The morrow at the selfsame hour
In the King's path, behold, the man,

Not kneeling, sternly fixed: he stood
Right 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 path I will not stir till I be judged."

Then they who stood about the King
Drew close together and conferred,
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:
Forbid 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,

Kneeled 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 remained kneeling as before.

My lord had covered 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 favor 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 pained his heart Not less than those who merit tears?

O Vizier, thou art old, I young.
Clear in these things I cannot see.
My head is burning; and a heat
Is in my skin which angers me.

But hear ye this, ye sons of men!
They that bear rule, and are obeyed,
Unto a rule more strong than theirs
Are in their turn obedient made.

In vain therefore, with wistful eyes
Gazing up hither, the poor man,
Who loiters by the high-heaped 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 colored ice,

"With cherries served in drifts of snow." In vain hath a king power to build

Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques;
And to make orchard closes, filled

With curious fruit-trees, brought from far; With cisterns for the winter rain; And in the desert, spacious inns

In divers places; - if that pain

Is not more lightened, which he feels,

If his will be not satisfied:

And that it be not, from all time
The law is planted, to abide.

Thou wert a sinner, thou poor man!
Thou wert athirst; and didst not see
That, though we snatch 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 honor 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 brickwork tomb
Upon a hill on the right hand,
Hard by a close of apricots,
Upon the road of Samarcand:

Thither, O Vizier, will I bear This 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."

Matthew Arnold.

Karaday (Karadagh).

THE FUGITIVE.

A TARTAR SONG, FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF CHODZKO.

I.

E is gone to the desert land!

"HE

I can see the shining mane

Of his horse on the distant plain,

As he rides with his Cossack band!

"Come back, rebellious one!

Let thy proud heart relent;

Come back to my tall white tent,

Come back, my only son!

66

Thy hand in freedom shall

Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks,