University of Virginia Library

To Him who cleaves the darkness with the light,
Who veils and covers with the thick black night
The dim cold cheek of faint and fading day,
The glory and the worship be alway!
I, Aboubekr, hight El Anberi,
(For that 'twas Anber town gave birth to me,)
God's servant and His Law's expositor,
For my occasions journeying heretofore
Unto Amorium in the land of Roum,
For visitation of a hermit's tomb,
At Enwar village lighted down midway.
Hard by there stood (and standeth yet to day
Belike,) whereas upon the hilltop leans
The heaven, a monastery of Nazarenes,
With battlements and turrets builded high
And spires that held the cross up to the sky.
The prior of the monks, Abdulmesíh
By name, (the which, interpreted, is he
Who serves the Christ,) from those who dwelt about
Learning my coming, unto me came out
And brought me in unto the monastery.
There forty monks I found, who harboured me
With passing hospitality that night;
And never, since I looked upon the light,
(Albeit far and wide I've fared and much
And marvellous have seen,) beheld I such
Abounding piety and diligence
Devout in prayer and praise and penitence
As in these Nazaritish monks I saw.
Then, on the morrow, ere the day did daw,
I took my leave of them and faring on
Unto Amorium, thence, my business done,
Returned to Anber by another road
Nor at the monastery again abode.
Now it befell next year, with Allah's aid,
The pilgrimage to Mecca that I made
And there, in honour of the Omnipotent
As compassing the Holy House I went,
Abdulmesíh the prior I espied
And five of his companions him beside,
All on the circuit of the Kaabeh bent.
Which when I saw, on me astoniment
There fell; then after him in haste I hied
And overtaking him, was certified
That he himself it was in life and limb,
And not his wraith; wherefore, accosting him,
“Sir,” said I, “art thou not (God's name on it!)
“Abdulmesíh er Ráhib (monk, to wit,)?”
And he, “Not so: Abdallah is my name,
Er Rághib hight.” (Which, being on the same
Fashion interpreted, God's servant means,
Desireful dubbed, a name to Nazarenes
Assigned, who turn to Islam of God's grace.)
This when I heard, the tears o'erran my face
And for sheer joy and bliss unspeakable,
Awhile a word I could not speak, but fell
His hoary locks to kissing, all unmanned
For very ravishment. Then, by the hand
Taking, I carried him apart with me
Into a corner of the Sanctuary
And in His name who sunders night from day,
Conjured him of the reason and the way
Of his and his companions' having been
Turned from the error of the Nazarene
To Islam and the road of righteousness
Our ignorance and yearning to possess.
Whereunto he, in answer, “Sir, the cause
Of our conversion,” said, “a wonder was,
Forsooth, of wonders inenarrable;
And on this wise it was that it befell.
No great while after you our humble cell
Did with your too brief presence, of your grace,
Honour and ornament, unto the place,
Whereas our monastery is situate,
It chanced there came, by the decree of Fate
And Fortune foreordained, a company
Of Muslim devotees, unknowing we
Whence did they come and whither they were boun,
Who entered not therein, but, lighting down
Without the walls, a youth, of those that went
Wandering with them, into the village sent,
To buy them victual. Faring, with that aim,
About the place, it chanced that, as he came
Into the market, lifting up his head,
He spied a damsel sitting selling bread,
A Nazarene who was and passing fair,
With sea-blue eyes and gracious golden hair.
No sooner did his gaze upon her light
Than stricken dumb he was with her sweet sight
And of her lovesome looks, as by some spell
O'erta'en, incontinent so sore he fell
Enamoured that, his patience and his sense
Forsaking him, aswoon, at unprepense,
He fell upon his face and so he lay.
Then, coming to himself, he took his way
Back to his comrades with the provender
And bade them “Fare you well! I tarry here.
Go ye about your business; weal or woe,
Betide what will, I may not with you go.”
