His courtiers of the Caliph crave— “Oh, say how this may be, That of thy slaves, this Ethiop slave Is best beloved by thee?
“For he is hideous as the Night: But when has ever chose A nightingale for its delight, A hueless, scentless rose?”
The Caliph then—“No features fair Nor comely mien are his: Love is the beauty he doth wear, And Love his glory is.
“Once when a camel of my train There fell in narrow street, From broken casket rolled amain Rich pearls before my feet.
“I winking to my slaves, that I Would freely give them these, At once upon the spoil they fly, The costly boon to seize.
“One only at my side remained— Beside this Ethiop, none: He, moveless as the steed he reined, Behind me sat alone.
“‘What will thy gain, good fellow, be, Thus lingering at my side?’— —‘My King, that I shall faithfully Have guarded thee,’ he cried.
“‘True servant’s title he may wear, He only who has not, For his Lord’s gifts, how rich soe’er, His Lord himself forgot!’”
—So thou alone dost walk before Thy God with perfect aim, From him desiring nothing more Beside himself to claim.
For if thou not to him aspire, But to his gifts alone, Not Love, but covetous desire, Has brought thee to his throne.
While such thy prayer, it climbs above In vain—the golden key Of God’s rich treasure-house of love, Thine own will never be.
Haroun the Just!—yet once that name Of Just the ruler ill became, By whose too hasty sentence died The royal-hearted Barmecide. O Barmecide, of hand and heart So prompt, so forward to impart, Of bounty so unchecked and free, That once a Poet sung, how he Would fear thy very hand to touch, Lest he should learn to give too much, Lest, catching the contagion thence Of thy unmatched munificence, A beggar he should soon remain, Helpless his bounty to restrain— O Barmecide of royal heart, My childhood’s tears again will start Into mine eyes, the tears I shed, As I remember, when I read Of harsh injustice done to thee, And all thy princely family.
—What marvel that the Caliph, stung With secret consciousness of wrong, Or now desiring every trace Of that large bounty to efface, With penalty of death forbade That mourning should for them be made; That any should with grateful song Their memory in men’s hearts prolong? —“And who art thou, that day by day Hast dared my mandate disobey? Who art thou whom my guards have found, Now standing on some grass-grown mound, Now wandering ’mid the ruined towers, Fall’n palaces, and wasted bowers Of those, at length for traitors known, And by my justice overthrown— Singing a plaintive dirge for them Whom my just vengeance did condemn; Till ever, as I learn, around Thy steps a listening crowd is found, Who still unto thy sad lament Do with their sobs and tears consent; While in the bosom of that throng Rise thoughts that do their Monarch wrong? What doom I did for this assign Thou knewest, and that doom is thine.”