University of Virginia Library

In grateful memory of each gracious reference
Made to them by the one and thousand stories
Of Queen Scheherazade,—or duteous deference
To him in whom its immemorial glories
Their realm attain'd,—the Beasts decreed thy name
Haroun Alraschid, to the bravest, best,
And noblest of their kings—a king whose fame
His title merited, as mightiest
Of monarchs leonine. Nor e'er hath been
That ancient realm so fair and flourishing
At any time before or since, I ween,
As when Haroun the Illustrious was King.

That Royal lion, like his namesake, loved
To roam, incognito, his realms by night,
And if—at morn, what time it heedless roved,
Some subject's stumbling footstep chanced to 'light
Upon a heap of bones, or bloody fleece,
Where, in the dark, the King of Beasts had been,
Or if, upon the barks of drooping trees
Some Beaver's tooth, calumniously keen,
Had scored a scandalous chronicle,—what then?
Who is exempt from scandal? Not the great.
Are not the mighty paths of mighty men
Strewn with such ugly traces of the fate
Of little ones? And what's a sheep or two
Lost in a lion's glory and renown?
To his high name and famous title true,
Fear'd and revered was the great Lion Haroun.
But was he happy? Whosoe'er had seen
The grace, the beauty, and the loveliness
Of the young Lioness, Haroun's fair Queen,
Could surely doubt not of the monarch's bliss:
Limbs whose luxurious and majestic mould
Seem'd by some mighty artist's magic hand
Shaped into gliding form from flexile gold;
And, what most won the heart of all the land,
Oh, such a nameless charm of grace refined,
In every movement, queenly feminine,
Of the soft tail that, curving, swept behind,
And scarcely stirr'd a single sandgrain fine
With its light fringe, yet gave to all the rest
Expression irresistibly enchanting;
A charm by high-born dames alone possest.
In short, no beauty to the queen was wanting.
All female charms were hers: and she was his:
But ah! the heart that every joy possesses
Except one joy, if that one joy it miss,
All joy in all it hath too often misses!
Oft o'er the king's majestic brow would rise
The wrinkling shadow of a secret care;
Oft o'er the orbits of his fervid eyes
The massive muscle swell'd as though it were
Stung by a sudden inward irritation;
Whilst restless swishings of the royal tail
Gave momentary tokens of vexation;
Which his proud soul allow'd not to prevail,
But, with impatient toss of the large mane,
Shook scornful off: then, with a yawn immense,
Half of submission, half of deep disdain,
Mixt with a supercilious somnolence,
The wide jaws gaped, and he, as one resign'd
To those small troubles which infest the great,
Stretch'd slow his lordly limbs. The Court divined
The Monarch's mood: anxieties of State!
Oft, at the dead of night the antler'd Hart,
Couch'd in the grass beside his spotted Doe,
From restless dreams would tremulously start
And, heedless, strike his ornamented brow
All scared against the elm-tree's neighbouring bark;
When from the far-off, deep-porch'd palace, borne
Along the listening silence of the dark,
Fierce cries of royal wrath and passionate scorn,
And then the roaring fall, and heavy roll
Of mighty ones with mighty ones contending
Startled the poor stag's palpitating soul;
His straddled slender legs beneath him bending.
His spouse, too, hearing what he heard, half rose,
Scared for a moment by that ominous sound:
But, when her glance fell on the horned brows
Of her good helpmate conjugally crown'd,
She, with a slight toss of her dainty head,
(Significant of pacified alarm)
Settled again to sleep in her soft bed
Safe hid among the forest herbage warm.
And when, next morn, the Monarch sat in Hall,
His mien was sombre and his mood irate,
Matted and torn his mane, and swollen all
His mighty limbs. Anxieties of State!

The lordly Lion Haroun one day
Beneath a shady wood,
A solitary lounger lay
In meditative mood.
From public cares retired,
But not from care releast,
Of life, and all things, tired,
The noble-minded beast
Oft sadly sigh'd, the while he eyed
The summer grass and flowers;
And, sighing, heard each happy bird
That piped from pleasant bowers
To gratulate its brooding mate
On June's unclouded hours.
Then forth there came, from out of a vine
That round an elm did range
Her garlands green and globes of wine,
A little creature strange.

It was of the Monarch's million
Loyal subjects, doubtless, one.
But never before that minute
Had the Monarch noticed the little creature;
Uncouth of form, minute of feature,
And yet, with something in it
That seem'd to strike and harmonise
With the cause of the Monarch's moody sighs;
And the Lion's eye-glance tarried
On the pinnacled house, with its painted face,
Which, at a slow and a solemn pace,
The Snail on his shoulders carried.

Doubtless that tiny householder
Guess'd not what kingly eye
Did on his movements then confer
Its royal scrutiny.