Thereat amazement took them and they chid
And questioned him. But still the cause he hid
Of his resolve; so they, to them no heed
Finding he gave and having done their need,
Left him to his devices and fared on:
Whilst he, poor star-struck fool, returned anon
Into the town and at the damsel's door
Sat down. She, seeing him a-sit before
Her place and knowing him no villager,
Came forth and asked him what he would with her.
He, having nothing but her in his thought,
Full simply answered her that all distraught
For love of her he was and like to die;
Whereat she turned from him without reply,
As haply angered at his simpleness.
But he, nowhit rebuffed, nor more nor less
Abiding, like a statue, three days' space,
With his eyes fixed upon the damsel's face,
There in the open door, before her shop,
Sat on, without food tasted, bit or drop.
Then, when she saw that, 'spite of everywhat
She did, the youth from her departed not,
She sought her kinsfolk dwelling in the place
And taking counsel with them of the case,
They loose on him the village urchins let,
Who straight with sticks and stones did him beset
And stoned him from afar and broke his head
And bruised his ribs; but still, as he were dead,
He sat nor budged for aught that they might do.
Wherefore the people of the place anew
Counsel together took to kill the wight:
But one of them there came to me by night
And advertised me of the thing in thought
Which was to do and how to slay they sought
The stranger youth. So I went forth and found
The hapless Muslim prostrate on the ground,
Bescored with bleeding wounds and stiff with mud
And gore. Then from his face I wiped the blood
And carried him into the monastery,
Whereas I dressed his wounds, and he with me
Some fourteen days abode. But hardly had
He gotten strength to walk, poor silly lad,
Than he the convent left and to her door
Returning, on the damsel as before
Sat gazing, unadread. Which when she saw,
Forth unto him she came and “By God's Law,
Thou movest me to pity!” said. “If thou
My faith wilt enter, by the Cross I vow,
I will e'en marry thee.” “If this I did,
'Twere ill with me,” he answered. “Heaven forbid
That I should leave the faith of Unity
Of God and enter that whose Gods are three!”
“Then come with me into my house,” she said,
“And take thy will of me, that am a maid,
And go thy ways in peace.” But he, “Not so.
How shall I for a moment's lust forego
And barter for a fleeting bliss the tears,
The prayers, the pious service of twelve years?”
“Then,” answered she, “forthright from me depart.”
But he, “Ah wellaway! fair maid, my heart
Will nowise suffer me do that,” did say.
Wherefore she turned her face from him away;
And presently the boys of the young man
Became aware and gathering, began
A-pelting him with stones again, till he
Upon his face fell, saying, “Verily,
God is my keeper, He who down the Book
Sent and the righteous never yet forsook!”
Things being at this pass, I sallied forth
And driving off the rabble, from the earth
Lifted the Muslim's head and heard him say,
“O God, unite Thou me with her, I pray,
In Paradise!” Then in my arms, to bear
Unto the convent, him I took: but, ere
The shelter I might reach, he died; and I,
Without the village boundaries, hard by,
Digging a grave, before the day grew dim,
There with my own hands sadly buried him.

That night, when all else in the village slept,
Those on the walls and in the ways that kept
The accustomed watch and ward, the damsel heard
Give a great cry (and she abed) that stirred
The sleeping folk and roused them from their rest.
So they rose up, with slumber yet opprest,
And flocking all together to the maid,
Questioned her of her case; whereto she said,
“But now, what while I slept without affray,
The Muslim came to me, who died to-day,
And took me by the hand and carried me
Unto the gates of Paradise. But he,
Who kept the ward thereof, me withinside
Would nowise suffer, saying, “Tis denied
To unbelievers in God's promised land
To enter.” Wherefore, at the young man's hand,
Islam I straight embraced and entering
Therein with him, saw gardens blossoming,
With rivers under them, and flowering trees,
Yea, and pavilions eke and palaces
Such that description faileth me withal
To image one least jot to you of all
That therewithin I looked upon. Anon
He brought me unto a pavilion
With pearls and gems high-builded, saying, “Mine
Foreordered this pavilion is and thine;
Nor will I enter it except with thee.
