| |
| O MOST just Vizier, send away | |
| The cloth-merchants, and let them be, | |
| Them and their dues, this day: the King | |
| Is ill at ease, and calls for thee. | |
| |
THE VIZIER O merchants, tarry yet a day | 5 |
| Here in Bokhara: but at noon | |
| To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay | |
| Each fortieth web of cloth to me, | |
| As the law is, and go your way. | |
| |
| O Hussein, lead me to the King. | 10 |
| Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own, | |
| Ferdousi’s, and the others’, lead. | |
| How is it with my lord? | |
| |
HUSSEIN Alone, | |
| Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, | 15 |
| O Vizier, without lying down, | |
| In the great window of the gate, | |
| Looking into the Registàn; | |
| Where through the sellers’ booths the slaves | |
| Are this way bringing the dead man. | 20 |
| O Vizier, here is the King’s door. | |
| |
THE KING O Vizier, may I bury him? | |
| |
THE VIZIER O King, thou know’st, I have been sick | |
| These many days, and heard no thing | |
| (For Allah shut my ears and mind), | 25 |
| Not even what thou dost, O King. | |
| Wherefore, that I may counsel thee, | |
| Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste | |
| To speak in order what hath chanced. | |
| |
THE KING O Vizier, be it as thou say’st. | 30 |
| |
HUSSEIN Three days since, at the time of prayer, | |
| A certain Moollah, with his robe | |
| All rent, and dust upon his hair, | |
| Watched my lord’s coming forth, and pushed | |
| The golden mace-bearers aside, | 35 |
| And fell at the King’s feet, and cried: | |
| |
| “Justice, O King, and on myself! | |
| On this great sinner, who hath broke | |
| The law, and by the law must die! | |
Vengeance, O King!”
But the King spoke: | 40 |
| “What fool is this, that hurts our ears | |
| With folly? or what drunken slave? | |
| My guards, what, prick him with your spears! | |
| Prick me the fellow from the path!” | |
| As the king said, so was it done, | 45 |
| And to the mosque my lord passed on. | |
| |
| But on the morrow, when the King | |
| Went forth again, the holy book | |
| Carried before him, as is right, | |
| And through the square his path he took, | 50 |
| |
| My man comes running, flecked with blood | |
| From yesterday, and falling down | |
| Cries out most earnestly: “O King, | |
| My lord, O King, do right, I pray! | |
| |
| “How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern | 55 |
| If I speak folly? but a king, | |
| Whether a thing be great or small, | |
| Like Allah, hears and judges all. | |
| |
| “Wherefore hear thou! Thou know’st, how fierce | |
| In these last days the sun hath burned; | 60 |
| That the green water in the tanks | |
| Is to a putrid puddle turned; | |
| And the canal, that from the stream | |
| Of Samarcand is brought this way, | |
| Wastes, and runs thinner every day. | 65 |
| |
| “Now I at nightfall had gone forth | |
| Alone, and in a darksome place | |
| Under some mulberry-trees I found | |
| A little pool; and in brief space | |
| With all the water that was there | 70 |
| I filled my pitcher, and stole home | |
| Unseen; and having drink to spare, | |
| I hid the can behind the door, | |
| And went up on the roof to sleep. | |
| |
| “But in the night, which was with wind | 75 |
| And burning dust, again I creep | |
| Down, having fever, for a drink. | |
| |
| “Now meanwhile had my brethren found | |
| The water-pitcher where it stood | |
| Behind the door upon the ground, | 80 |
| And called my mother; and they all, | |
| As they were thirsty, and the night | |
| Most sultry, drained the pitcher there; | |
| Thus they sate with it, in my sight, | |
| Their lips still wet, when I came down. | 85 |
| |
| “Now mark! I, being fevered, sick | |
| (Most unblest also), at that sight | |
| Brake forth, and cursed them,—dost thou hear? | |
| One was my mother—Now, do right!” | |
| |
| But my lord mused a space, and said, | 90 |
| “Send him away, sirs, and make on. | |
| It is some madman,” the King said: | |
| As the King said, so was it done. | |
| |
| The morrow at the selfsame hour | |
| In the King’s path, behold, the man, | 95 |
| Not kneeling, sternly fixed: he stood | |
| Right opposite, and thus began, | |
| Frowning grim down: “Thou wicked King, | |
| Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear! | |
| What, must I howl in the next world, | 100 |
| Because thou wilt not listen here? | |
