drunkard, a liar, a thief, and a cheat.

_Mohammed Ben Zeid Almotakalam_.

[22] Mohammed Ben Arfa, here called Naphta-Wah, was descended from a
noble family in Khorasan. He applied himself to study with
indefatigable perseverance, and was a very voluminous author in
several branches of literature, but he is chiefly distinguished as
a grammarian. He died in the year of the Hegira 323.

FIRE[23]

_A Riddle_.

The loftiest cedars I can eat,
Yet neither paunch nor mouth have I,
I storm whene'er you give me meat,
Whene'er you give me drink, I die.

[23] This composition seems a fit supplement to the preceding one;
notwithstanding its absurdity, however. It is inserted merely to
show that this mode of trifling was not unknown to the Orientals.
It is taken from the Mostatraf, where a great number of similar
productions on various subjects are preserved.

TO A LADY BLUSHING[24]

Leila, whene'er I gaze on thee
My altered cheek turns pale,
While upon thine, sweet maid, I see
A deep'ning blush prevail.

Leila, shall I the cause impart
Why such a change takes place?
The crimson stream deserts my heart,
To mantle on thy face.

_The Caliph Radhi Billah_.

[24] Radhi Billah, son to Moctader, was the twentieth Caliph of the
house of Abbas, and the last of these princes who possessed any
substantial power.

ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE

Mortal joys, however pure,
Soon their turbid source betray;
Mortal bliss, however sure,
Soon must totter and decay.

Ye who now, with footsteps keen,
Range through hope's delusive field,
Tell us what the smiling scene
To your ardent grasp can yield?

Other youths have oft before
Deem'd their joys would never fade,
Till themselves were seen no more
Swept into oblivion's shade.

Who, with health and pleasure gay,
E'er his fragile state could know,
Were not age and pain to say
Man is but the child of woe?

_The Caliph Radhi Billah_.

TO A DOVE

The Dove to ease an aching breast,
In piteous murmurs vents her cares;
Like me she sorrows, for opprest,
Like me, a load of grief she bears.

Her plaints are heard in every wood,
While I would fain conceal my woes;
But vain's my wish, the briny flood,
The more I strive, the faster flows.

Sure, gentle Bird, my drooping heart
Divides the pangs of love with t