But, after five days' space, thou shalt with me
Together of a surety be in it,
So God most High do of His will deem fit.”
Then to an apple-tree,—that at the door
Of that pavilion, with its golden store
Of fruit the air enbalsaming, did stand,
High-laden, glorious,—putting forth his hand,
He plucked two apples, shining as the sun,
And to me gave them, bidding me eat one
And keep the other, that the monks might view
The thing with their own eyes and know it true.
So one of the two apples did I eat
And never than its savour aught more sweet
I tasted. By the hand, then, taking me
Yet once again, he brought me presently
Back to my house, whereas on sleep again
I fell; and when awhile therein I'd lain,
Awakening, I started up in haste
And in my mouth the eaten apple's taste
And in my hand the other holden found.”
So saying, she her girdle-cloth unwound
And brought the apple forth unto their sight,
Which in the mirk and dead of middle night,
When all things else to vision hidden are,
Shone in the darkness like a sparkling star.
Therewith they brought her to the monastery,
Whereas her vision unto us did she
Anew recount and did the apple show;
Nor, of all fruits that in the world do grow,
E'er on the like and fellow did we look
Of that same apple. Then a knife I took
And in as many pieces even as we
The apple cut were folk in company;
And never more delicious knew we aught
Nor sweeter than its taste. But in our thought
We said, “This sure some demon was, some wraith
Of hell, that, to seduce her from her faith,
Appeared to her, when, in the dead of night,
Men's wit is weak for lack of wholesome light.”
Then her folk took her and with her away
Departed; but the damsel from that day
From meat and drink abstained, till the fifth night,
When from her bed she rose by the moon's light
And going forth the village to the place
Where the young Muslim buried was, her face
She pillowed on the grave and by his side,
Who died for love of her, lay down and died.

Her people knew not what was come of her;
But, on the morrow, with the day's first stir,
Two Muslim elders to the place there came,
In haircloth garbed, and with them, on the same
Stern fashion clad, two women; and they said,
“O people of the village, with you dead
A woman of God's friends there lieth, who
A Muslim died, and we, instead of you,
To take the charge of her are hither sent.”
Wherefore her people seeking for her went,
Till on the Muslim's grave they found her laid,
And “This our sister of our faith,” they said,
“Was and assuredly therein she died,
And we will bury her.” “Not so,” replied
The two old men; “in that of unity
Of God she died; and so we claim her, we.”
And the dispute betwixt the parties twain
Waxed hot till “Idle is the talk and vain,”
Quoth one of the old Muslims. “This the test
Be of her faith. If she the Cross confessed,
As ye do fable of her, let there be
The monks, all forty, from the monastery
Fetched hither and to lift her up essay
From this our sad dead brother's grave. If they
Avail for doing this, a Nazarene
It that she died shall by approof be seen.
If not, then one of us unto the field
Shall come and lift her up; and if she yield
To him, it shall appear that in good deed
She died a Muslim.” So the folk agreed
To this and thither fetched the monks twoscore,
Who, heartening each other, laboured sore
To lift her up, but might not make her stir.
Then a great rope about the midst of her
We bound and haled upon it with our might.
But the stout rope in sunder broke outright,
So that we fell; and stirless still she lay
Nor would she budge, for aught we might essay.
Nay, of the villagers came all who would
And their endeavours joined to ours, but could
Not any fashion move her from her place.
Then, when we thus had striven for a space
And every our device had proved in vain,
To one of those old Muslim pilgrims twain,
“Come thou and raise her, if thou canst,” we said.
So to the grave he came and o'er the maid
His mantle spreading for a covering,
Said, “In the name of the Compassionate King,
Of God the Merciful, the only One,
Maker of earth and sea and sky and sun,
And of His Prophet's faith, the Best of Men,
On whom be blessing and salvation!” Then
He lightly lifted her without demur
And in his bosom taking, so with her
Betook himself unto a cave hard by,
Wherein full tenderly he let her lie.
