"
Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift rain,--Gratitude's
glittering drops,--as he threw
One shining arm round the smith, like a chain.
Closer the man to his bosom he drew;
Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt."
"Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet:
"I knew the sword Dham would unite me with
you in an honor undying."
"So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at will
Silently over the sword's edge played.
--"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, still:
Who is the smiter, shall smite with this blade?"
Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke.
"_I_ am the smiter!" Antar cried. One stroke
Rolled the smith's head from his neck, and gave
him remembrance undying.
"Seek now who may, no search will avail:
No man the mate of this weapon shall own!"
Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail:
"Slain is the craftsman, the one friend alone
Able to honor the man who creates.
I slew him--_I_, who am poet! O fates,
Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shall
make them undying!"
"AT THE GOLDEN GATE"
Before the golden gate she stands,
With drooping head, with idle hands
Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight
Of unseen woe.
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