HALF-STARVED, the Arab Abib stands, | |
| Upon the Red Sea’s burning sands, | |
| Beating his breast with bleeding hands. | |
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| A poor and half-starved fisherman, | |
| The deep dark wave he tries to scan, | 5 |
| Vainly, as but the hopeless can. | |
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| The coral spikes had torn his net, | |
| That all the night in vain was set, | |
| His flimsy boat was leaky wet. | |
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| The sun’s hot shafts had through him thrust, | 10 |
| His hooks the night-dews blunt and rust,— | |
| In God the Arab has no trust. | |
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| He sees no angel on the hills, | |
| With eyes that deepest pity fills | |
| For human griefs and human ills. | 15 |
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| Snapping his oars upon his knee, | |
| He curses the poor locust-tree, | |
| That sheds its fruit so lavishly. | |
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| He turned, and lo! a quick star fell | |
| From where the black-eyed houris dwell | 20 |
| (What men think heaven is often hell). | |
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| It dropped,—and as it touched the earth, | |
| It broke to diamond-dust; with mirth | |
| Of mocking voices came the birth. | |
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| A giant Afrit, wicked, proud, | 25 |
| Half fire (but fire that ’s hid in cloud), | |
| Arose, and Abib shrieked aloud. | |
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| “Thou foolish child of clay,” it said, | |
| “We Genii mourn not for the dead. | |
| I am your god where’er I tread! | 30 |
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| “There is no ruler of this world, | |
| He from his throne has long been hurled, | |
| His sun-cloud banner long since furled. | |
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| “The God you seek is but a thing | |
| Of mad fool’s trances,—a dream-king, | 35 |
| A God without a brain or wing. | |
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| “What need of pining?—there is gold, | |
| More than thy crazy bark can hold, | |
| In this dark sea—if thou art bold. | |
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| “Fools only kneel: stand on thy feet, | 40 |
| The world beneath thee tramp and beat; | |
| Dominion to the wise is sweet. | |
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| “Let down thy net before the sun | |
| His useless circle hath outrun. | |
| Thy insect life is but begun.” | 45 |
| |
| A mist arose out of the sea: | |
| “My Simoom horse has come for me,” | |
| The Genii cried: “be rich and free.” | |
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| The fire-wind came and swept the sand, | |
| And demons, an exulting band, | 50 |
| Rode with it to the desert land. * * * * * | |
| Abib awakes from out his trance; | |
| The moonbeams on the waters dance, | |
| The quick waves meeting, flash and glance. | |
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| Without a prayer his net he threw, | 55 |
| The ropes in a wide circle flew, | |
| And slowly settled sure and true. | |
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| He drags, and lo! a toiling weight, | |
| A burden ponderous and great, | |
| Then glimmers of a golden freight. | 60 |
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| A dead man’s hair mats in the strings, | |
| A golden robe that laps and clings, | |
| A blazing crown with emerald rings. | |
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| A chain with jewelled beetles strung, | |
| A massy golden targe that rung, | 65 |
| Still to the Pharaoh’s body hung. | |
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| A frown is on the dead king’s face, | |
| His lips are pressed in stern grimace, | |
| One hand is on his quiver-case. | |
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| And on his ring a jewel, see | 70 |
| “Pharaoh, the son of Isis,—he | |
| Who rules both Egypts,—kneel to me.” | |
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| Now Abib to his hut returns, | |
| The signet on his turban burns, | |
| “Yes! this is what God’s chosen earns.” | 75 |
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| They crown him lord,—he spurns the priest, | |
| Drives pilgrims from the holy East, | |
| And slays the Christians at their feast. | |
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| The Arab rebels crown him king, | |
| His mandates fly on tireless wing, | 80 |
| And make the desert echoes ring. | |
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| The Genii’s curse is on his head, | |
| The desert, wheresoe’er he tread, | |
| With human blood is crimson red. | |
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| Soon cohorts come and fire the town, | 85 |
| And Abib, with his head hung down, | |
| Upon a cross now wears the crown. | |
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