Thither anon the Muslim women came
And laid her out and washed her in God's name
And shrouded her in webs of woollen blue.
Then the two elders took her up anew
And bearing her to the young Muslim's tomb,
Prayed over her and delving her a room,
Hard by his side, till night and day should cease,
Laid her to rest and went their ways in peace.

Now we were witness to all this; and when
Alone again, apart from other men,
Within the quiet monastery's shade,
We were and private each with each, we said
One to another, “Of a verity,
The truth most worthy is to followed be;
And publicly indeed made manifest
It hath been unto us; nor any test
More clear nor plainer proof of Islam's truth,
Than in this matter of the Muslim youth
And of the Christian damsel hath this day,
Passing the power of any to gainsay,
Unto our eyes been rendered visible
And we have witnessed, were it possible
To have.” So I and all the monks did recognize
The Faith of Righteousness, and on like wise
Did all the townsfolk; and incontinent
To those of Irak Arabi we sent,
Seeking a doctor of the law, that us
Should in the ordinances glorious
Of Islam and the canon and the rite
Of prayer endoctrine. Whereupon forthright
A pious man they sent us and a fair,
Who taught us all the ritual of prayer
And all devotion's forms and usances,
With allwhat else that appertaining is
Unto the service of the Heavenly King.
And now in great good case in everything
We are and blesséd are our nights and days,
To Allah be the glory and the praise,
To Him who orders all the worldly ways,
Whose hand doth this exalt and that abase,
Turner of Hearts and Changer of the Case,
Who still accomplisheth, in all men's sight,
The common miracle of Day and Night!”

One day, at Mecca, in the Sanctuary,
When all the folk were busied silently
In compassing the Holy House about,
A man unto the Kaabeh-cloth put out
His hand and seizing by the corner-ring
Upon the border of the covering,
Cried, “O my God, I do entreat of Thee,
Of Thy great grace and magnanimity,
My lady's husband to the serving wench
Cause Thou return, so I once more may quench
My love and longing on her body fair!”
All, hearing this, awhile astonied were;
But, presently, recovering their sense,
They loaded him with blows and bore him thence
In bonds unto the Amir of the Hajj,
(To wit, the Prefect of the Pilgrimage,)
And “O my lord,” to him said they, “this man
Hath such and such things done, as all we can
Attest, and in the Holy House this wise
Hath open scandal wrought in all men's eyes.”
The Prefect, hearing that which he had said,
Was angered passing sore with him and bade
Bear him forthright without the Temple-close
And hang him up for warning unto those
Who should in time to come affected be,
Like him, to violate the Sanctuary.
But he, demanding speech before he died,
For his excusement, thus to him replied;
“O Prefect, by the Prophet, whom God bless
And save! I do conjure thee, in my stress,
That thou wilt first my story hearken to
And after what thou willest with me do.”
“Say on,” rejoined the Prefect; and the man,
“Know then, o Amir of the Hajj,” began,
“That I a scavenger in old Baghdad
Was late and for my occupation had
The offal from the slaughterhouses there
Unto the heaps without the walls to bear.
One day, as with my laden ass I went,
I saw the people in bewilderment
Hither and thither running, as it were
To shun some danger, though I saw none there;
And unto me, unknowing what this meant,
“Enter this alley here in haste,” quoth one,
“Thee lest they kill.” “What ails the folk to run?”
Quoth I; and he, “It is the eunuchs, trow,
Attendant on the wife of so-and-so,
One of the notables, who from her road
The people thrust and drive away and load
Their shoulders and their backs with cuffs and blows,
Without distinction made of these and those.”
Withal aside I turned me with the ass
And stood expecting till the crowd should pass
Me by. Then presently up came a band
Of half a score of eunuchs, staff in hand,
With well nigh thirty women after them;
And in their midst a lady like a gem,
Clad all in gold-wrought silk from feet to face,
Perfect in elegance and amorous grace,
Beyond all telling excellently fair,
As she a willow wand for slimness were,
Ay, or a thirsting, languorous gazelle.
