The guard, in kindly Eastern fashion, Smiled to themselves, and let her stay. So tolerant of human passion, "To love he has but one more day."

Yet when (the soft and scented gloom Scarce lighted by the dying fire) His arms caressed her youth and bloom, With him it was not all desire.

"For me," he whispered, as he lay, "But little life remains to live. One thing I crave to take away: You have the gift; but will you give?

"If I could know some child of mine Would live his life, and see the sun Across these fields of poppies shine, What should I care that mine is done?

"To die would not be dying quite, Leaving a little life behind, You, were you kind to me to-night, Could grant me this; but—are you kind?

"See, I have something here for you For you and It, if It there be." Soft in the gloom her glances grew, With gentle tears he could not see.

He took the chain from off his neck, Hid in the silver chain there lay Three rubies, without flaw or fleck. She answered softly "I will stay."

He drew her close; the moonless skies Shed little light; the fire was dead. Soft pity filled her youthful eyes, And many tender things she said.

Throughout the hot and silent night All that he asked of her she gave. And, left alone ere morning light, He went serenely to the grave,

Happy; for even when the rope Confined his neck, his thoughts were free, And centered round his Secret Hope The little life that was to be.

When Poppies bloomed again, she bore His child who gaily laughed and crowed, While round his tiny neck he wore The rubies given on the road.

For his small sake she wished to wait, But vainly to forget she tried, And grieving for the Prisoner's fate, She broke her gentle heart and died.



Song of Taj Mahomed

Dear is my inlaid sword; across the Border It brought me much reward; dear is my Mistress, The jewelled treasure of an amorous hour. Dear beyond measure are my dreams and Fancies.

These I adore; for these I live and labour, Holding them more than sword or jewelled Mistress, For this indeed may rust, and that prove faithless, But, till my limbs are dust, I have my Fancies.



The Garden of Kama:

Kama the Indian Eros

The daylight is dying, The Flying fox flying, Amber and amethyst burn in the sky. See, the sun throws a late, Lingering, roseate Kiss to the landscape to bid it good-bye.

The time of our Trysting! Oh, come, unresisting, Lovely, expectant, on tentative feet. Shadow shall cover us, Roses bend over us, Making a bride chamber, sacred and sweet.

We know not life's reason, The length of its season, Know not if they know, the great Ones above. We none of us sought it, And few could support it, Were it not gilt with the glamour of love.

But much is forgiven To Gods who have given, If but for an hour, the Rapture of Youth. You do not yet know it, But Kama shall show it, Changing your dreams to his Exquisite Truth.

The Fireflies shall light you, And naught shall afright you, Nothing shall trouble the Flight of the Hours. Come, for I wait for you, Night is too late for you, Come, while the twilight is closing the flowers.

Every breeze still is, And, scented with lilies, Cooled by the twilight, refreshed by the dew, The garden lies breathless, Where Kama, the Deathless, In the hushed starlight, is waiting for you.



Camp Follower's Song, Gomal River

We have left Gul Kach behind us, Are marching on Apozai,— Where pleasure and rest are waiting To welcome us by and by.

We're falling back from the Gomal, Across the Gir-dao plain, The camping ground is deserted, We'll never come back again.

Along the rocks and the defiles, The mules and the camels wind. Good-bye to Rahimut-Ullah, The man who is left behind.

For some we lost in the skirmish, And some were killed in the fight, But he was captured by fever, In the sentry pit, at night.

A rifle shot had been swifter, Less trouble a sabre thrust, But his Fate decided fever, And each man dies as he must.

Behind us, red in the distance. The wavering flames rise high, The flames of our burning grass-huts, Against the black of the sky.

We hear the sound of the river, An ever-lessening moan, The hearts of us all turn backwards To where he is left alone.

We sing up a little louder, We know that we feel bereft, We're leaving the camp together, And only one of us left.

The only one, out of many, And each must come to his end, I wish I could stop this singing, He happened to be my friend.

