HusseinO most just Vizier, send awayThe cloth-merchants, and let them be,Them and their dues, this day! the KingIs ill at ease, and calls for thee.The VizierO merchants, tarry yet a dayHere in Bokhara! but at noon,To-morrow, come, and ye shall payEach fortieth web of cloth to me,As the law is, and go your way.O Hussein, lead me to the King!Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own,Ferdousi's, and the others', lead!How is it with my lord?HusseinAlone,Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait,O Vizier! without lying down,In the great window of the gate,Looking into the Registàn,Where through the sellers' booths the slavesAre this way bringing the dead man.—O Vizier, here is the King's door!The KingO Vizier, I may bury him?The VizierO King, thou know'st, I have been sickThese many days, and heard no thing(For Allah shut my ears and mind),Not even what thou dost, O King!Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make hasteTo speak in order what hath chanced.The KingO Vizier, be it as thou say'st!HusseinThree days since, at the time of prayerA certain Moollah, with his robeAll rent, and dust upon his hair,Watch'd my lord's coming forth, and push'dThe golden mace-bearers aside,And fell at the King's feet, and cried:"Justice, O King, and on myself!On this great sinner, who did breakThe law, and by the law must die!Vengeance, O King!"But the King spake:"What fool is this, that hurts our earsWith 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 it was done,And to the mosque my lord pass'd on.But on the morrow, when the KingWent forth again, the holy bookCarried before him, as is right,And through the square his way he took;My man comes running, fleck'd with bloodFrom yesterday, and falling downCries out most earnestly: "O King,My lord, O King, do right, I pray!"How canst thou, ere thou hear, discernIf 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 fierceIn these last days the sun hath burn'd;That the green water in the tanksIs to a putrid puddle turn'd;And the canal, which from the streamOf Samarcand is brought this way,Wastes, and runs thinner every day."Now I at nightfall had gone forthAlone, and in a darksome placeUnder some mulberry-trees I foundA little pool; and in short space,With all the water that was thereI fill'd my pitcher, and stole homeUnseen; 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 windAnd burning dust, again I creepDown, having fever, for a drink."Now meanwhile had my brethren foundThe water-pitcher, where it stoodBehind the door upon the ground,And call'd my mother; and they all,As they were thirsty, and the nightMost sultry, drain'd the pitcher there;That they sate with it, in my sight,Their lips still wet, when I came down."Now mark! I, being fever'd, sick(Most unblest also), at that sightBrake forth, and cursed them—dost thou hear?—One was my mother——Now, do right!"But my lord mused a space, and said:"Send him away, Sirs, and make on!It is some madman!" the King said.As the King bade, so was it done.The morrow, at the self-same hour,In the King's path, behold, the man,Not kneeling, sternly fix'd! he stoodRight 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,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 pathI will not stir till I be judged!"Then they who stood about the KingDrew close together and conferr'd;Till that the King stood forth and said:"Before the priests thou shalt be heard."But when the Ulemas were met,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.Yet, if he seek to fly, give way;Hinder 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,Kneel'd 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 remain'd kneeling as before.My lord had cover'd 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,I hear the bearers on the stair;Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?—Ho! enter ye who tarry there!The VizierO King, in this I praise thee not!Now must I call thy grief not wise.Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,To find such favour 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,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.But who, through all this length of time,Could bear the burden of his years,If he for strangers pain'd his heartNot less than those who merit tears?Fathers wemusthave, wife and child,And grievous is the grief for these;This pain alone, whichmustbe borne,Makes the head white, and bows the knees.But other loads than this his ownOne man is not well made to bear.Besides, to each are his own friends,To mourn with him, and show him care.Look, this is but one single place,Though it be great; all the earth round,If a man bear to have it so,Things which might vex him shall be found.Upon the Russian frontier, whereThe watchers of two armies standNear one another, many a man,Seeking a prey unto his hand,Hath snatch'd a little fair-hair'd slave;They snatch also, towards Mervè,The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep,And up from thence to Orgunjè.And these all, labouring for a lord,Eat not the fruit of their own hands;Which is the heaviest of all plagues,To that man's mind, who understands.The kaffirs also (whom God curse!)Vex one another, night and day;There are the lepers, and all sick;There are the poor, who faint alwayAll these have sorrow, and keep still,Whilst other men make cheer, and sing.Wilt thou have pity on all these?No, nor on this dead dog, O King!The KingO Vizier, thou art old, I young!Clear in these things I cannot see.My head is burning, and a heatIs in my skin which angers me.But hear ye this, ye sons of men!They that bear rule, and are obey'd,Unto a rule more strong than theirsAre in their turn obedient made.In vain therefore, with wistful eyesGazing up hither, the poor man,Who loiters by the high-heap'd booths,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 colour'd ice,"With cherries serv'd in drifts of snow."In vain hath a king power to buildHouses, arcades, enamell'd mosques;And to make orchard-closes, fill'dWith curious fruit-trees brought from farWith cisterns for the winter-rain,And, in the desert, spacious innsIn divers places—if that painIs not more lighten'd, which he feels,If his will be not satisfied;And that it be not, from all timeThe law is planted, to abide.Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man!Thou wast athirst; and didst not see,That, though we take what we desire,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.Even the great honour 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 brick-work tombUpon a hill on the right hand,Hard by a close of apricots,Upon the road of Samarcand;Thither, O Vizier, will I bearThis man my pity could not save,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,Because a king shall bury him."