For on, with smooth important motion,
He paced, as though he had a notion
That he was lord of all the way.
His house upon his back he bore,
And on his forehead standards four:
Erect and proud were they.
To him (thus travelling leisurely,
Unconscious of the Lion's eye)
Across the path made haste.
Another, smaller, wayfarer,
Swifter-footed, swarthier,
And slim about the waist.
Then these two mutes, perceiving each
The other, in their native speech
Did one another hail,
And with familiar salutation
Fell into close confabulation,
The Emmet and the Snail.

Haroun, the Lion, understood
(As all good sovereigns do, or should)
The dialects and languages
Of his provincial subjects fully.
And, glad to escape the weary stress
Of thoughts morose and melancholy
Which did just then his mind oppress,
He hail'd with silent satisfaction
The chance of finding some distraction
In listening to the chatterings
Of such small folk, on such small things
As cabbage-leaves and pips of pine,
And weather-changes, foul or fine;
In short each ordinary matter
Of such folk's ordinary chatter.

The little Emmet shook his head:
“O Caracol! O Caracol!
I would not be the King,” he said,
“In such bad times.” (With prescient soul
Haroun the Lion prick'd an ear.)
“Why, neighbour, why?” said Caracol.
“Ah, Caracol! ah, gossip dear,”
The little Emmet still ran on,
“You stay-at-home, you'll live and die,
Not dreaming what great things are done
In the great world. But, gossip, I
Go gadding here and there, you know,
And many a thing upon the sly
I pick up that's worth knowing.” “How!”
Quoth Caracol, “good gossip say,
(I am, indeed, a perfect stranger
To what you hint at,) tell me, pray,
Is, then, the Empire now in danger?
From what? Explain, friend, if you know,
Domestic brawl, or foreign foe?
A puissant King have we!”
“No, Caracol—I'll tell you—no,
From civic brawl, and foreign foe,
The Empire still is free.
But, ah! dear gossip, if you knew,
You never said a thing less true—
The King's not puissant.”—“He!
What mean you, friend?” said Caracol.
(Haroun suppress'd a scornful growl.)
“I mean—upon my life,
'Tis true,” the Emmet said, “the King
Can rule his states—rule everything,
But his unruly wife.
The King's not master of the Queen,
She masters him. And, this I mean,
That, master'd by his spouse,
At home he is not puissant—nay,
Not even—the plain truth to say—
At home in his own house.
I know a secret gallery
All thro' the palace ('tis thereby
I pick up odds and ends.)
Ah, if you knew what goings on!
What shocking, shocking things are done,
What hosts of private friends
The Queen receives upon the sly!
Poor King! I'm sure I pity him.”
Said Caracol, “And so do I!”
The Snail's small optic nerve was dim
With sympathetic moisture. “Why,”
Sigh'd Caracol, “what's after all,
Such greatness worth?” The Emmet small
Resumed, “Without rebuff
We rule, friend, you and I, our spouses,
Nor fear to enter our own houses.
Abroad, the King, indeed, looks great:
All envy him his power and state.
At home, he's small enough!

“O Caracol! my Caracol!
I would not, trust me, for the whole
Broad realm that he calls his,
Be that unhappy King.” “Nor I!”
Said Caracol with glistening eye,
“My house my castle is.
And, gossip, you and I can say
(What, ah! he cannot) day by day,
Tho' not in palace dome,
On purple couch, but humble bed,
Each lays his undishonour'd head,
‘Master am I at home!’”

Roaring with wrath and outraged pride,
Haroun, the lordly Lion, sprung.
The little Emmet slipp'd aside,
And hid himself the grass among.
The Snail, who could not go so quick,
Pull'd his four timorous standards down,
Swallow'd himself, and (terror-sick)
Was to a mere saliva grown.

The royal Lion, in its base distress,
The wretched creature saw,
He could have crusht it into nothingness,
With one stroke of his paw.
In a cold sweat lay Caracol. No doubt,
Master at home was he.
But master of his home, he now found out,
'Twas harder far to be.

Howbeit, happily for Caracol,
Haroun the Lion, with a lion's whim,
Or else a monarch's scornful self-control,
Pass'd onward, musing, and so harm'd not him.
“A worm,” the Lion mused, “an abject clot
Of animated slime, that creeps infirm,
Is lord in his own house...and I am not?
Well...be it so! The worm is still a worm.
I am a king. Bah !...burrow and crawl...become
One with this earth's obscurest denizens,
To be...as they are...each in his own home
Master...of what? mere subterranean dens,
Or flimsy tenements...where they abide,
This—a sick jelly without even a spine,
That—a grimed drudge?” And the great Lion sigh'd
Sadly...“O Leontine! O Leontine!”