The mathematics of Abul Hassan, three hundred years at school
In Arabic philosophy, showed that the West was still a fool.
Nay, gently, call her still a babe. How should she know that I, the Great,
Had learned from savages to prate of compass and of astrolabe.
Our miracles were not so sure to heal as Rhazes' simplest cure.
His friends the moon and stars obeyed the rules that Abul Wafa made.
My stolen lore raised me above my fellows. Everything but love
Was mine, respect, authority. The jealous Churchmen dared not move.
Our infant realm could not dispense with me, its shield and main defence.
I knew the Damascene recipe for making steel, and made it cheap.