While with strong hand the north wind holds the

reins,
I welcome to my home, with accents bland,
The weary traveller from some distant land ;
He thinks he rests in sweet Tabala's vale,
And sees the fairest flowers around him stand,
With odors breathing in the spicy gale !

Then to my cheerful door approaches slow
The matron, long since past her youthful bloom ;
Worn with fatigue and burdened with her wo ;
Like some lone camel, who receives the doom
Sadly to perish at her master's tomb ;
But as, with raiment scant, she seeks my door,
And I conduct her to my warmest room,
She almost thinks that all her griefs are o'er !

My swift horse, with his girth adorned with gems,
Bears my bright armor foremost in the chase ;
He hurries o'er the ground, which he contemns,
As a dove hastens to her watering place ;
The tribe of Lebeid are a noble race ;
A spring to all oppressed with want and wo ;
Though envious censurers, devoid of grace,
To own their merits may be loth and slow.
TRANSLATIONS. 241

SONNETS. 5



FROM THE SPANISH.
