ss revenues,
Do not salute as happy."

I have spoken of the wit of these verses, which is certainly one of
their distinguishing qualities. It is quite Attic in its flavor and
exquisitely delicate in its combined good-humor and freedom from rancor.
An epigram, according to the old definition, should be like a bee; it
should carry the sweetness of honey, although it bears a sting at the
end. Sometimes the end has a point which does not sting, as in the
following quatrain of an Arabic poet:--

"When I sent you my melons, you cried out with scorn,
They ought to be heavy and wrinkled and yellow;
When I offered myself, whom those graces adorn,
You flouted, and called me an ugly old fellow."

Martial himself could not have excelled the wit of an epigram addressed
to a very little man who wore a very big beard, which thus concludes:--

"Surely thou cherishest thy beard
In hope to hide thyself behind it."

To study a literature like that of the Arabians, even partially and in a
translation, is one of those experiences which enlarge and stimulate the
mind and expand its range of impressions with a distinctly elevating and
liberalizing effect. It has the result of genuine education, in that it
increases our capacity for sympathy for other peoples, making us better
acquainted with the language in which they reveal that common human
heart which they share with us.

E.W.

AN ELEGY[1]

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 meado