Volume 152 — MUSCAT.

An ancient castle crowns the hill That flanks our sunlit rockbound bay, Where, in the spacious days of old, Stout ALBUQUERQUE set his hold Dealing in slaves and silks and gold From Hormuz to Cathay. The Dom has passed, the Arab rules; Yet still there fronts the morning light Erect upon the crumbling wall The mast of some great Amiral, A trophy of the Portingall In some forgotten fight. The wind blows damp, the sun shines hot, And ever on the Eastern shore, Faint envoys from the far monsoon, There in the gap the breakers croon Their old unchanging rhythmic rune (The noise is such a bore). And week by week to climb that hill The SULTAN sends some sweating knave To scan the misty deep and hail With hoisted nag the smoky trail That means (hurrah!) the English mail, So we still rule the wave! Hurrah!—and yet what tales of woe! My home exposed to Zeppelin shocks, The long-drawn agony of strife, The daily toll of precious life, And a sad screed from my poor wife Of babes with chicken-pox. All this it brings—yet brings therewith That which may help us bear and grin. "Boy, when you hear the boat's keel scrunch, Ask the mail officer to lunch; But give me time to peep at Punch Before you let him in."