, A phantom, a shadow, a thought, A name upon men's lips.
ELEGIAC Dark is the morning with mist; in the narrow mouth of the harbor Motionless lies the sea, under its curtain of cloud; Dreamily glimmer the sails of ships on the distant horizon, Like to the towers of a town, built on the verge of the sea.
Slowly and stately and still, they sail forth into the ocean; With them sail my thoughts over the limitless deep, Farther and farther away, borne on by unsatisfied longings, Unto Hesperian isles, unto Ausonian shores.
Now they have vanished away, have disappeared in the ocean; Sunk are the towers of the town into the depths of the sea! AU have vanished but those that, moored in the neighboring roadstead, Sailless at anchor ride, looming so large in the mist.
Vanished, too, are the thoughts, the dim, unsatisfied longings; Sunk are the turrets of cloud into the ocean of dreams; While in a haven of rest my heart is riding at anchor, Held by the chains of love, held by the anchors of trust! OLD ST.