_Taza Ba Taza_

Akbar sate high in the ivory hall, His chief musician he bade them call; Sing, said the king, that song of glee. Taza ba taza, now ba now. Sing me that music sweet and free, Taza ba taza, now ba now; Here by the fountain sing it thou, Taza ba taza, now ba now.

Bending full low, his minstrel took The Vina down from its painted nook. Swept the strings of silver so Taza ba taza, now ba now; Made the gladsome Vina go Taza ba taza, now ba now; Sang with light strains and brightsome brow Taza ba taza, now ba now.

"What is the lay for love most fit? What is the melody echoes it? Ever in tune and ever meet, Taza ba taza, now ba now; Ever delightful and ever sweet Taza ba taza, now ba now; Soft as the murmur of love's first vow, Taza ba taza, now ba now."

"What is the bliss that is best on earth? Lovers' light whispers and tender mirth; Bright gleams the sun on the Green Sea's isle, But a brighter light has a woman's smile: Ever, like sunrise, fresh of hue, Taza ba taza, now ba now; Ever, like sunset, splendid and new, Taza ba taza, now ba now."

"Thereunto groweth the graceful vine To cool the lips of lovers with wine, Haste thee and bring the amethyst cup, That happy lovers may drink it up; And so renew their gentle play, Taza ba taza, now ba now; Ever delicious and new alway, Taza ba taza, now ba now."

"Thereunto sigheth the evening gale To freshen the cheeks which love made pale; This is why bloometh the scented flower, To gladden with grace love's secret bower: Love is the zephyr that always blows, Taza ba taza, now ba now; Love is the rose-bloom that ever glows, Taza ba taza, now ba now."

Akbar, the mighty one, smiled to hear The musical strain so soft and clear; Danced the diamonds over his brow To taza ba taza, now ba now: His lovely ladies rocked in a row To taza ba taza, now ba now;

Livelier sparkled the fountain's flow, Boose sittan ba kaum uzo; Swifter and sweeter the strings did go, Mutrib i khoosh nuwa bejo; Never such singing was heard, I trow; Taza ba taza, now ba now.

THE MUSSULMAN PARADISE.

(From the Arabic of the Fifty-sixth Súrat of the Koran, entitled "The Inevitable.")

When the Day of Wrath and Mercy cometh, none shall doubt it come; Unto hell some it shall lower, and exalt to heaven some.

When the Earth with great shocks shaketh, and the mountains crumble flat, Quick and Dead shall be divided fourfold:--on this side and that.

The "Companions of the Right Hand" (ah! how joyful they will be!) The "Companions of the Left Hand" (oh! what misery to see!)

Such, moreover, as of old times loved the truth, and taught it well, First in faith, they shall be foremost in reward. The rest to hell.

But those souls attaining Allah, oh! the Gardens of good cheer Kept to bless them! Yea, besides the "faithful," many shall be there.

Lightly lying on soft couches, beautiful with 'broidered gold, Friends with friends, they shall be served by youths immortal, who shall hold.

"Akwâb, abareek"--cups and goblets, brimming with celestial wine, Wine that hurts not head or stomach: this and fruits of heav'n which shine.

Bright, desirable; and rich flesh of what birds they relish best. Yea! and--feasted--there shall soothe them damsels fairest, stateliest;

Damsels, having eyes of wonder, large black eyes, like hidden pearls, "Lulu-l-maknûn": Allah grants them for sweet love those matchless girls.

Never in that Garden hear they speech of folly, sin, or dread, Only PEACE; "SALAMUN" only; that one word for ever said.

PEACE! PEACE! PEACE!--and the "Companions of the Right Hand" (ah! those bowers!) They shall lodge 'mid thornless lote-groves; under mawz-trees thick with flowers;

Shaded, fed, by flowing waters; near to fruits that never cloy, Hanging ever ripe for plucking; and at hand the tender joy,

Of those Maids of Heaven--the Hûris. Lo! to these we gave a birth Specially creating. Lo! they are not as the wives of earth.

