lent man, an Arab, who at that time lived at Hâifa. He could speak no language except his own, but he knew that thoroughly, and my young friend enjoyed the unusual advantage of being able to correspond with him without the aid of a secretary.
One afternoon, as I was walking with her in the garden of roses, she showed me a little poem he had written to her, in the form of a letter, in which he complained of not having heard from her for several days.
Furrah is a happy wife and mother now, and I think that she will forgive me if I chronicle here a translation of the letter, which made her face look so bright on that 17th of June. I wrote it down in my note-book, as literally as I could, after she had kindly read it to me in Arabic two or three times, carefully explaining in English the meaning of every word which I did not understand. (Don't be angry, Furrah!) The letter was dated Haifa, June 15, 1857:
- "O my heart—where art thou?
- Be still, O my heart; have patience in thy sorrow.
- Behold, God gave patience unto Job!
- I call to her, but she is silent;
- I speak, but she does not hear.
- Why are my words unanswered?
- If they will not suffer her to write,
- Let her go down to the garden of roses,
- And whisper her love to the fragrant air.
- I sit under the palm-trees,
- And the air will bring me her love.
- The Palm-tree listens for the Rose-bud!
- I sat under the palm-tree,
- But no soft wind brought me her love.
- Why does her love refuse to meet mine?
- My love is great: if she saw my suffering
- She would have pity! Her extreme gentleness
- Could not give me such pain!
- Great is my love! If my love were in the Sakhara,
- The great and wonderful rock the Sakhara,
- It would be broken into a thousand pieces.
- Great is my love!
- If my love were in the great mountain,
- The great mountain of Petra,
- It would be moved.
- Great is my love! If my love were in the sun,
- The sun, the sun at noonday,
- Her face would be darkened.
