The boatmen shout, “’Tis time to part,
No longer we can stay;”
’Twas then Maimuna taught my heart
How much a glance could say.
With trembling steps to me she came;
“Farewell,” she would have cried,
But ere her lips the words could frame,
In half form’d sounds it died.
Then bending down, with looks of love,
Her arms she round me flung,
And, as the gale hangs on the grove,
Upon my breast she hung.
My willing arms embrac'd the maid,
My heart with raptures beat;
While she but wept the more, and said,
Would we had never met.”
In these times, when from the difference of manners, and a variety
of other circumstances and causes, even the most successful poets
cannot boast of the friendship, and profuse liberality of kings, the
manner in which the monarchs of the East rewarded them, is almost
incredible. The presents, which Abou Teman Habib, a native of
Damascus, but who spent his life chiefly at the court of Bagdad, is
reported to have received, are enormous. He is said to have had a
present of fifty thousand pieces of gold for a single poem. He died
before he was forty, and his early death was predicted by a
contemporary writer, in these words: “The mind of Abou Teman must
soon wear out his body, as the blade of an Indian scimitar destroys
its scabbard.” When his mistress accused him of extravagance, he
addressed her in the following words:
Ungenerous and mistaken maid,
To scorn me thus because I'm poor!
Canst thou a liberal hand upbraid
For dealing round some worthless ore?
To spare’s the wish of little souls,
The great but gather to bestow;
Yon current down the mountain rolls,
And stagnates in the swamp below.
To these specimens of the elegant and pathetic I cannot avoid adding
the three sweet stanzas of Ebn Alrumi, who flourished in the tenth
century of the Christian æra, on a lady weeping.
When I beheld thy blue eyes shine
Thro’ the bright drops that pity drew,
I saw beneath those tears of thine
A blue eyed violet bath’d in dew.
The violet ever scents the gale,
Its hues adorn the fairest wreath,
But sweetest through a dewy veil
Its colours glow, its odours breath.
And thus thy charms in brightness rise--
When wit and pleasure round thee play,
When mirth sits smiling in thine eyes,
Who but admires their sprightly ray?
But when thro’ pity’s flood they gleam,
Who but must love their soften’d beam?
It was not among the troubadours and provencals of France, and the
improvisatori of Italy, that the custom of extempore recitation
alone existed. It flourished and was carried to great perfection in
Arabia during the caliphat, and in many other Oriental nations. The
Arabians indeed are said to have been the inventors both of
extempore recitation and of rhyme, from whom it came to the
Spaniards, and thence into France and Italy. [i] And in all the
Oriental nations it was almost constantly accompanied with music. We
have, throughout the Arabian Nights, continual examples of this; and
there never seems to have been a grand entertainment, where these
recitations, as well as dancing, were not introduced. As a specimen
of this, and it is the last I shall insert, I have been tempted to
give the following extempore verses by Ebn Alramacram, the occasion
of which is said, by Abulfeda, to have been as follows: Carawash,
sultan of Mousel, being in a party with his principal musician,
Barkaidy, his vizier, Ebn Fadhi, his chamberlain, Jaber, and Ebn
Alramacram, the poet, he determined to amuse himself at the expense
of his companions. He therefore commanded Alramacram to recite some
verses, which, at the same time that they satirised his officers,
should compliment himself. The poet obeyed: and taking the night
which happened to be stormy, for his subject, instantly replied as
follows:
Lowering as Barkaidy’s face
The wintry night came in,
Cold as the music of his bass,
And lengthen’d as his chin.
Sleep from my aching eyes had fled,
And kept as far apart,
As sense from Ebn Fadhi’s head,
Or virtue from his heart.
The dubious paths my footsteps balk'd,
I slipp’d along the sod,
As if on Jaber’s faith I’d walk’d,
Or on his truth had trod.
At length the rising king of day
Burst on the gloomy wood,
Like Carawash’s eye, whose ray
Dispenses every good.
In India too, at this time, their exists a different species of
improvisatori. Instead of having newspapers, as with us, to
accompany the breakfast table, (there are indeed newspapers in the
East, but they are chiefly for the use of Europeans,) where the
fatigue of reading would be too great for Asiatic enjoyment, there
is a set of men, whose regular profession it is to go round and
report the news of every sort, that may have happened. And to this
they constantly add the knowledge of a variety of stories, tales,
and apologues, which, at the desire of their employer, they recite
with great animation, humour, and action, as long as he wishes to be
amused. And while this is going on, he attends to the reciter or
not, while he enjoys his hooka, takes his coffee, or reclines at
ease on his sofa. Many of these stories also are of a similar nature
to some in the following work. And instances are not uncommon, in
which these men have continued such recitation without any cessation
for four or five hours together.
I am fearful, I may have dwelt too long upon this subject; but the
beauty of the poetry has led me on; and a true lover of poetry, like
a true poet, must be enthusiastic, and enthusiasm often carries a
person beyond the strict limits of prudence: the pleasure also of
selection was too great to be slightly indulged. My only difficulty
was to fix upon so few, where all were excellent.
Before I conclude this Preface, there are two other points perhaps
necessary to be mentioned. In the first place, there are in M.
Galland various errors and contradictions with respect to time and
place. Some few of these I have taken the liberty to correct, others
I thought it best not to alter; trusting that every candid reader
will allow for such errors, which, with respect to the work at
large, are of little moment. Secondly, in respect to names; I have
constantly followed M. Galland, both because these names are already
best known, and because other writers do not agree about the
orthography of them. Whether, therefore, we take the Mahomet of
Professor White and M. Galland, the Mohammed of Carlyle, or the
Mahummud of Scot; whether we say the caliph and sultaun Haroon al
Rasheed with the last, or the khaliph and sultan Haroun Alraschid
with Carlyle, is in my opinion a matter of little moment. There is
one thing, which would be much better; and that is, for all writers
to adhere to one mode, whether it comes nearest to the pronunciation
in the original language, or not.
TO THE
AUTHOR OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.
Bless’d child of Genius, whose fantastic sprite
Rides on the vivid lightnings flash, or roves
Thro’ flow’ry vallies and Elysian groves;
Or, borne on vent’rous pinions, takes its flight
To those dread realms, where, hid from mortal sight,
Fierce Genii roam, or where, in bright alcoves,
Mild Fairies reign, and woo their secret loves;
Whate’er thy theme, whether the magic might
Of the stern kings, that dwell ’mid ocean’s roar,
Or Sindbad’s perils, or the cruel wiles
Of Afric’s curst enchanters, charm us more;
Or ought more wond’rous still our ear beguiles;
Well pleased we listen to thy fabling lore,
And truth itself with less attraction smiles.