Arabian Poetry, by W. A. Clouston, , at sacred-texts.com
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.
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!"