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Arabian Poetry, by W. A. Clouston, [1881], at

p. 96




BLEST are the tenants of the tomb!
  With envy I their lot survey;
For Sayid shares the solemn gloom,
  And mingles with their mouldering clay.

Dear youth! I'm doomed thy loss to mourn,
  When gathering ills around combine;
And whither now shall Malec turn?
  Where look for any help but thine?

At this dread moment, when the foe
  My life with rage insatiate seeks,
In vain I strive to ward the blow—
  My buckler falls, my sabre breaks.

Upon thy grassy tomb I knelt,
  And sought from pain a short relief:
Th’ attempt was vain—I only felt
  Intenser pangs and livelier grief.

The bud of woe, no more represt,
  Fed by the tears that drenched it there,
Shot forth and filled my labouring breast,
  Soon to expand and shed despair.

p. 97

But though of Sayid I'm bereft,
  From whom the stream of bounty came,
Sayid a nobler meed has left—
  Th’ exhaustless heritage of fame.

Though mute the lips on which I hung,
  Their silence speaks more loud to me
Than any voice from mortal tongue:
  "What Sayid was, let Malec be!"

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