Fort Worth daily gazette. (Fort Worth, Tex.) 1882-1891, 1890-06-15

the Q6aQ; on this stone was engrav6n the
Nsmeless Name. the second, less po-
tent, was q magic glass which revealed
the movements of his enemies, and
showed the laws of all things; and tbs
third was the east wind which was ths
great king IS horse.
An unskilled musician, with a reed
| pipes desert strain to the lean, swart
Bedouin; and If you have the gift OF
tongues you may hear of many sorts
of treasures-of radiant glance which
throws the sun and moon into shade
when Leila lifts her white eyelids the
stars grow pale; of fiower-soft lips and
voices sweeter than the bulbul IS; and OF
gallant steed; the wind Jagged after
him, and between his hoofs his master
slept as in safe tent.
The literature of the Turk is scant, and
his poetry is borrowed mainly from the
Arabic. Come near and you hear some
thing like this little story from the Per-
! san. have seen it rendered into verse,
but the literal translation gives best the
fine essence of the original:
fOnce knocked at the Beloved g door
and voice said from within, 'Who is
there?' and he answered, st is 1. Then
the voice said, This house will not
opened. Then the lover went out into
the Desert, where there is nothing but
Allah, and tasted and prayed in solitude
and after year he returned and knocked
again at the door; and again the voice
asked, Who is there?' and he said, 1T
is myself, and the door was opened to
him.
Here is a favorite chant given with
MI no 70
bours:
''Clear as amber, fine as musk,
Is life to those who, pilgrimwise,
Move hand IN hand from dawn to dusk,
Each morning nearer Paradise.
''Oh. not for them need angels prayI
They stand in ev erlasting light;
They walk in Allah's smile by day,
And nestle in his heart at night"
regret that want of space excludes
more than few lines of the "Message
from under the cypress tree in the Gar
den Green
81 had gold robes. and greatness, and sweet
ness
I was queen of the land
In my Palace shone pride of completeness;
On my lips safe command
Not the crown on my brows.
And my garden is green with Loves story,
And my Tomb is Loves house. - t.zs.3
The tranquil enjoyment lasts tillstwi-
light. All are sober, none noisf5 1augh-
ing children now and then Gap hands
and make little stir, buts9ff there is
anything like vivacity, be SIRE it is in
Greek or Armenian. Therels no color
line drawn, and an Ethiop eirl IN tin
selled slippers may sing to an nraptured
audience the ''Frantic Lay of he Night
Black Lover and with madszgesture
shout, rather than hymn, the pra1ssss0f
love and VINE.
Through the sunset sky we have a van
ishing glimpse of the invisible and
heavenly. Ten thousand voices thrill
the air calling to prayer from 10 200
mInarets. Then is the wiching hour.
AS darkness deepens the flood Gains;
the unresting birds-a species of halcyon
hush their screams, and, in wing
worm fiocks, seek their nests at the en-
trance of the Black sea; quiokening
breeze fans the cheek; voices of
serenaders, not Moslem, are waited
through the perfumed dusk; innumera-
BILE wavelets, faint pulsations of the sea,
unite in lulling monotone. Beneath yon
latticed balcony a flower drops on q dark
upturned face. Romeo is breathing the
eternal tale of which the world never
tires, begun in Eden, new every morn
ing and fresh every evening as when the
evening and the morning were the sew
enth day.
The words, in Greek or Italian, run on
the same tender theme-the bliss of
meeting, the pain of parting The love-
lorn watcher under the sentinel stars
calls the bright powers of heaven to hear
his lament and witness his woe; weep
not for the ship, weep not for the sails,
but weep for the far one, the lily-bu
who is sailing far away.
In sweetness and grace our festa1 day
is dying. OF the balmy eve softly fol-
lowing, 1 hardly trust myself TO speak
Nine months of the year the pleasure
lover may find 1t such as 1 have tried to
desoribe-the indescribable. With a
feeling of unreality we float between
blue and blue, past gardens blossoming
with jasmine, heliotrope, lavender,
groves of pine with tall dark crowns,
and hearken to the secrets in the night
ingale' song. OF the myriad melodies
of nature it is the saddest, and, listen
doubt that she is telling to her beloved
rose how her breast is pierced with cruel
thorns.
Like an uplifted mirage looming on ]
high rise the towers and domes ofe j
Stamboul; beyond them in a gla4 radi-
ance, changeful as fre-opal, diff the
Happy Isles of the Marmora "a Night
and day, truth ana fable, are blApt in
absolute harmony, perfect choraa 1t
is all witchery, spell feeting as sohle
eolian strain enchanting US in sleep; it
haunts our waking, but is doomed to re-
main forever unsung and now is so dim
and distant 1 sometimes wonder which
was dream and which was reality.
81 ask myself, is this dream2
Will it all vanish into air?
Is there land of such supreme
And perfect beauty anywhere?
''Linger until upon my brain
Is stamped an image of the scene; "a
Then fade into the air again,
And be as If thou hadst not been.''