Ever virginal and stainless, howsooften they embrace, Always young, and loved, and loving, these are. Neither is there grace,

Like the grace and bliss the Black-eyed keep for you in Paradise; Oh, "Companions of the Right Hand"! oh! ye others who were wise!

DEDICATION OF A POEM FROM THE SANSKRIT.

Sweet, on the daisies of your English grave I lay this little wreath of Indian flowers, Fragrant for me because the scent they have Breathes of the memory of our wedded hours;

For others scentless; and for you, in heaven, Too pale and faded, dear dead wife! to wear, Save that they mean--what makes all fault forgiven-- That he who brings them lays his heart, too, there.

April 9, 1865.

THE RAJAH'S RIDE.

A PUNJAB SONG.

Now is the Devil-horse come to Sindh! Wah! wah! gooroo!--that is true! His belly is stuffed with the fire and the wind, But a fleeter steed had Runjeet Dehu!

It's forty koss from Lahore to the ford, Forty and more to far Jummoo; Fast may go the Feringhee lord, But never so fast as Runjeet Dehu!

Runjeet Dehu was King of the Hill, Lord and eagle of every crest; Now the swords and the spears are still, God will have it--and God knows best!

Rajah Runjeet sate in the sky, Watching the loaded Kafilas in; Affghan, Kashmeree, passing by, Paid him pushm to save their skin,

Once he caracoled into the plain, Wah! the sparkle of steel on steel! And up the pass came singing again With a lakh of silver borne at his heel.

Once he trusted the Mussulman's word, Wah! wah! trust a liar to lie! Down from his eyrie they tempted my Bird, And clipped his wings that he could not fly.

Fettered him fast in far Lahore, Fast by the gate at the Runchenee Pûl; Sad was the soul of Chunda Kour, Glad the merchants of rich Kurnool.

Ten months Runjeet lay in Lahore-- Wah! a hero's heart is brass! Ten months never did Chunda Kour Braid her hair at the tiring-glass.

There came a steed from Toorkistan, Wah! God made him to match the hawk! Fast beside him the four grooms ran, To keep abreast of the Toorkman's walk.

Black as the bear on Iskardoo; Savage at heart as a tiger chained; Fleeter than hawk that ever flew, Never a Muslim could ride him reined.

"Runjeet Dehu! come forth from thy hold"-- Wah! ten months had rusted his chain! "Ride this Sheitan's liver cold"-- Runjeet twisted his hand in the mane.

Runjeet sprang to the Toorkman's back, Wah! a king on a kingly throne! Snort, black Sheitan! till nostrils crack, Rajah Runjeet sits, a stone.

Three times round the Maidan he rode, Touched its neck at the Kashmeree wall, Struck the spurs till they spirted blood, Leapt the rampart before them all!

Breasted the waves of the blue Ravee, Forty horsemen mounting behind, Forty bridle-chains flung free,-- Wah! wah! better chase the wind!

Chunda Kour sate sad in Jummoo:-- Hark! what horse-hoof echoes without? "Rise! and welcome Runjeet Dehu-- Wash the Toorkman's nostrils out!

"Forty koss he has come, my life! Forty koss back he must carry me; Rajah Runjeet visits his wife, He steals no steed like an Afreedee.

"They bade me teach them how to ride-- Wah! wah! now I have taught them well!" Chunda Kour sank low at his side! Rajah Runjeet rode the hill.

When he came back to far Lahore-- Long or ever the night began-- Spake he, "Take your horse once more, He carries well--when he bears a man."

Then they gave him a khillut and gold, All for his honour and grace and truth; Sent him back to his mountain-hold-- Muslim manners have touch of ruth;

Sent him back, with dances and drum-- Wah! my Rajah Runjeet Dehu! To Chunda Kour and his Jummoo home-- Wah! wah! futteh!--wah, gooroo!