| |
| “What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace, | |
| And all grace shall to me be grudged? | |
| Nay but, I swear, from this thy path | |
| I will not stir till I be judged.” | 105 |
| |
| Then they who stood about the King | |
| Drew close together and conferred, | |
| Till that the King stood forth and said, | |
| “Before the priests thou shalt be heard.” | |
| |
| But when the Ulemas were met | 110 |
| And the thing heard, they doubted not; | |
| But sentenced him, as the law is, | |
| To die by stoning on the spot. | |
| |
| Now the King charged us secretly: | |
| “Stoned must he be, the law stands so: | 115 |
| Yet, if he seek to fly, give way: | |
| Forbid him not, but let him go.” | |
| |
| So saying, the King took a stone, | |
| And cast it softly: but the man, | |
| With a great joy upon his face, | 120 |
| Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran. | |
| |
| So they, whose lot it was, cast stones; | |
| That they flew thick and bruised him sore: | |
| But he praised Allah with loud voice, | |
| And remained kneeling as before. | 125 |
| |
| My lord had covered up his face: | |
| But when one told him, “He is dead,” | |
| Turning him quickly to go in, | |
| “Bring thou to me his corpse,” he said. | |
| |
| And truly, while I speak, O King, | 130 |
| I hear the bearers on the stair. | |
| Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?— | |
| Ho! enter ye who tarry there! | |
| |
THE VIZIER O King, in this I praise thee not. | |
| Now must I call thy grief not wise. | 135 |
| Is he thy friend, or of thy blood, | |
| To find such favor in thine eyes? | |
| |
| Nay, were he thine own mother’s son, | |
| Still, thou art king, and the law stands. | |
| It were not meet the balance swerved, | 140 |
| The sword were broken in thy hands. | |
| |
| But being nothing, as he is, | |
| Why, for no cause, make sad thy face? | |
| Lo, I am old: three kings, ere thee, | |
| Have I seen reigning in this place. | 145 |
| |
| But who, through all this length of time, | |
| Could bear the burden of his years, | |
| If he for strangers pained his heart | |
| Not less than those who merit tears? * * * * * | |
| |
THE KING O Vizier, thou art old, I young. | 150 |
| Clear in these things I cannot see. | |
| My head is burning; and a heat | |
| Is in my skin which angers me. | |
| |
| But hear ye this, ye sons of men! | |
| They that bear rule, and are obeyed, | 155 |
| Unto a rule more strong than theirs | |
| Are in their turn obedient made. | |
| |
| In vain therefore, with wistful eyes | |
| Gazing up hither, the poor man, | |
| Who loiters by the high-heaped booths, | 160 |
| Below there, in the Registàn, | |
| |
| Says, “Happy he, who lodges there! | |
| With silken raiment, store of rice, | |
| And for this drought, all kinds of fruits, | |
| Grape syrup, squares of colored ice, | 165 |
| |
| “With cherries served in drifts of snow.” | |
| In vain hath a king power to build | |
| Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques; | |
| And to make orchard closes, filled | |
| |
| With curious fruit-trees, brought from far; | 170 |
| With cisterns for the winter rain; | |
| And in the desert, spacious inns | |
| In divers places;—if that pain | |
| |
| Is not more lightened, which he feels, | |
| If his will be not satisfied: | 175 |
| And that it be not, from all time | |
| The law is planted, to abide. | |
| |
| Thou wert a sinner, thou poor man! | |
| Thou wert athirst; and didst not see | |
| That, though we snatch what we desire, | 180 |
| We must not snatch it eagerly. | |
| |
| And I have meat and drink at will, | |
| And rooms of treasures, not a few. | |
| But I am sick, nor heed I these: | |
| And what I would, I cannot do. | 185 |
| |
| Even the great honor which I have, | |
| When I am dead, will soon grow still. | |
| So have I neither joy nor fame. | |
| But what I can do, that I will. | |
| |
| I have a fretted brickwork tomb | 190 |
| Upon a hill on the right hand, | |
| Hard by a close of apricots, | |
| Upon the road of Samarcand: | |
| |
| Thither, O Vizier, will I bear | |
| This man my pity could not save; | 195 |
| And, plucking up the marble flags, | |
| There lay his body in my grave. | |
| |
| Bring water, nard, and linen rolls; | |
| Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb; | |
| Then say, “He was not wholly vile, | 200 |
| Because a king shall bury him.” | |
| |