We're falling back from the Gomal We're marching on Apozai, And pleasure and rest are waiting To welcome us by and by.

Perhaps the feast will taste bitter, The lips of the girls less kind,— Because of Rahimut-Ullah, The man who is left behind!



Song of the Colours: by Taj Mahomed

Rose-colour Rose Pink am I, the colour gleams and glows In many a flower; her lips, those tender doors By which, in time of love, love's essence flows From him to her, are dyed in delicate Rose. Mine is the earliest Ruby light that pours Out of the East, when day's white gates unclose.

On downy peach, and maiden's downier cheek I, in a flush of radiant bloom, alight, Clinging, at sunset, to the shimmering peak I veil its snow in floods of Roseate light.

Azure Mine is the heavenly hue of Azure skies, Where the white clouds lie soft as seraphs' wings, Mine the sweet, shadowed light in innocent eyes, Whose lovely looks light only on lovely things.

Mine the Blue Distance, delicate and clear, Mine the Blue Glory of the morning sea, All that the soul so longs for, finds not here, Fond eyes deceive themselves, and find in me.

Scarlet Hail! to the Royal Red of living Blood, Let loose by steel in spirit-freeing flood, Forced from faint forms, by toil or torture torn Staining the patient gates of life new born.

Colour of War and Rage, of Pomp and Show, Banners that flash, red flags that flaunt and glow, Colour of Carnage, Glory, also Shame, Raiment of women women may not name.

I hide in mines, where unborn Rubies dwell, Flicker and flare in fitful fire in Hell, The outpressed life-blood of the grape is mine, Hail! to the Royal Purple Red of Wine.

Strong am I, over strong, to eyes that tire, In the hot hue of Rapine, Riot, Flame. Death and Despair are black, War and Desire, The two red cards in Life's unequal game.

Green I am the Life of Forests, and Wandering Streams, Green as the feathery reeds the Florican love, Young as a maiden, who of her marriage dreams, Still sweetly inexperienced in ways of Love.

Colour of Youth and Hope, some waves are mine, Some emerald reaches of the evening sky. See, in the Spring, my sweet green Promise shine, Never to be fulfilled, of by and by.

Never to be fulfilled; leaves bud, and ever Something is wanting, something falls behind; The flowered Solstice comes indeed, but never That light and lovely summer men divined.

Violet I were the colour of Things, (if hue they had) That are hard to name. Of curious, twisted thoughts that men call "mad" Or oftener "shame." Of that delicate vice, that is hardly vice, So reticent, rare, Ethereal, as the scent of buds and spice, In this Eastern air.

On palm-fringed shores I colour the Cowrie shell, With its edges curled; And, deep in Datura poison buds, I dwell In a perfumed world. My lilac tinges the edge of the evening sky Where the sunset clings. My purple lends an Imperial Majesty To the robes of kings.

Yellow Gold am I, and for me, ever men curse and pray, Selling their souls and each other, by night and day. A sordid colour, and yet, I make some things fair, Dying sunsets, fields of corn, and a maiden's hair.

Thus they discoursed in the daytime,—Violet, Yellow, and Blue, Emerald, Scarlet, and Rose-colour, the pink and perfect hue. Thus they spoke in the sunshine, when their beauty was manifest, Till the Night came, and the Silence, and gave them an equal rest.



Lalila, to the Ferengi Lover

Why above others was I so blessed And honoured? to be chosen one To hold you, sleeping, against my breast, As now I may hold your only son.

Twelve months ago; that wonderful night! You gave your life to me in a kiss; Have I done well, for that past delight, In return, to have given you this?

Look down at his face, your face, beloved, His eyes are azure as yours are blue. In every line of his form is proved How well I loved you, and only you.

I felt the secret hope at my heart Turned suddenly to the living joy, And knew that your life and mine had part As golden grains in a brass alloy.

