Classic Poem

XLI

So while these words were fresh in Mahmoud's brain
He went one night into the mosque to pray,
And by the swinging lamp deciphered plain
The verse Firdausi, ere he fled away,
Wrote on the wall; and one by one there rose
Sad thoughts and sweet of many a vanished day,
When his soul hovered on the measured close
And wave-beat of the rich heroic lay.

XLII

Mourning the verse, he mourned the poet too;
And he who oftentimes had lain awake
Long nights in wide-eyed vision to pursue
His victim, yearning in revengeful ache,
Forgot all dreams of a luxurious death
By trampling elephant or strangling snake,
And thought on his old friend with tightened breath,
And flushed, remorseful for his anger's sake.

XLIII

Back to his court he went, molten at heart,
And all his rage on faithless Hasan turned;
For when he thought him of that tongue's black art,
His wrath was in him like a coal that burned;
He bade his several ministers appear
Before his throne, and by inquiry learned
The cunning treason of the false vizier,
And all his soul's deformity discerned.

XLIV

Hasan was slain that night; and of the gold
His monkey-hands had thieved from rich and poor,
The Sultan bade the money should be told
Long due as payment at Firdausi's door;
But when the sacks of red dinars were full,
Mahmoud bethought him long, and pondered sore,
Since vainly any king is bountiful
Not knowing where to seek his creditor.

XLV

But while he fretted at this ignorance,
A dervish came to Ghaznin, who had seen,
In passing through the streets of Tous, by chance
Firdausi in his garden cool and green;
At this Mahmoud rejoiced, and, with glad eyes
Swimming in tears, quivering with liquid sheen,
Wrote words of pardon, and in welcoming wise
Prayed all might be again as all had been.

XLVI

But while Firdausi brooded on his wrong,
One day he heard a child's clear voice repeat
The bitter jibe of his own scathing song;
Whereat he started, and his full heart beat
Its last deep throb of agony and rage;
And blinded in sharp pain, with tottering feet,
Being very feeble in extremest age,
He fell, and died there in the crowded street.

XLVII

The light of three-and-fourscore summers' suns
Had blanched the silken locks round that vast brow;
If Mahmoud might have looked upon him once,
He would have bowed before him meek and low;
The majesty of death was in his face,
And those wide waxen temples seemed to glow
With morning glory from some holy place
Where angels met him in a burning row.

XLVIII

His work was done; the palaces of kings
Fade in long rains, and in loud earthquakes fall;
The poem that a godlike poet sings
Shines o'er his memory like a brazen wall;
No suns may blast it, and no tempest wreck,
Its periods ring above the trumpet's call,
Wars and the tumult of the sword may shake,
And may eclipse it — it survives them all.

XLIX

Now all this while along the mountain road
The mighty line of camels wound in state;
Shuddering they moved beneath their massy load,
And swinging slowly with the balanced weight
Burden of gold, and garments red as flame,
They bore, not dreaming of the stroke of fate,
And so at last one day to Tous they came
And entered blithely at the eastern gate.

L

But in the thronged and noiseless streets they found
All mute, and marvelled at the tears men shed,
And no one asked them whither they were bound,
And when, for very shame discomfited,
They cried, " Now tell us where Firdausi lies! "
A young man like a cypress rose and said —
The anger burning in his large dark eyes —
" Too late Mahmoud remembers! He is dead!

LI

" Speed! haste away! hie to the western port;
Perchance the convoy has not passed it yet!
But hasten, hasten, for the hour is short,
And your short-memoried master may forget!
Behold, they bear Firdausi to the tomb,
Pour in his open grave your golden debt!
Speed! haste! and with the treasures of the loom
Dry the sad cheeks where filial tears are wet!

LII

" Lead your bright-harnessed camels one by one,
The dead man journeys, and he fain would ride;
Pour out your unctuous perfumes in the sun,
The rose has spilt her petals at his side;
Your citherns and your carven rebecks hold
Here when the nightingale untimely died,
And ye have waited well till he is cold,
Now wrap his body in your tigers' hide. "

LIII

And so the young man ceased; but one arose
Of graver aspect, not less sad than he,
" Nay, let, " he cried, " the sunshine and the snows
His glittering gold and silk-soft raiment be;
Approach not with unhallowed steps profane
The low white wall, the shadowy lotus-tree;
Nor let a music louder than the rain
Disturb him dreaming through eternity.

LIV

" For him no more the dawn will break in blood,
No more the silver moon bring fear by night;
He starts no longer at a tyrant's mood,
Serene for ever in the Prophet's sight;
The soul of Yaman breathed on him from heaven,
And he is victor in the unequal fight;
To Mahmoud rage and deep remorse are given,
To old Firdausi rest and long delight. "