Her glance upon me in the passage fell
And she, an eunuch calling, in his ear
Some order whispered that I could not hear;
Wherewith to me, as it would seem she bade,
He came and seizing me without word said,
He bound me with a rope and haled me on
After himself; whilst yet another one,
Taking my ass, made off with it, I knew
Not whither, neither that which was to do;
And all the people followed after us,
Calling for help on God the Glorious
And saying, “`Tis unlawful in God's sight!
What hath this fellow done that he, poor wight,
Should bounden be with cords? For heaven's sake,”
Quoth they unto the eunuchs, “pity take
On him and let him go, so God with you
As you with him shall of His mercy do!”
And “Doubtless,” said I in myself the while,
“The eunuch seized on me, for that the vile
Stench of the offal, as she passed by here,
His mistress scented and it sickened her;
And she belike with child or ailing is.
But neither virtue neither power, ywis,
Is, save in God, exalted be His name!”
So I fared on behind them till they came
Unto a great house-door and entering there,
Into a high hall carried me, with fair
And goodly furniture beset, God wot,
How I shall tell its fairness I know not.
The women, to the harem faring all,
Bound left me with the eunuch in the hall;
And in myself, “Assuredly,” quoth I,
“Here will they torture me until I die
And no one of my death aware shall be.”
However, by and by, they carried me
Into a bath-room that adjoined thereto;
And as I sat and wondered what to do
Might be, in came three damsels fair and feat,
Who round me in a ring themselves did seat
And said, “Put off thy rags from thee.” So I
My threadbare clothes at their behest laid by
And one to rub my feet herself bestirred
And one to wash my head, whilst yet a third
With soap to scrubbing all my body fell.
Then, when they throughly washed me had and well,
A parcel of rich clothes they brought and bade
Me don them: but, “By Allah, nay!” I said;
“I know not how to do it.” So the three
Invested me withal and laughed at me
The while; and after casting-bottles brought,
With rose- and willow-blossom-water fraught,
And sprinkled me therewith. Then must I go
With them into a great saloon, I know
Indeed not how to tell its graciousness,
For all the goodly paintings and the press
Of fair-wrought furniture that all around
Therein I saw. Here I the lady found,
Upon a couch of Indian cane a-seat
With legs of ivory, and at her feet
A score of damsels. She, on me her eye
Casting, arose and called to me; so I
Went up to her and she beside her made
Me sit and presently her servants bade
Bring food; and they all manner brought rich meats,
Lambs, fowls, kebábs and curries, pasties, sweets,
Such as I never in my life had seen,
Nor half the different dishes knew I e'en
By name. I ate my fill and presently,
The dishes being cleared away, when we
Had washed our hands, she called for fruits and bade
Me eat thereof; then one her waiting-maid
Commanded bring the wine-service. So they
A table full of flagons did array
With divers kinds of wines and burned in all
The censers perfumes. Then, upon her call,
A damsel like the moon at full rose up
And with the wineflask waited on our cup,
Whilst others came with chants and carollings
And dances, measured by the smitten strings:
And I with her did sit the while and drink,
Till we were warm with wine, and could not think
That this than a delusion of the mind
In dreams was otherwhat. Anon she signed
To one of those her serving-maids a bed
For us in such and such a place to spread,
Which being presently, with her command
Accordant, done, she took me by the hand
And led me thither. So with her I lay
In all delight until the risen day;
And still, as in my arms I did her press,
Caress fore'er ensuing on caress
And clips and kisses still on clip and kiss,
The fragrances of musk and ambergris,
That from her body sweet exhaled, I smelt,
Nor ever otherwhat I thought nor felt
But that in Paradise I was and through
The mazes of a dream did still pursue
The shapes of slumber. Then, when night was gone
And day drew back the curtains of the dawn,
She asked me where I lodged and her I told,
“In such a place.” Wherewith a kerchief, gold
And silver wrought, she gave me, where somewhat
Was in the corner knotted with a knot,
And “To the bath with this go,” saying, bad
Me get me gone. And I withal was glad
And in myself, “If here there be,” quoth I,
“But farthings five, the morning-meal 'twill buy.”