And learning thus, that your child was mine, Thrilled by the sense of its stirring life, I held myself as a sacred shrine Afar from pleasure, and pain, and strife,

That all unworthy I might not be Of that you had deigned to cause to dwell Hidden away in the heart of me, As white pearls hide in a dusky shell.

Do you remember, when first you laid Your lips on mine, that enchanted night? My eyes were timid, my lips afraid, You seemed so slender and strangely white.

I always tremble; the moments flew Swiftly to dawn that took you away, But this is a small and lovely you Content to rest in my arms all day.

Oh, since you have sought me, Lord, for this, And given your only child to me, My life devoted to yours and his, Whilst I am living, will always be.

And after death, through the long To Be, (Which, I think, must surely keep love's laws,) I, should you chance to have need of me, Am ever and always, only yours.



On the City Wall

Upon the City Ramparts, lit up by sunset gleam, The Blue eyes that conquer, meet the Darker eyes that dream.

The Dark eyes, so Eastern, and the Blue eyes from the West, The last alight with action, the first so full of rest.

Brown, that seem to hold the Past; its magic mystery, Blue, that catch the early light, of ages yet to be.

Meet and fall and meet again, then linger, look, and smile, Time and distance all forgotten, for a little while.

Happy on the city wall, in the warm spring weather, All the force of Nature's laws, drawing them together.

East and West so gaily blending, for a little space, All the sunshine seems to centre, round th' Enchanted place!

One rides down the dusty road, one watches from the wall, Azure eyes would fain return, and Amber eyes recall;

Would fain be on the ramparts, and resting heart to heart, But time o' love is overpast, East and West must part.

Blue eyes so clear and brilliant! Brown eyes so dark and deep! Those are dim, and ride away, these cry themselves to sleep.

"Oh, since Love is all so short, the sob so near the smile, Blue eyes that always conquer us, is it worth your while?"



"Love Lightly"

There were Roses in the hedges, and Sunshine in the sky, Red Lilies in the sedges, where the water rippled by, A thousand Bulbuls singing, oh, how jubilant they were, And a thousand flowers flinging their sweetness on the air.

But you, who sat beside me, had a shadow in your eyes, Their sadness seemed to chide me, when I gave you scant replies; You asked "Did I remember?" and "When had I ceased to care?" In vain you fanned the ember, for the love flame was not there.

"And so, since you are tired of me, you ask me to forget, What is the use of caring, now that you no longer care? When Love is dead his Memory can only bring regret, But how can I forget you with the flowers in your hair?"

What use the scented Roses, or the azure of the sky? They are sweet when Love reposes, but then he had to die. What could I do in leaving you, but ask you to forget,— I suffered, too, in grieving you; I all but loved you yet.

But half love is a treason, that no lover can forgive, I had loved you for a season, I had no more to give. You saw my passion faltered, for I could but let you see, And it was not I that altered, but Fate that altered me.

And so, since I am tired of love, I ask you to forget, What is the use you caring, now that I no longer care? When Love is dead, his Memory can only bring regret; Forget me, oh, forget me, and my flower-scented hair!



No Rival Like the Past

As those who eat a Luscious Fruit, sunbaked, Full of sweet juice, with zest, until they find It finished, and their appetite unslaked, And so return and eat the pared-off rind;—

We, who in Youth, set white and careless teeth In the Ripe Fruits of Pleasure while they last, Later, creep back to gnaw the cast-off sheath, And find there is no Rival like the Past.



Verse by Taj Mahomed

When first I loved, I gave my very soul Utterly unreserved to Love's control, But Love deceived me, wrenched my youth away And made the gold of life for ever grey. Long I lived lonely, yet I tried in vain With any other Joy to stifle pain; There is no other joy, I learned to know, And so returned to Love, as long ago. Yet I, this little while ere I go hence, Love very lightly now, in self-defence.



Lines by Taj Mahomed

This passion is but an ember Of a Sun, of a Fire, long set; I could not live and remember, And so I love and forget.

