such a
blending of prose and verse is the favorite form of Arabian literature
in its highest and severest form, even in the drama. But the character
of the people is most clearly shown in the lyrical poems of the Bedouin
country. The pastoral poetry of the peninsula is so local in its
allusions that it cannot adequately be translated into English. It is in
the lyrics that we find that "touch of nature which makes the whole
world kin." The gorgeousness of Hindoo literature, with its lavish
description of jewelry and gold, precious stones and marbles, hideous
demons, and mighty gods, is not to be looked for in Arabia. There the
horizon is clear, and the plain has nothing but human occupants. The
common passions of men are the only powers at work; love, war, sorrow,
and wine, are the subjects of these little songs, some of which might
have been written by "Anacreon" Moore, and others by Catullus. The
influence of Greek poetry is indeed manifest in these light and
sometimes frivolous effusions. The sweetness and grace which distinguish
some are only equalled by the wit of others. For wit is the prevailing
characteristic of Arabian poetry, which is attractive for its
cleverness, its brightness, the alternate smiles and tears which shine
through it, and make the present selections so refreshing and
interesting a revelation of the national heart and intellect.

I use the word refreshing, because some of the imagery of these lyrics
is new to me, and quite unparalleled in European literature. What can
be more novel, and at the same time more charming than the following
simile, with which a short elegy concludes:--

"But though in dust thy relics lie,
Thy virtues, Mano, ne'er shall die;
Though Nile's full stream be seen no more,
That spread his waves from shore to shore,
Still in the verdure of the plain
His vivifying smiles remain."

The praise of a humble lot has been sung from Hafiz to Horace, but
never illustrated by a prettier conceit than the Arabic poet has
recourse to in this stanza:--

"Not always wealth, not always force
A splendid destiny commands;
The lordly vulture gnaws the corse
That rots upon yon barren sands.

"Nor want nor weakness still conspires
To bind us to a sordid state;
The fly that with a touch expires,
Sips honey from the royal plate."

This is undoubtedly a very original way of stating the philosophic axiom
of the Augustan poet,

"The lord of boundle