BY CLINTON SCOLLARD.

From fair Damascus, as the day grew late,
Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas' gate
Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard
Vie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird.
But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet
The lovely lines of gold and violet,
A guerdon left by the departing sun
To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon.
Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed,
And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade
Seemed but the presage of his doom to be,--
Death, and the triumph of his enemy.

"_One slain by slander_" cried he, with a laugh,
"Thus should the poets frame my epitaph,
Above whose mouldering dust it will be said,
'Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!'"
Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spake
From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake,
Hailing the night's first blossom in the sky.
And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh
The orchard-garden where his home was hid
Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid.

Despair mocked at him from the latticed gate
Where Love and Happiness had lain in wait
With tender greetings, and the lights within
Gleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been.
Fair Hope who daily poured into his ear
Her rainbow promises gave way to Fear
Who smote him blindly, leaving him to moan
With bitter tears before the gateway prone.

Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve,
When lo! a sudden hand touched Kafur's sleeve,
And then a voice cried, echoing his name,
"Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame!'"
Up sprang the prostrate man, and while he stood
Gripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood,
He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight;
Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur's night.

"Allah is just," he said.... Then burning ire
With vengeance visions filled his brain like fire;
And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late,
Delirious with delight he hugged his hate.
"Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn?
This night mine enemy shall know my scorn."
The stars looked down in wo'nder overhead
As backward Kafur toward Damascus sped.

The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief,
Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf;
Into the bird's song pleading