The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | ||
380
THE RIVALS.
A king of a most royal line
Stood at his gates, as History saith:
He stretched his hand, he made the sign
To put a captive there to death.
Stood at his gates, as History saith:
He stretched his hand, he made the sign
To put a captive there to death.
As those who can no further fly
Turn sharp and grasp the deadly swords,
So the poor wretch about to die
Abused the king with bitter words.
Turn sharp and grasp the deadly swords,
So the poor wretch about to die
Abused the king with bitter words.
“What does he say?” the king began,
To whom his jargon was unknown.
His Vizier, a kind-hearted man,
Who knew that language like his own.
To whom his jargon was unknown.
His Vizier, a kind-hearted man,
Who knew that language like his own.
Answered him, “‘O my lord!’ he cries,
‘Who stay their hasty hands from blood—
God made for such men Paradise.
He loves, He will defend the good.’”
‘Who stay their hasty hands from blood—
God made for such men Paradise.
He loves, He will defend the good.’”
The King's great heart was touched at this.
“The captive's blood shall not be shed.”
Then—for a serpent needs must hiss—
A rival of the Vizier said:
“The captive's blood shall not be shed.”
Then—for a serpent needs must hiss—
A rival of the Vizier said:
“It is not decorous that we
Whose blood comes down from noble springs—
No matter what the end may be,
We should speak truth before our kings.
Whose blood comes down from noble springs—
No matter what the end may be,
We should speak truth before our kings.
381
The man who kneels respited here
Abused our gracious, clement lord:
There was no blessing, O Vizier,
There was a curse in every word.”
Abused our gracious, clement lord:
There was no blessing, O Vizier,
There was a curse in every word.”
Sternly to him the king: “I see,
You speak the truth, no doubt; but still
His falsehood better pleaseth me,
For he meant good, and you mean ill.
You speak the truth, no doubt; but still
His falsehood better pleaseth me,
For he meant good, and you mean ill.
If I should punish, as I might,
(Be thankful that I am not just)
Your head, when I commanded ‘Smite!’
Would roll before me in the dust.”
(Be thankful that I am not just)
Your head, when I commanded ‘Smite!’
Would roll before me in the dust.”
The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | ||