Classic Poem

Remote and dire, in desert-lands
Where naught but sunburnt sod is seen,
Anchár, the Tree of Poison, stands—
A sentinel, with threatening mien.

The thirsty steppe-land gave it birth
In bitterness and anger dark;
It sucked foul venom from the earth,
Its roots and leaves are dead and stark.

At noon, when fiercest sunlight glows,
The poison from its veins escapes,
And trickling down the stem it flows
By evening into globèd shapes.

No bird will seek this Tree of Death,
Nor dare the tiger prowl anigh,
The hungry whirlwind's dusty breath
Grows baneful as it hastens by.

If e'er a wand'ring cloud distil
Soft rains upon its blighted top,
Their harmless nature turns to ill,
And changed, in deadly dews they drop.

But yet a man's imperial nod
Sent forth a fellow-man afar,
Whose meek, obedient footsteps trod,
Right to the base of foul Anchár.

By morning he returned, and bore
The fatal resin, with a bough
Of withered leaves, and like it wore
A wasted look—and from his brow

Cold sweat was streaming, and he tried
To stand, but fell to earth prostrate.
And there, poor slave! he sank and died
In presence of the Potentate,

Who sopped his arrows in the bane,
And sent them dark—a doom new-found!—
By messenger o'er hill and plain
To neighbours in the countries round.