You say, and the tone is fretful, That my mourning days were few, You call me over forgetful— My God, if you only knew!



There is no Breeze to Cool the Heat of Love

The listless Palm-trees catch the breeze above The pile-built huts that edge the salt Lagoon, There is no Breeze to cool the heat of love, No wind from land or sea, at night or noon.

Perfumed and robed I wait, my Lord, for you, And my heart waits alert, with strained delight, My flowers are loath to close, as though they knew That you will come to me before the night.

In the Verandah all the lights are lit, And softly veiled in rose to please your eyes, Between the pillars flying foxes flit, Their wings transparent on the lilac skies.

Come soon, my Lord, come soon, I almost fear My heart may fail me in this keen suspense, Break with delight, at last, to know you near. Pleasure is one with Pain, if too intense.

I envy these: the steps that you will tread, The jasmin that will touch you by its leaves, When, in your slender height, you stoop your head At the low door beneath the palm-thatched eaves.

For though you utterly belong to me, And love has done his utmost 'twixt us twain, Your slightest, careless touch yet seems to be That keen delight so much akin to pain.

The night breeze blows across the still Lagoon, And stirs the Palm-trees till they wave above Our pile-built huts; Oh, come, my Lord, come soon, There is no Breeze to cool the heat of love.

Every time you give yourself to me, The gift seems greater, and yourself more fair, This slight-built, palm-thatched hut has come to be A temple, since, my Lord, you visit there.

And as the water, gurgling softly, goes Among the piles beneath the slender floor; I hear it murmur, as it seaward flows, Of the great Wonder seen upon the shore.

The Miracle, that you should come to me, Whom the whole world, seeing, can but desire, It is as though some White Star stooped to be The messmate of our little cooking fire.

Leaving the Glory of his Purple Skies, And the White Friendship of the Crescent Moon, And yet;—I look into your brilliant eyes, And find content; Oh, come, my Lord, come soon.

Perfumed and robed I wait for you, I wait, The flowers that please you wreathed about my hair, And this poor face set forth in jewelled state, So more than proud since you have found it fair.

My lute is ready, and the fragrant drink Your lips may honour, how it will rejoice Losing its life in yours! the lute I think But wastes the time when I might hear your voice.

But you desired it, therefore I obey. Your slightest, as your utmost, wish or will, Whether it please you to caress or slay, It would please me to give obedience still.

I would delight to die beneath your kiss; I envy that young maiden who was slain, So her warm blood, flowing beneath the kiss, Might ease the wounded Sultan of his pain—

If she loved him as I love you, my Lord. There is no pleasure on the earth so sweet As is the pain endured for one adored; If I lay crushed beneath your slender feet

I should be happy! Ah, come soon, come soon, See how the stars grow large and white above, The land breeze blows across the salt Lagoon, There is no Breeze to cool the heat of love.



Malay Song

The Stars await, serene and white, The unarisen moon; Oh, come and stay with me to-night, Beside the salt Lagoon!

My hut is small, but as you lie, You see the lighted shore, And hear the rippling water sigh Beneath the pile-raised floor.

No gift have I of jewels or flowers, My room is poor and bare: But all the silver sea is ours, And all the scented air

Blown from the mainland, where there grows Th' "Intriguer of the Night," The flower that you have named Tube rose, Sweet scented, slim, and white.

The flower that, when the air is still And no land breezes blow, From its pale petals can distil A phosphorescent glow.

I see your ship at anchor ride; Her "captive lightning" shine. Before she takes to-morrow's tide, Let this one night be mine!

Though in the language of your land My words are poor and few, Oh, read my eyes, and understand, I give my youth to you!



The Temple Dancing Girl

You will be mine; those lightly dancing feet, Falling as softly on the careless street As the wind-loosened petals of a flower, Will bring you here, at the Appointed Hour.

