Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
In Arabia
By James Berry Bensel (1856–1886)“C
The Arab chief a brawny hand displayed,
Wherein, like moonlight on a sullen sea,
Gleamed the gray scimitar’s enamelled blade.
Close in my power, my vengeance I may wreak,
Yet hesitate to strike. A hate like mine
Is noble still. Thou hast thy choosing,—speak!”
That hailed his captor chieftain, with grave eyes
His answer waited, while that heavy hand
Stretched like a bar between him and the skies.
A sneer of scorn, and raised his noble head;
“Strike!” and the desert monarch, as content,
Rehung the weapon at his girdle red.
His arms toward the heaven so far and blue
Wherein the sunset rays began to die,
While o’er the band a deeper silence grew.
A son of Gheva spill upon the dust
His noble blood? Didst hope to have my knee
Bend at thy feet, and with one mighty thrust
Shame on thee! on thy race! Art thou the one
Who hast so long his vengeance counted dear?
My hate is greater; I did strike thy son,
And by the swiftest courser of my stud
Sent to thy door his corpse. Aye, one might trace
Their flight across the desert by his blood.
But with a frown the Arab moved away,
Walked to a distant palm and stood alone,
With eyes that looked where purple mountains lay.
Towards the place where Ackbar waited still,
Walking as one benumbed with bitter pain,
Or with a hateful mission to fulfil.
“Nay, but my hate I cannot find!” said now
His enemy. “Thy freedom I restore.
Live! life were worse than death to such as thou.”
That night untroubled; but when dawn broke through
The purple East, and o’er his eyelids crept
The long, thin fingers of the light, he drew
A lifted dagger—“Yea, he gave thee life,
But I give death!” came in fierce undertone.
And Ackbar died. It was dead Noumid’s wife.