The praise of a humble lot has been sung from Háfiz to Horace, but never illustrated by a prettier conceit than the Arabic poet has recourse to in this stanza:--
"Not always wealth, not always force A splendid destiny commands; The lordly vulture gnaws the corse That rots upon yon barren sands.
"Nor want nor weakness still conspires To bind us to a sordid state; The fly that with a touch expires, Sips honey from the royal plate."
This is undoubtedly a very original way of stating the philosophic axiom of the Augustan poet,
"The lord of boundless revenues, Do not salute as happy."
I have spoken of the wit of these verses, which is certainly one of their distinguishing qualities. It is quite Attic in its flavor and exquisitely delicate in its combined good-humor and freedom from rancor. An epigram, according to the old definition, should be like a bee; it should carry the sweetness of honey, although it bears a sting at the end. Sometimes the end has a point which does not sting, as in the following quatrain of an Arabic poet:--
"When I sent you my melons, you cried out with scorn, They ought to be heavy and wrinkled and yellow; When I offered myself, whom those graces adorn, You flouted, and called me an ugly old fellow."
Martial himself could not have excelled the wit of an epigram addressed to a very little man who wore a very big beard, which thus concludes:--
"Surely thou cherishest thy beard In hope to hide thyself behind it."
To study a literature like that of the Arabians, even partially and in a translation, is one of those experiences which enlarge and stimulate the mind and expand its range of impressions with a distinctly elevating and liberalizing effect. It has the result of genuine education, in that it increases our capacity for sympathy for other peoples, making us better acquainted with the language in which they reveal that common human heart which they share with us.
Those dear abodes which once contain'd the fair, Amidst Mitata's wilds I seek in vain, Nor towers, nor tents, nor cottages are there, But scatter'd ruins and a silent plain.
The proud canals that once Rayana grac'd, Their course neglected and their waters gone, Among the level'd sands are dimly trac'd, Like moss-grown letters on a mouldering stone.