And all the Temple's little links and laws Will not for long protect your loveliness. I have a stronger force to aid my cause, Nature's great Law, to love and to possess!

Throughout those sleepless watches, when I lay Wakeful, desiring what I might not see, I knew (it helped those hours, from dusk to day), In this one thing, Fate would be kind to me.

You will consent, through all my veins like wine This prescience flows; your lips meet mine above, Your clear soft eyes look upward into mine Dim in a silent ecstasy of love.

The clustered softness of your waving hair, That curious paleness which enchants me so, And all your delicate strength and youthful air, Destiny will compel you to bestow!

Refuse, withdraw, and hesitate awhile, Your young reluctance does but fan the flame; My partner, Love, waits, with a tender smile, Who play against him play a losing game.

I, strong in nothing else, have strength in this, The subtlest, most resistless, force we know Is aiding me; and you must stoop and kiss: The genius of the race will have it so!

Yet, make it not too long, nor too intense My thirst; lest I should break beneath the strain, And the worn nerves, and over-wearied sense, Enjoy not what they spent themselves to gain.

Lest, in the hour when you consent to share That human passion Beauty makes divine, I, over worn, should find you over fair, Lest I should die before I make you mine.

You will consent, those slim, reluctant feet, Falling as lightly on the careless street As the white petals of a wind-worn flower, Will bring you here, at the Appointed Hour.



Hira-Singh's Farewell to Burmah

On the wooden deck of the wooden Junk, silent, alone, we lie, With silver foam about the bow, and a silver moon in the sky: A glimmer of dimmer silver here, from the anklets round your feet, Our lips may close on each other's lips, but never our souls may meet.

For though in my arms you lie at rest, your name I have never heard, To carry a thought between us two, we have not a single word. And yet what matter we do not speak, when the ardent eyes have spoken, The way of love is a sweeter way, when the silence is unbroken.

As a wayward Fancy, tired at times, of the cultured Damask Rose, Drifts away to the tangled copse, where the wild Anemone grows; So the ordered and licit love ashore, is hardly fresh and free As this light love in the open wind and salt of the outer sea.

So sweet you are, with your tinted cheeks and your small caressive hands, What if I carried you home with me, where our Golden Temple stands? Yet, this were folly indeed; to bind, in fetters of permanence, A passing dream whose enchantment charms because of its trancience.

Life is ever a slave to Time; we have but an hour to rest, Her steam is up and her lighters leave, the vessel that takes me west; And never again we two shall meet, as we chance to meet to-night, On the Junk, whose painted eyes gaze forth, in desolate want of sight.

And what is love at its best, but this? Conceived by a passing glance, Nursed and reared in a transient mood, on a drifting Sea of Chance. For rudderless craft are all our loves, among the rocks and the shoals, Well we may know one another's speech, but never each other's souls.

Give here your lips and kiss me again, we have but a moment more, Before we set the sail to the mast, before we loosen the oar. Good-bye to you, and my thanks to you, for the rest you let me share, While this night drifted away to the Past, to join the Nights that Were.



Starlight

O beautiful Stars, when you see me go Hither and thither, in search of love, Do you think me faithless, who gleam and glow Serene and fixed in the blue above? O Stars, so golden, it is not so.

But there is a garden I dare not see, There is a place where I fear to go, Since the charm and glory of life to me The brown earth covered there, long ago. O Stars, you saw it, you know, you know.

Hither and thither I wandering go, With aimless haste and wearying fret; In a search for pleasure and love? Not so, Seeking desperately to forget. You see so many, O Stars, you know.



Sampan Song

A little breeze blew over the sea, And it came from far away, Across the fields of millet and rice, All warm with sunshine and sweet with spice, It lifted his curls and kissed him thrice, As upon the deck he lay.

It said, "Oh, idle upon the sea, Awake and with sleep have done, Haul up the widest sail of the prow, And come with me to the rice fields now, She longs, oh, how can I tell you how, To show you your first-born son!"