Then forth from her, as if from Paradise,
Homeward I fared and opening in a trice
The kerchief, fifty golden dinars found
Therein and straightway buried underground;
Then bought two farthings' worth of meat and bread
And at the door sat down and breakfasted;
And after, pondering my case, sat there
Until the hour of afternoontide prayer,
Whenas there came a slave-girl in to me
And greeting, said, “My mistress calls for thee.”
So I unto the mansion aforesaid,
Without word spoken, followed, as she bade,
Till me unto the lady in she brought,
With whom I ate and drank and lay and wrought
In all things as I did the day before,
In joy and wonder waxing evermore.
And when with morning-light I must bestir
And get me gone again, I had of her
Another handkerchief and therein tied
Yet fifty dinars, wherewithal I hied
Me home in haste and buried these as those.
Thus did I eight days running, at the close
Of light her visiting and with new day
Departing still from her. But, as we lay
On the eighth night together, one her maid
Came running in to us in haste and bade
Me “Rise and into yonder closet go;”
And I betook me thither evenso.
There was a window giving on the street;
And presently the tramp of horses' feet
I heard and forth, to see what should betide,
Looking, amiddleward the way espied
A young man, fair of countenance and bright
As is the full moon of the fourteenth night,
Come riding up, attended by a score
Of slaves and soldiers. Halting at the door,
He lighted down and entering thereby,
In the saloon the lady seated high
In sullen state upon the dais found.
So, going up to her, he kissed the ground
Before her, then her hands upon like wise;
But she to him uplifted not her eyes
Nor answered him. Withal he did not spare
To soothe her with soft words and speak her fair
Until he made his peace with her and they
That night till break of dawn together lay,
When those same soldiers came for him and he
Mounted and rode with them away. Then she
Came in to me and “Sawst thou yonder man?”
Quoth she. “Yes,” answered I; and she began,
“He is my husband and I will thee tell
That which betwixt myself and him befell.
It chanced one day that in the garden we
Within the courtyard sitting were, when he,
Arising thence, into the house withdrew
And absent was so long that tired I grew
Of waiting him and sought him everywhere
About the house; but, finding him not there,
Unto the kitchen, seeking him, I went
And saw a slave-girl, who incontinent
To me, in quest of him, at my demand,
Discovery made of him, where nigh at hand
He with a slave-wench of the cookmaids lay.
This when I saw, an oath I swore straightway
That with the foulest and the filthiest wight,
On whom in all the city I could light,
Adultery I'd do; and when on thee
The eunuch seized and brought thee in to me,
I had four days gone all Baghdad about
In quest of one among the rabble-rout
Apt to my oath; nor in the city's round
A fouler nor a filthier I found
Than thee. So thee I took and there befell
Between us that whereof thou wottest well,
Even as to us had God foreordered it.
And presently of that mine oath I'm quit;
But, should my husband evermore be fain
Unto the cookmaid to return again
And lie with her anew, I will once more
Thee to my favours,” added she, “restore.”
When from her lovesome lips this cruel word
(The scavenger went on to say) I heard
And with the arrows of her looks the while
My heart and soul at once she did beguile
And pierce, my tears ran down upon my cheek
Till red mine eyes with weeping were and weak,
And sore I did bewail me of her scorn
And cursed the sorry day when I was born.
Then other fifty dinars gave she me,
(Making in all four hundred which had she
On me bestowed), and bade me go my ways.
So I went forth and after sundry days,
Took up my pilgrimage and hither came,
That I might pray God (Blesséd be His name!)
Her husband cause return unto the maid,
So haply I might yet, as she had said,
Once more admitted be unto her grace.”
