Wherein he statelily moved to the clink of his chains unre

garded,

Nowise abashed but contented to drink of the potion awarded.
Saluting aloofly his Fate, he made haste with his story,
And the words of his mouth were as slaves spreading carpets

of glory

Embroidered with names of the Djinns a miraculous weaving

But the cool and perspicuous eye overbore unbelieving.
So I submitted myself to the limits of rapture-

Bound by this man we had bound, amid captives his cap

ture

Till he returned me to earth and the visions departed. But on him be the Peace and the Blessing; for he was greathearted!

THE PUZZLER

THE Celt in all his variants from Builth to Bally-hoo, His mental processes are plain-one knows what he will do,

And can logically predicate his finish by his start;
But the English-ah, the English!-they are quite a race
apart.

Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude and raw.
They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw,
But the straw that they were tickled with-the chaff that
they were fed with-

They convert into a weaver's beam to break their foeman's head with.

For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State,
They arrive at their conclusions-largely inarticulate.
Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none;
But sometimes in a smoking-room, one learns why things
were done.

Yes, sometimes in a smoking-room, through clouds of “Ers” and "Ums,"

Obliquely and by inference, illumination comes,

On some step that they have taken, or some action they approve

Embellished with the argot of the Upper Fourth Remove.

In telegraphic sentences, half nodded to their friends,
They hint a matter's inwardness—and there the matter ends.
And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall,
The English-ah, the English!—don't say anything at all.

THE PRESS

THE Soldier may forget his Sword,

The Sailorman the Sea,

The Mason may forget the Word

And the Priest his Litany:

The Maid may forget both jewel and gem,

And the Bride her wedding-dress

But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem

Ere we forget the Press!

Who once hath stood through the loaded hour

Ere, roaring like the gale,

The Harrild and the Hoe devour

Their league-long paper-bale,

And has lit his pipe in the morning calm

That follows the midnight stress

He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art
We call the daily Press.

Who once hath dealt in the widest game

That all of a man can play,

No later love, no larger fame

Will lure him long away.

As the war-horse smelleth the battle afar,
The entered Soul, no less,

He saith: "Ha! Ha!" where the trumpets are
And the thunders of the Press!

Canst thou number the days that we fulfil,
Or the Times that we bring forth?
Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will,
And cause them reign on earth?
Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings
To please his foolishness?

Sit down at the heart of men and things,
Companion of the Press!

The Pope may launch his Interdict,

The Union its decree,

But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked
By Us and such as We.

Remember the battle and stand aside.

While Thrones and Powers confess

That King over all the children of pride.
Is the Press-the Press-the Press!

HADRAMAUTI

WHO knows the heart of the Christian? How does he

reason?

What are his measures and balances? Which is his season For laughter, forbearance or bloodshed, and what devils move

him

When he arises to smite us? I do not love him.

He invites the derision of strangers-he enters all places. Booted, bareheaded he enters. With shouts and embraces He asks of us news of the household whom we reckon nameless.

Certainly Allah created him forty-fold shameless!

So it is not in the Desert. One came to me weeping-
The Avenger of Blood on his track-I took him in keeping.
Demanding not whom he had slain, I refreshed him, I fed him
As he were even a brother. But Eblis had bred him.

He was the son of an ape, ill at ease in his clothing. He talked with his head, hands and feet. I endured him with loathing.

Whatever his spirit conceived his countenance showed it As a frog shows in a mud-puddle. Yet I abode it!

I fingered my beard and was dumb, in silence confronting him.

His soul was too shallow for silence, e'en with Death hunting

him.

I said: ""Tis his weariness speaks," but, when he had rested, He chirped in my face like some sparrow, and, presently,

jested!

Wherefore slew I that stranger? He brought me dishonour. I saddled my mare, Bijli, I set him upon her.

I gave him rice and goat's flesh. He bared me to laughter. When he was gone from my tent, swift I followed after, Taking my sword in my hand. The hot wine had filled him. Under the stars he mocked me-therefore I killed him!

CHAPTER HEADINGS

THE NAULAHKA

WE MEET in an evil land

That is near to the gates of hell.

I wait for thy command

To serve, to speed or withstand.
And thou sayest, I do not well?

Oh Love, the flowers so red
Are only tongues of flame,
The earth is full of the dead,
The new-killed, restless dead.

There is danger beneath and o'erhead,
And I guard thy gates in fear

Of words thou canst not hear,

Of peril and jeopardy,

Of signs thou canst not see

And thou sayest 'tis ill that I came?

This I saw when the rites were donc,

And the lamps were dead and the Gods alone,
And the grey snake coiled on the altar stone-
Ere I fled from a Fear that I could not see,
And the Gods of the East made mouths at me.

Now it is not good for the Christian's health to hustle the Aryan brown,

For the Christian riles, and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the Christian down;

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name

of the late deceased,

And the epitaph drear: "A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East."