the rustling sound alternate with the hyena's laugh, the jackal's cry, and
the wild dog's lengthened howl.

Or, the weather becoming cold, we remain below, and Mohammed Umar returns
to read out more "Book of Lights," or some pathetic ode. I will quote in
free translation the following production of the celebrated poet Abd el
Rahman el Burai, as a perfect specimen of melancholy Arab imagery:

"No exile is the banished to the latter end of earth,
The exile is the banished to the coffin and the tomb

"He hath claims on the dwellers in the places of their birth
Who wandereth the world, for he lacketh him a home.

"Then, blamer, blame me not, were my heart within thy breast,
The sigh would take the place of thy laughter and thy scorn.

"Let me weep for the sin that debars my soul of rest,
The tear may yet avail,--all in vain I may not mourn! [22]

"Woe! woe to thee, Flesh!--with a purer spirit now
The death-day were a hope, and the judgment-hour a joy!

"One morn I woke in pain, with a pallor on my brow,
As though the dreaded Angel were descending to destroy:

"They brought to me a leech, saying, 'Heal him lest he die!'
On that day, by Allah, were his drugs a poor deceit!

"They stripped me and bathed me, and closed the glazing eye,