Classic Poem

The Bedouin chieftain, Hafed, in his tent
Sat lone and desolate, for he was old;
His withered form with age was scarred and bent,
His pulse beat slow, his blood was thin and cold.

Ten years before, three stalwart sons had stood,
When down the west the sun was lingering low,
And asked his blessing, brave they were and good,
Loyal to friends and bitter to a foe.

The desert lands wherein their youth had flown
Too narrow were for more than one domain,
So Hafed bade them go and win their own,
Where wide and fair lay valley, hill, and plain;

Gave them his blessing, saw them ride away,
And crushed the hot tears from his dimming eyes,
Then turned again to see, day after day,
The sandy desert land, the cloudless skies.

Ten years were gone, and he had bid them come
When these should pass, and tell him of their toil,
Where in the world each one had made a home,
And what had been their gain of fame or spoil.

And now he waited, and afar was heard
The bells that told of some vast caravan,
Their tinkling sounded like the call, a bird
Sent through the dark, when first the day began.

And then the blare of trumpets, and the sound
Of trampling steeds came from the hilly North,
The loud reverberations shook the ground,
And rising, Hafed from his tent went forth.

Eastward long lines of camels lengthening ran,
Northward a host shone in its burnished steel,
And in the west, a solitary man
Beneath a heavy burden seemed to reel.

The level rays of sunlight lit the west,
When his three sons before him bent the head,
One clad in armor, one in crimson dressed,
One whose coarse robe fell down in rent and shred.

“What bring you?” Hafed cried.—The eldest spoke,
Pointing where stood the camels and their load,
And flinging wide his richly jeweled cloak—
“These gifts I bring you from my far abode.

“I am a merchant, and in Teheran,
Men call me ‘Omar of the icy heart,’
And yet I do no wrong to any man—
I only claim of mine each smallest part.”

“And you?”—The second spoke.—“I bring a sword,
A host of men who glitter like the sun;
Wide are the lands that own me for their lord,”—
“Yes, yes, I know, How were these wide lands won?”

“Ah, red the rivers, and like leaves the dead,
And Ali's blow was cruel as the grave,
Or so my foemen in their fury said,
And died, as die the catif and the slave.”

The last one spoke.—“I have no gold, nor land,
No man has felt the swiftness of my blow,
No beggar goes from me with empty hand,
That love is mine, is all enough to know.”

“This burden I have borne for many miles,
Are lowly gifts, by love made high and sweet,
They came to me with laughter, and with smiles,
I gladly lay them at my father's feet.”

Then Hafed cried—“Ah, woe for wasted years!
Take back your gold, your cold and cruel arms;
They bear the stain of blood and bitter tears,
Of haunting care, and gloom, and wild alarms.”

“Only one gift my waiting brings to me,—
Only one gift all other gifts above,
To shine an island in life's barren sea,
Won, not by sword or gold, but all by love.”

The level sunrays sank below the sand,
A great wind blustered downward from the hills,
A sudden gloom fell on the weary land,
And black clouds gathered full of thunder thrills.

One flash of light smote through the dark, and shone
On Hafed's face, grown cold, and still, and white;
The chief had borne his gift to heaven's Throne,
And lay there dead amid the storm and night.