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Where bubbling fountains kiss the wind,
And birds make music to their loves,
She lives a kind of fairy life,

In sisterhood of fruits and flowers,
Unconscious of the outer strife,
That wears the palpitating hours.

And when maturer duties rise
In pleasure's and in passion's place,
Her duteous loyalty supplies

The presence of departed grace:
So hopes she, by untiring truth,

To win the bliss to share with him Those glories of celestial youth,

That time can never taint or dim.

Thus in the ever-closed Hareem,

As in the open Western home,
Sheds womanhood her starry gleam
Over our being's busy foam;
Through latitudes of varying faith

Thus trace we still her mission sure,
To lighten life, to sweeten death,
And all for others to endure.

Home of the East! thy threshold's edge Checks the wild foot that knows no fear, Yet shrinks, as if from sacrilege,

When rapine comes thy precincts near: Existence, whose precarious thread

Hangs on the tyrant's mood and nod,

Beneath thy roof its anxious head
Rests as within the house of God.

There, though without he feels a slave,
Compelled another's will to scan,
Another's favor forced to crave,

There is the subject still the man:
There is the form that none but he


Can touch, - the face that he alone Of living men has right to see;

Not he who fills the Prophet's throne.

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Then let the moralist, who best

Honors the female heart, that blends The deep affections of the West

With thought of life's sublimest ends, Ne'er to the Eastern home deny

Its lesser, yet not humble praise,
To guard one pure humanity
Amid the stains of evil days.

Lord Houghton.



SIMPLE unpartitioned room,Surmounted by an ample dome, Or, in some lands that favored lie, With centre open to the sky,

But roofed with archéd cloisters round,

That mark the consecrated bound,
And shade the niche to Mekkeh turned,

By which two massive lights are burned;
With pulpit whence the sacred word
Expounded on great days is heard;
With fountain fresh, where, ere they pray,
Men wash the soil of earth away;
With shining minaret, thin and high,
From whose fine-trellised balcony
Announcement of the hours of prayer
Is uttered to the silent air;
Such is the Mosque, --the holy place,
Where faithful men of every race,
Meet at their ease, and face to face.

Not that the power of God is here
More manifest, or more to fear;
Not that the glory of his face
Is circumscribed by any space;
But that, as men are wont to meet
In court or chamber, mart or street,
For purposes of gain or pleasure,
For friendliness or social leisure,
So, for the greatest of all ends
To which intelligence extends,
The worship of the Lord, whose will
Created and sustains us still,
And honor of the Prophet's name,
By whom the saving message came,
Believers meet together here,
And hold these precincts very dear.

The floor is spread with matting neat, Unstained by touch of shodden feet,

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A decent and delightful seat!
Where, after due devotions paid,
And legal ordinance obeyed,
Men may in happy parlance join,
And gay with serious thought combine;
May ask the news from lands away,
May fix the business of to-day;
Or, with "God willing," at the close,
To-morrow's hopes and deeds dispose.

Children are running in and out
With silver-sounding laugh and shout,
No more disturbed in their sweet play,
No more disturbing those that pray,
Than the poor birds, that fluttering fly
Among the rafters there on high,
Or seek at times, with grateful hop,
The corn fresh-sprinkled on the top.

So, lest the stranger's scornful eye
Should hurt this sacred family,
Lest inconsiderate words should wound
Devout adorers with their sound, -

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Lest careless feet should stain the floor
With dirt and dust from out the door, -
'Tis well that custom should protect
The place with prudence circumspect,
And let no unbeliever pass
The threshold of the faithful mass;
That as each Muslim his Hareem
Guards even from a jealous dream,

So should no alien feeling scathe
This common home of public faith,
So should its very name dispel
The presence of the infidel.

Yet, though such reverence may demand
A building raised by human hand,
Most honor to the men of prayer,
Whose mosque is in them everywhere!
Who, amid revel's wildest din,
In war's severest discipline,
On rolling deck, in thronged bazaar,
In stranger lands, however far,
However different in their reach

Of thought, in manners, dress, or speech,
Will quietly their carpet spread,

To Mekkeh turn the humble head,
And, as if blind to all around,
And deaf to each distracting sound,
In ritual language God adore,
In spirit to his presence soar,
And, in the pauses of the prayer,
Rest, as if rapt in glory there!

Lord Houghton.



silver crescent in the twilight sky is hanging,

Another tips the solemn dome of yonder mosque. And now the Muezzin's call is heard, sonorous clanging

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