Those dear abodes which once contain'd the fair,
Amidst Mitata's wilds I seek in vain,
Nor towers, nor tents, nor cottages are there,
But scatter'd ruins and a silent plain.
The proud canals that once Rayana grac'd,
Their course neglected and their waters gone,
Among the level'd sands are dimly trac'd,
Like moss-grown letters on a mouldering stone.
Rayana say, how many a tedious year
Its hallow'd circle o'er our heads hath roll'd,
Since to my vows thy tender maids gave ear,
And fondly listened to the tale I told?
How oft, since then, the star of spring, that pours
A never-failing stream, hath drenched thy head?
How oft, the summer cloud in copious showers
Or gentle drops its genial influence shed?
How oft since then, the hovering mist of morn
Hath caus'd thy locks with glittering gems to glow?
How oft hath eve her dewy treasures borne
To fall responsive to the breeze below?
The matted thistles, bending to the gale,
Now clothe those meadows once with verdure gay;
Amidst the windings of that lonely vale
The teeming antelope and ostrich stray.
The large-eyed mother of the herd that flies
Man's noisy haunts, here finds a sure retreat,
Here watches o'er her young, till age supplies
Strength to their limbs and swiftness to their feet.
Save where the swelling stream hath swept those walls
And giv'n their deep foundations to the light
(As the retouching pencil that recalls
A long-lost picture to the raptur'd sight).
Save where the rains have wash'd the gathered sand
And bared the scanty fragments to our view,
(As the dust sprinkled on a punctur'd hand
Bids the faint tints resume their azure hue).
No mossy record of those once lov'd seats
Points out the mansion to inquiring eyes;
No tottering wall, in echoing sounds, repeats
Our mournful questions and our bursting sighs.
Yet, midst those ruin'd heaps, that naked plain,
Can faithful memory former scenes restore,
Recall the busy throng, the jocund train,
And picture all that charm'd us there before.
Ne'e shall my heart the fatal morn forget
That bore the fair ones from these seats so dear--
I see, I see the crowding litters yet,
And yet the tent-poles rattle in my ear.
I see the maids with timid steps descend,
The streamers wave in all their painted pride,
The floating curtains every fold extend,
And vainly strive the charms within to hide.
What graceful forms those envious folds enclose!
What melting glances thro' those curtains play!
Sure Weira's antelopes, or Tudah's roes
Thro' yonder veils their sportive young survey!
The band mov'd on--to trace their steps I strove,
I saw them urge the camel's hastening flight,
Till the white vapor, like a rising grove,
Snatch'd them forever from my aching sight.
Nor since that morn have I Nawara seen,
The bands are burst which held us once so fast,
Memory but tells me that such things have been,
And sad Reflection adds, that they are past.
_Lebid Ben Rabiat Alamary_.
[1] The author of this poem was a native of Yemen. He was contemporary
with Mohammed and was already celebrated as a poet when the prophet
began to promulgate his doctrines. Lebid embraced Islamism and was
one of the most aggressive helpers in its establishment. He fixed
his abode in the city of Cufa, where he died at a very advanced age.
This elegy, as is evident, was written previous to Lebid's conversion
to Islamism. Its subject is one that must be ever interesting to
the feeling mind--the return of a person after a long absence to
the place of his birth--in fact it is the Arabian "Deserted Village."