Islamic Poems

Who is this who comes from Hira?

Not in stately pomp and pride,

But a great free son of Nature,

Lion-souled and eagle-eyed?

Who is this before whose presence

Idols tumble to the sod,

As he cries out: “Allaahu Akbar”,

No? There is no god but God?

Wandering o’er the solemn desert

He has wondered like a child.

Not as yet too proud to wonder,

At the Sun and Star and Wild.

Oh thou Moon! Who made thy brightness?

Stars, who hung you there on high?

Answer! So my soul may worship –

I must worship, or I die.

Then there fell the brooding silence

That precedes the thunder roll,

And the old Arabian whirlwind

Called another Arab soul.

He has stood and seen Mount Hira

To the awful presence nod,

He has heard from cloud and lightning –

No, there is no god but God.

Call you this man an imposter?

He was called “The Faithful” when

A boy he wandered o’er the desert,

By the wild-eyed Arab men.

He was always called “The Faithful”:

Truth he knew was Allaah’s breath;

But the Lie went darkly gnashing

Through the corridors of Death.

He was fierce! –Yes, fierce at falsehood,

Fierce at hideous bits of wood

Which the Koreish taught the people

Made the sun and solitude.

Bu his heart was also gentle,

And affection’s grateful palm,

Waving in his tropic spirit

To the weary brought a balm.

“Precepts?” – “Have on each compassion,”

“Lead the stranger to your door,”

“In your dealings keep up justice.”

“Give a fortieth to the poor.”

Yet ambitious? Yes, ambitious

While he heard the strong and sweet

Aiden voices sing, to trample

Conquered Hell beneath his feet.

Islam? Yes, “Submit to Heaven,”

Prophet? To the world thou art;

What are Prophets but the trumpets

Blown by God to stir the hearts?

And the great heart of the desert

Stirred unto the solemn strain,

Rolling from the Mount of Hira,

Over Error’s trouble plain.

And two hundred* dusky millions

Honoured still El Ameen’s road,

Daily chanting “Allaahu Akbar”

Know - there is no god but God.

Call him, then, no more “Imposter”,

Makkah is the choral Gate,

Where till Zion’s noon shall take them

Nations in the Morning wait.

(*Now over twelve hundred million)