Hussein
O most just Vizier, send awayThe cloth-merchants, and let them be,Them and their dues, this day! the KingIs ill at ease, and calls for thee.
The Vizier
O merchants, tarry yet a dayHere in Bokhara! but at noon,To-morrow, come, and ye shall payEach fortieth web of cloth to me,As the law is, and go your way.O Hussein, lead me to the King!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,O Vizier! without lying down,In the great window of the gate,Looking into the Registàn,Where through the sellers' booths the slavesAre this way bringing the dead man.—O Vizier, here is the King's door!
The King
O Vizier, I may bury him?
The Vizier
O King, thou know'st, I have been sickThese many days, and heard no thing(For Allah shut my ears and mind),Not even what thou dost, O King!Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make hasteTo speak in order what hath chanced.
The King
O Vizier, be it as thou say'st!
Hussein
Three days since, at the time of prayerA certain Moollah, with his robeAll rent, and dust upon his hair,Watch'd my lord's coming forth, and push'dThe golden mace-bearers aside,And fell at the King's feet, and cried:
"Justice, O King, and on myself!On this great sinner, who did breakThe law, and by the law must die!Vengeance, O King!"
But the King spake:"What fool is this, that hurts our earsWith 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 it was done,And to the mosque my lord pass'd on.
But on the morrow, when the KingWent forth again, the holy bookCarried before him, as is right,And through the square his way he took;My man comes running, fleck'd with bloodFrom yesterday, and falling downCries out most earnestly: "O King,My lord, O King, do right, I pray!
"How canst thou, ere thou hear, discernIf 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 fierceIn these last days the sun hath burn'd;That the green water in the tanksIs to a putrid puddle turn'd;And the canal, which from the streamOf Samarcand is brought this way,Wastes, and runs thinner every day.
"Now I at nightfall had gone forthAlone, and in a darksome placeUnder some mulberry-trees I foundA little pool; and in short space,With all the water that was thereI fill'd my pitcher, and stole homeUnseen; 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 windAnd burning dust, again I creepDown, having fever, for a drink.
"Now meanwhile had my brethren foundThe water-pitcher, where it stoodBehind the door upon the ground,And call'd my mother; and they all,As they were thirsty, and the nightMost sultry, drain'd the pitcher there;That they sate with it, in my sight,Their lips still wet, when I came down.
"Now mark! I, being fever'd, sick(Most unblest also), at that sightBrake forth, and cursed them—dost thou hear?—One was my mother——Now, do right!"
But my lord mused a space, and said:"Send him away, Sirs, and make on!It is some madman!" the King said.As the King bade, so was it done.
The morrow, at the self-same hour,In the King's path, behold, the man,Not kneeling, sternly fix'd! he stoodRight 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,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 pathI will not stir till I be judged!"
Then they who stood about the KingDrew close together and conferr'd;Till that the King stood forth and said:"Before the priests thou shalt be heard."
But when the Ulemas were met,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.Yet, if he seek to fly, give way;Hinder 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,Kneel'd 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 remain'd kneeling as before.
My lord had cover'd 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,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.Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,To find such favour 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,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.
But who, through all this length of time,Could bear the burden of his years,If he for strangers pain'd his heartNot less than those who merit tears?
Fathers wemusthave, wife and child,And grievous is the grief for these;This pain alone, whichmustbe borne,Makes the head white, and bows the knees.
But other loads than this his ownOne man is not well made to bear.Besides, to each are his own friends,To mourn with him, and show him care.
Look, this is but one single place,Though it be great; all the earth round,If a man bear to have it so,Things which might vex him shall be found.
Upon the Russian frontier, whereThe watchers of two armies standNear one another, many a man,Seeking a prey unto his hand,
Hath snatch'd a little fair-hair'd slave;They snatch also, towards Mervè,The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep,And up from thence to Orgunjè.
And these all, labouring for a lord,Eat not the fruit of their own hands;Which is the heaviest of all plagues,To that man's mind, who understands.
The kaffirs also (whom God curse!)Vex one another, night and day;There are the lepers, and all sick;There are the poor, who faint alwayAll these have sorrow, and keep still,Whilst other men make cheer, and sing.Wilt thou have pity on all these?No, nor on this dead dog, O King!
The King
O Vizier, thou art old, I young!Clear in these things I cannot see.My head is burning, and a heatIs in my skin which angers me.
But hear ye this, ye sons of men!They that bear rule, and are obey'd,Unto a rule more strong than theirsAre in their turn obedient made.
In vain therefore, with wistful eyesGazing up hither, the poor man,Who loiters by the high-heap'd booths,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 colour'd ice,
"With cherries serv'd in drifts of snow."In vain hath a king power to buildHouses, arcades, enamell'd mosques;And to make orchard-closes, fill'd
With curious fruit-trees brought from farWith cisterns for the winter-rain,And, in the desert, spacious innsIn divers places—if that painIs not more lighten'd, which he feels,If his will be not satisfied;And that it be not, from all timeThe law is planted, to abide.
Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man!Thou wast athirst; and didst not see,That, though we take what we desire,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.
Even the great honour 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 brick-work tombUpon a hill on the right hand,Hard by a close of apricots,Upon the road of Samarcand;
Thither, O Vizier, will I bearThis man my pity could not save,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,Because a king shall bury him."