<small>THE WAIL</small>Here we meet, we three, at length, Amrah, Osman, Perizad: Shorn of all our grace and strength, Poor, and old, and very sad. We… - James Clarence Mangan

To this khan, and from this khan How many pilgrims came and went too!
In this khan, and by this khan What arts were spent, what hearts were rent too!
To this khan and from this khan (Which, for penance, man is sent to)
Many a van and caravan Crowded came, and shrouded went too.
Christian man and Mussulman, Guebre, heathen, Jew, and Gentoo,
To this khan, and from this khan, Weeping came, and sleeping went too.
A riddle this since time began, Which many a sage his mind hath bent to:
All came, all went; but never man Knew whence they came, or where they went to!

I see thee ever in my dreams,
Karaman!
Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams,
Karaman, O Karaman!
As when thy gold-bright morning gleams,
As when the deepening sunset seams
With lines of light thy hills and streams,
Karaman!
So thou loomest on my dreams,
Karaman!
On all my dreams, my homesick dreams,
Karaman, O Karaman!The hot bright plains, the sun, the skies,
Karaman!
Seem death-black marble to mine eyes,
Karaman, O Karaman!
I turn from summer’s blooms and dyes;
Yet in my dreams thou dost arise
In welcome glory to mine eyes,
Karaman!
In thee my life of life yet lies,
Karaman!
Thou still art holy in mine eyes,
Karaman, O Karaman!Ere my fighting years were come,
Karaman!
Troops were few in Erzerome,
Karaman, O Karaman!
Their fiercest came from Erzerome,
They came from Ukhbar’s palace dome,
They dragg’d me forth from thee, my home,
Karaman!
Thee, my own, my mountain home,
Karaman!
In life and death, my spirit’s home,
Karaman, O Karaman!O none of all my sisters ten,
Karaman!
Loved like me my fellow-men,
Karaman, O Karaman!
I was mild as milk till then,
I was soft as silk till then;
Now my breast is as a den,
Karaman!
Foul with blood and bones of men,
Karaman!
With blood and bones of slaughter’d men,
Karaman, O Karaman!My boyhood’s feelings newly born,
Karaman!
Wither’d like young flowers uptorn,
Karaman, O Karaman!
And in their stead sprang weed and thorn;
What once I loved now moves my scorn:
My burning eyes are dried to horn,
Karaman!
I hate the blessèd light of morn,
Karaman!
It maddens me, the face of morn,
Karaman, O Karaman!The Spahi wears a tyrant’s chains,
Karaman!
But bondage worse than this remains,
Karaman, O Karaman!
His heart is black with million stains:
Thereon, as on Kaf’s blasted plains,
Shall nevermore fall dews and rains,
Karaman!
Save poison-dews and bloody rains,
Karaman!
Hell’s poison-dews and bloody rains,
Karaman, O Karaman!But life at worst must end ere long,
Karaman!
Azrael avengeth every wrong,
Karaman, O Karaman!
Of late my thoughts rove more among
Thy fields; o’ershadowing fancies throng
My mind, and texts of bodeful song,
Karaman!
Azrael is terrible and strong,
Karaman!
His lightning sword smites all ere long,
Karaman, O Karaman!There ’s care to-night in Ukhbar’s halls,
Karaman!
There ’s hope, too, for his trodden thralls,
Karaman, O Karaman!
What lights flash red along yon walls?
Hark! hark! the muster-trumpet calls!
I see the sheen of spears and shawls,
Karaman!
The foe! the foe!—they scale the walls,
Karaman!
To-night Muràd or Ukhbar falls,
Karaman, O Karaman!

In Siberia’s wastes The ice-wind’s breath Woundeth like the toothèd steel; Lost Siberia doth reveal Only blight and death.Blight and death alone. No Summer shines.
Night is interblent with Day.
In Siberia’s wastes alway The blood blackens, the heart pines.In Siberia’s wastes No tears are shed,
For they freeze within the brain.
Naught is felt but dullest pain, Pain acute, yet dead;Pain as in a dream, When years go by
Funeral-paced, yet fugitive,
When man lives, and doth not live, Doth not live—nor die.In Siberia’s wastes Are sands and rocks.
Nothing blooms of green or soft,
But the snow-peaks rise aloft And the gaunt ice-blocks.And the exile there Is one with those;
They are part, and he is part,
For the sands are in his heart, And the killing snows.Therefore, in those wastes None curse the Czar.
Each man’s tongue is cloven by
The North Blast, who heweth nigh With sharp scymitar.And such doom each drees, Till, hunger-gnawn,
And cold-slain, he at length sinks there,
Yet scarce more a corpse than ere His last breath was drawn.