The Prefect of the Pilgrims on his case
Compassion took and unto that which he
To tell had having hearkened, set him free
And in the name of God the Lord Most High,
Omnipotent, conjured the standers-by,
Bidding them “Pray for him; for, wot ye well,
In this he did he was excusable.”

A certain pious man whilom heard tell
That there in such and such a town did dwell
A smith who in the middle furnace-flare
Could to the elbow thrust his forearm bare
And forth thereof the redhot iron bring
And handle without hurt. So, journeying,
Unto the place he came and found the man;
And watching him, as he to work began,
He saw him do as it of him was said;
For that, unburned, the iron, being red,
He gripped and handled very coals of fire.
Whereat there overcame him great desire
To know the reason of the wondrous thing;
So, waiting till the smith left hammering
And stood, his day's work done, at easance, he
Accosted him and gave him courteously
To understand that he his guest that night
Would be: whereto, “With all my heart,” the wight
Said and it being now the even-gloam,
The stranger took and carried with him home,
Whereas they supped together and to sleep
Lay down. And all night long the guest did keep
Strait watch upon his host, but saw no sign,
Passing the common, of devout design
Or piety especial; and quoth he
Unto himself, “Belike he doth from me
Of his humility himself conceal,
Unto a stranger shame his pious zeal
Thinking to show and fain himself to hide
From all save God.” Wherefore he did abide
A second night with him and eke a third,
But nothing more than common saw or heard;
Nay, that he did no more than keep, he saw,
The ordinary letter of the Law
And rose but little in the night to pray,
As of their wont who follow in God's way,
Seeking to gain some special grace Divine.
Then, at the last, to him, “O brother mine,
Of the rare gift and great which hath conferred
Of God upon thee been,” quoth he, “I've heard
And with mine eyes the truth thereof have seen,
How thou of the Most High hast favoured been,
In that He fire to handle without hurt
Hath granted thee, and yet of such desert,
As in His sight such singular great grace
Hath gotten thee, can find in thee no trace.
Moreover, I have noted thee with care
And marked thine assiduity in prayer
And exercise devout, but find in thee
No fervour of especial piety,
Such as distinguisheth, among the rest
Of mortals, those in whom made manifest
Are such miraculous gifts as this of thine.
Whence, then, I prithee, cometh this, in fine,
To thee?” And “O my guest,” he made reply,
“Hearken and I will tell thee. Know that I
Enamoured of a damsel passing fair
Was aforetime and her with many a prayer
And amorous solicitation wooed.
But, howsoever sore to her I sued,
Requiring her of love, no whit prevail
Could I with her; for she withouten fail
Clave to her chastity and gave no ear
To my solicitance. Then came a year
Of drought and dearth; and hardship terrible
There was. Food failed the folk and there befell
In all the land a famine passing sore.
One day at home I sat, when at the door
One knocked and going out, the cruel fair
I found, of whom I told thee, standing there;
And unto me, “O brother mine,” she said,
“Behold, I am for hunger well nigh dead
And with reared hands myself to thee betake,
Beseeching thee to feed me for God's sake.”
And “Know'st not how I love thee,” I replied,
“And how I for thy sake have pined and sighed
And suffered for thy love? Forsooth, no whit
Of food, except thou, in return for it,
Do amorously yield thyself to me,
Thee will I give.” But, “Better death,” quoth she,
“Than disobedience;” and turned away
From me and went; but, on the second day
Thereafter, with the like petition came
And I for answer rendered her the same.
Whereon she entered, faint and scant of breath,
And sat her down, nigh being unto death.
Then I before her set a mess of meat;
Whereat her eyes ran over and “To eat
Give me for God in heaven's sake,” quoth she,
“To whom pertaineth might and majesty!”
But “Nay, by Allah!” answered I. “Not so,
Except thyself to me, before thou go,
Thou yield;” and “Better death,” was her reply,
“Is than the wrath to me of God Most High.”