Song of the Devoted Slave

There is one God: Mahomed his Prophet. Had I his power I would take the topmost peaks of the snow-clad Himalayas, And would range them around your dwelling, during the heats of summer, To cool the airs that fan your serene and delicate presence, Had I the power.

Your courtyard should ever be filled with the fleetest of camels Laden with inlaid armour, jewels and trappings for horses, Ripe dates from Egypt, and spices and musk from Arabia. And the sacred waters of Zem-Zem well, transported thither, Should bubble and flow in your chamber, to bathe the delicate Slender and wayworn feet of my Lord, returning from travel, Had I the power.

Fine woven silk, from the further East, should conceal your beauty, Clinging around you in amorous folds; caressive, silken, Beautiful long-lashed, sweet-voiced Persian boys should, kneeling, serve you, And the floor beneath your sandalled feet should be smooth and golden, Had I the power.

And if ever your clear and stately thoughts should turn to women, Kings' daughters, maidens, should be appointed to your caresses, That the youth and the strength of my Lord might never be wasted In light or sterile love; but enrich the world with his children. Had I the power.

Whilst I should sit in the outer court of the Water Palace To await the time when you went forth, for Pleasure or Warfare, Descending the stairs rose crowned, or armed and arrayed in purple,— To mark the place where your steps have fallen, and kiss the footprints, Had I the power.



The Singer

The singer only sang the Joy of Life, For all too well, alas! the singer knew How hard the daily toil, how keen the strife, How salt the falling tear; the joys how few.

He who thinks hard soon finds it hard to live, Learning the Secret Bitterness of Things: So, leaving thought, the singer strove to give A level lightness to his lyric strings.

He only sang of Love; its joy and pain, But each man in his early season loves; Each finds the old, lost Paradise again, Unfolding leaves, and roses, nesting doves.

And though that sunlit time flies all too fleetly, Delightful Days that dance away too soon! Its early morning freshness lingers sweetly Throughout life's grey and tedious afternoon.

And he, whose dreams enshrine her tender eyes, And she, whose senses wait his waking hand, Impatient youth, that tired but sleepless lies, Will read perhaps, and reading, understand.

Oh, roseate lips he would have loved to kiss, Oh, eager lovers that he never knew! What should you know of him, or words of his?— But all the songs he sang were sung for you!



Malaria

He lurks among the reeds, beside the marsh, Red oleanders twisted in His hair, His eyes are haggard and His lips are harsh, Upon His breast the bones show gaunt and bare.

The green and stagnant waters lick His feet, And from their filmy, iridescent scum Clouds of mosquitoes, gauzy in the heat, Rise with His gifts: Death and Delirium.

His messengers: They bear the deadly taint On spangled wings aloft and far away, Making thin music, strident and yet faint, From golden eve to silver break of day.

The baffled sleeper hears th' incessant whine Through his tormented dreams, and finds no rest The thirsty insects use his blood for wine, Probe his blue veins and pasture on his breast.

While far away He in the marshes lies, Staining the stagnant water with His breath, An endless hunger burning in His eyes, A famine unassuaged, whose food is Death.

He hides among the ghostly mists that float Over the water, weird and white and chill, And peasants, passing in their laden boat, Shiver and feel a sense of coming ill.

A thousand burn and die; He takes no heed, Their bones, unburied, strewn upon the plain, Only increase the frenzy of His greed To add more victims to th' already slain.

He loves the haggard frame, the shattered mind, Gloats with delight upon the glazing eye, Yet, in one thing, His cruelty is kind, He sends them lovely dreams before they die;

Dreams that bestow on them their heart's desire, Visions that find them mad, and leave them blest, To sink, forgetful of the fever's fire, Softly, as in a lover's arms, to rest.



Fancy

Far in the Further East the skilful craftsman Fashioned this fancy for the West's delight. This rose and azure Dragon, crouching softly Upon the satin skin, close-grained and white.

And you lay silent, while his slender needles Pricked the intricate pattern on your arm, Combining deftly Cruelty and Beauty, That subtle union, whose child is charm.

Charm irresistible: the lovely something We follow in our dreams, but may not reach. The unattainable Divine Enchantment, Hinted in music, never heard in speech.

This from the blue design exhales towards me, As incense rises from the Homes of Prayer, While the unfettered eyes, allured and rested, Urge the forbidden lips to stoop and share;

Share in the sweetness of the rose and azure Traced in the Dragon's form upon the white Curve of the arm. Ah, curb thyself, my fancy, Where would'st thou drift in this enchanted flight?



Feroza

The evening sky was as green as Jade, As Emerald turf by Lotus lake, Behind the Kafila far she strayed, (The Pearls are lost if the Necklace break!)

A lingering freshness touched the air From palm-trees, clustered around a Spring, The great, grim Desert lay vast and bare, But Youth is ever a careless thing.

The Raiders threw her upon the sand, Men of the Wilderness know no laws, They tore the Amethysts off her hand, And rent the folds of her veiling gauze.

They struck the lips that they might have kissed, Pitiless they to her pain and fear, And wrenched the gold from her broken wrist, No use to cry; there were none to hear.

Her scarlet mouth and her onyx eyes, Her braided hair in its silken sheen, Were surely meet for a Lover's prize, But Fate dissented, and stepped between.

Across the Zenith the vultures fly, Cruel of beak and heavy of wing. Thus it was written that she should die. Inshallah! Death is a transient thing.



This Month the Almonds Bloom at Kandahar

I hate this City, seated on the Plain, The clang and clamour of the hot Bazar, Knowing, amid the pauses of my pain, This month the Almonds bloom in Kandahar.

The Almond-trees, that sheltered my Delight, Screening my happiness as evening fell. It was well worth—that most Enchanted Night— This life in torment, and the next in Hell!

People are kind to me; one More than Kind, Her lashes lie like fans upon her cheek, But kindness is a burden on my mind, And it is weariness to hear her speak.

For though that Kaffir's bullet holds me here, My thoughts are ever free, and wander far, To where the Lilac Hills rise, soft and clear, Beyond the Almond Groves of Kandahar.

He followed me to Sibi, to the Fair, The Horse-fair, where he shot me weeks ago, But since they fettered him I have no care That my returning steps to health are slow.

They will not loose him till they know my fate, And I rest here till I am strong to slay, Meantime, my Heart's Delight may safely wait Among the Almond blossoms, sweet as they.

That cursed Kaffir! Well, he won by day, But I won, what I so desired, by night, My arms held what his lack till Judgment Day! Also, the game is not yet over—quite!

Wait, Amir Ali, wait till I come forth To kill, before the Almond-trees are green, To raze thy very Memory from the North, So that thou art not, and thou hast not been!

Aha! Friend Amir Ali! it is Duty To rid the World from Shiah dogs like thee, They are but ill-placed moles on Islam's beauty, Such as the Faithful cannot calmly see!

Also thy bullet hurts me not a little, Thy Shiah blood might serve to salve the ill. Maybe some Afghan Promises are brittle; Never a Promise to oneself, to kill!

Now I grow stronger, I have days of leisure To shape my coming Vengeance as I lie, And, undisturbed by call of War or Pleasure, Can dream of many ways a man may die.

I shall not torture thee, thy friends might rally, Some Fate assist thee and prove false to me; Oh! shouldst thou now escape me, Amir Ali, This would torment me through Eternity!

Aye, Shuffa-Jan, I will be quiet indeed, Give here the Hakim's powder if thou wilt, And thou mayst sit, for I perceive thy need, And rest thy soft-haired head upon my quilt.

Thy gentle love will not disturb a mind That loves and hates beneath a fiercer Star. Also, thou know'st, my Heart is left behind, Among the Almond-trees of Kandahar!

THE END