Diwan in question. We are, indeed, very sorry, for the sake of our readers, that space will not allow us to give them a few whole qasidas from it. To those who are so fortunate as to be able to read and understand the Original, we point out the Ode to the Phonograph, beginning thus:
“O Phonograph, thou wonder of our time, Thy tongue of wax can sing like me in rhyme.”
And another to the Brooklyn Bridge, of which these are the opening lines:
“O Brooklyn Bridge, how oft upon thy back I tramped, and once I crossed thee in a hack.”
And finally, the great Poem entitled, On the Virtue and Benefit of Modern Science, of which we remember these couplets:
“Balloons and airships, falling from the skies, Will be as plenty yet as summer flies. ⋮ “Electricity and Steam and Compressed Air Will carry us to heaven yet, I swear.”
Here be rhymed truth, at least, which can boast of not being poetry. Ay, in this MS. which Shakib is packing along with al-Mutanabbi in the bottom of his trunk to evade the Basilisk touch of the Port officials of Beirut, is packed all the hopes of the Modern School. Pack on, Shakib; for whether at the Mena House, or in the hashish-dens of Cairo, the Future is drinking to thee, and dreaming of thee and thy School its opium dreams. And Khalid, the while, sits impassive on his trunk, and Im-Hanna is cooking the last dinner of mujaddara .
Emigration has introduced into Syria somewhat of the three prominent features of Civilisation: namely, a little wealth, a few modern ideas, and many strange diseases. And of these three blessings our two Syrians