'T WAS in the bazars of the Smyrniotes
That we heard the lingering call,
With its mellow, musical, bell-like notes,
And its rhythmic rise and fall.
It soared o er the camel-driver’s shout,
And the bale-bent porter’s angry flout, —
“ O—O
E-lim-in-ah-do ! ”
There were the figs of Omoorloo,
Large and luscious and bursting ripe;
And from a café near there blew
The tempting scent of the water-pipe;
But Tireh’s grapes would have hung in vain
Upon the vines had we heard that strain,—
“ O—O
E-lim-in-ah-do ! ”
Amber, clear as a prisoned ray
Of the morning sunlight, was forgot;
Rugs, rich with the hues of dying day,
From the looms of Persia, lured us not.
While the motley Smyrna world swept by,
We hung on the sound of the witching cry, —
“ O—O
E-lim-in-ah-do ! ”
Then out of the jostling crowd he came
With his crook-necked flask and his clink of glass;
As keen of eye and supple of frame
As a Lydian pard we saw him pass, —
Saw him pass, and above the roar
Caught the lilt of his call
once more, —
“ O—O E-lim-in-ah-do ! ”
Who can measure melody’s power ?
It sways the soul with the same strange spell
On lovely lips in a lady’s bower,
Or those of a vagrant Ishmael.
And still floats back, with its thrilling bars,
The strain from the Smyrniote bazars, —
E-lim-in-ah-do ! ”
Clinton Scollard.