‘Islam’s prince in Allah’s eyes!
Even the meek, in his great station,
Freehold had of Paradise.’
III.
When the plague-wind’s desolation
Pierced Bassora’s burning wall,
Circled with a kneeling nation
Whom his mercies held in thrall,
Died the Caliph, whispering tender
Counsel to his liegemen tall:
‘One last service, children! render
Me, whose pride the Lord forgave:
Not by our supreme Defender,
‘Not beside the holy wave,
Not in places where my race is
Lay me! but in Selim’s grave.’
THE RISE OF THE TIDE.
A FISHERMAN gray, one night of yore,
His nets upgathered, plied the oar,
Right merrily heading for a haven,
While summer winds blew blithe before.
He sat beneath his pennon white;
His arms were brown, his eye was bright;
Twice twenty years his breast had carried
A ribbon from Lepanto’s fight.