EL AMIN.
Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride,
But a great, free son of Nature, lion-souled and eagle-eyed!
Who is this before whose presence idols tumble to the sod?
While he cries out—"Allah Akbar! and there is no god but God!"
Wandering in the solemn desert, he has wondered like a child
Not as yet too proud to wonder, at the sun, and star, and wild.
"Oh, thou moon! who made thy brightness? Stars! who hung you there on high?
Answer! so my soul may worship: I must worship or die!"
Then there fell the brooding silence that precedes the thunder's roll;
And the old Arabian Whirlwind called another Arab soul.
Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride,
But a great, free son of Nature, lion-souled and eagle-eyed!
He has stood and seen Mount Hara to the Awful Presence nod;
He has heard from cloud and lightning—"Know there is no god but God!"
Call ye this man an imposter? He was called "The Faithful," when,
A boy, he wandered o'er the deserts, by the wild-eyed Arab men.
He was always called "The Faithful." Truth he knew was Allah's breath;
But the Lie went darkly gnashing through the corridors of Death.
"He was fierce!" Yes! fierce at falsehood—fierce at hideous bits of wood,
That the Koreish taught the people made the sun and solitude.
But his heart was also gentle, and Affection's graceful palm,
Waving in his tropic spirit, to the weary brought a balm.
"Precepts?" "Have on each compassion:" "Lead the stranger to your door:"
"In your dealings keep up justice:" "Give a tenth unto the poor."
"Yet ambitious!" Yes! ambitious—while he heard the calm and sweet
Aiden-voices sing—to trample troubled Hell beneath his feet.
"Islam?" Yes! "Submit to Heaven!" "Prophet?" To the East thou art!
What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?
And the great heart of the desert stirred unto that solemn strain,
Rolling from the trump at Hara over Error's troubled main.
And a hundred dusky millions honor still El Amin's rod—
Daily chanting—"Allah Akbar! know there is no god but God!"
Call him then no more "Impostor." Mecca is the Choral Gate
Where, till Zion's noon shall take them, nations in her morning wait.
Mr. Wallace has published a few songs. They have not the stately movement of his other pieces, and the one which follows needs the application of the file; but it is, like the others, very spirited: