WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE.

About the ending of the Ramadán,

When leanest grows the famished Mussulman,

A haggard ne'er-do-well, Mahmoud by name,

At the tenth hour to Caliph OMAR came.

“Lord of the Faithful ( quoth he ), at the last

The long moon waneth, and men cease to fast;

Hard then, O hard! the lot of him must be,

Who spares to eat... but not for piety!”

“Hast thou no calling, Friend?” — the Caliph said.

“Sir, I make verses for my daily bread.”

“Verse!” — answered OMAR. “‘ Tis a dish, indeed,

Whereof but scantily a man may feed.

Go. Learn the Tenter's or the Potter's Art,—

Verse is a drug not sold in any mart.”

I know not if that hungry Mahmoud died;

But this I know — he must have versified,

For, with his race, from better still to worse,

The plague of writing follows like a curse;

And men will scribble though they fail to dine,

Which is the Moral of more Books than mine.