said, was mixed with a certain
serious grimace which again frequently changed into sarcastic ridicule.

On the same evening Ali read aloud the following passage from
Zoroaster's "Wisdom:"

"The power hath work'd from all eternity:
Two angels are its subjects--Virtue, Vice,
Of light and darkness mingled;--aye at war.
When Virtue conquers, doubled is the light;
When Vice prevails the black abyss is glad.
To the last day the struggle shall endure.
Then Virtue shall have joy, and Vice have pain,
And never more these enemies shall meet."

When Ali had read thus far, Lockman, who was still in the room, had so
violent a bleeding at the nose that he was obliged to leave it, and Ali
saw him no more that evening.

Early in the morning he was awakened by a singing which ascended from
the garden. He opened the window and heard a hoarse, though well
practised voice, sing the following words:

"Lovely spring returns again,
And his merry glance is warm,
And he sings a lively strain,
But the youth he cannot charm.

"Rosebuds all their fragrance shed,
But his heart they cannot move,
Seeking joys for ever fled,
Through the ruins he must rove.

"Does he dwell amid the flowers,
By some kindly beauty blest?
No; amid the ruin'd towers,
Where the screech owl builds her nest.

"No fair arms around him cling,
Ne'er he tastes a honied kiss;
Songs that ancient dreamers sing,
Those alone afford him bliss.

"Wake him from this sullen sleep,
Lovely spring thy pow'r display,
Or the youth too late will weep,
For the joys he flings away."[1]

Ali went into the garden, and found Lockman sitting under a tree with a
guitar in his hand.

"Do you sing too?" asked Ali.

"If the screeching of an owl can be called singing," replied he, "I
sing like the feathered songster of the grove."

"Your guitar has a pleasant sound."

"That it learned from a sheep when a wolf struck its claws into its
entrails."

"What were you singing?"

"A poor song on a great subject composed by one of those poets who
always entreat us to take the will for the deed. Do you wish to hear
another?"

He sung again.

"Sure some madness it must be,
Thus the present hour to slight,
And to take thy sole delight
In the tales of memory.
Why shouldst thou thy time despise?
Why the past thus fondly prize?
Seek'st thou only what is gone?
Nay, what is't thou