Withal untouched the food she left and went,
This verse repeating for her heartenment:
O Thou the Only God, Whose grace embraceth all that be,
Thine ears have heard my moan, Thine eyes have seen my misery.
Indeed, privation and distress are heavy on my head: I cannot tell of all the
woes which do beleaguer me.
I am as one athirst, that looks upon a running stream,
Yet may not drink a single draught of all that he doth see.
My flesh will have me buy its will: alack! its pleasures flee:
The sin that pays their price abides to all eternity.
For two days' space I saw of her no more;
Then she, a third time coming to my door,
Knocked and I sallied out to her. And lo!
Hunger away her voice had taken, so
That first she might not speak; but, presently,
Somedele herself recovering, quoth she,
(And haggard she with hunger was and gaunt,)
“See, o my brother, I am worn with want
And what to do, indeed, I do not know;
For I to none but thee my face can show.
Wilt thou not, then, for love of God Most High,
Feed me?” But still, “Not so,” did I reply,
“Excepting ruth thou have on my chagrin
And yield to me.” Wherewith she entered in
And there sat down. Now for the nonce no meat
Ready I had and cooked for her to eat;
So I went forth, thereof for her desire
To dress, and in the brazier kindled fire.
But, when the meat was cooked and in its place
Upon the platter laid, behold, the grace
Of God Most High there entered into me
And to myself I said, “Now out on thee!
This woman, weak and frail as women are
Of wit and faith, hath food forborne thus far,
Rather than do a thing of Holy Writ
Forbidden unto her, till she from it,
For stress of hunger, can endure no more:
Nay, time on time she doth and o'er and o'er
Refuse and thou persistest yet, forby,
In disobedience to God Most High!”
And “O my God, I do repent to thee
Of that which had been purposéd of me,”
I said; then took the food and to the maid
Bringing it in, the dish before her laid
And “Eat and be” I bade her “of good cheer:
There shall no harm betide thee. Have no fear;
For this is for the sake of God Supreme,
Whom only might and majesty beseem.”
This when she hearkened, lifting up her head
And hands to heaven, “O Thou my God,” she said,
“If this man be sincere in this he saith,
I pray Thee, of my service and my faith,
Be fire to do him hurt forbid of Thee,
Both in this world and in the world to be!
For Thou indeed art He that answereth prayer
And able art for doing whatsoe'er
Thou wilt.” Withal I left her and anew
The fire out in the brazier went to do.
Now 'twas the season of the winter cold
And from the brazier, as it chanced, there rolled
A burning coal and on my body fell:
But, by the ordinance of God, in Hell
And Heaven, as on earth, Omnipotent,
In whom all might and majesty consent,
Nor pain nor incommodity in aught
I felt and it was borne upon my thought
That God her prayer had answered. So I took
The hot coal in my hand (which else to brook
Had been uneath, but now it irked me not)
And going in to her, with it red-hot,
On my palm flaming, said to her, “Rejoice!
For God, behold, hath hearkened to the voice
Of that thy prayer and granted thy desire
To thee of me, forbidding thus the fire
To do me hurt.” Withal she from her hand
The morsel dropped and rising up a-stand,
Said, “O my God, Thou that art God, alone
Worthy of worship, now that Thou hast shown
Me my desire of this man and my prayer
Hast granted me for him and there no care
Is left me upon earth, I pray Thee now
Take Thou my soul to Thee forthright; for Thou
Almighty art, Omnipotent!” And He
Straight took her soul, His mercy on her be!”

Who has of Jaafer not, the Barmecide,
Heard and how great and glorious far and wide
He was from Oman to the China Sea?
None other word for generosity
Than “Jaafer” was in Araby and Ind,
No name but Yehya's son for brave and kind.
From Fars to Egypt one his noble name
With virtue and with goodness was and same.
There was none woeful, none opprest of fate,
But found a refuge in his gracious gate:
Asylum of the world, from Nishapour
To Nile, he was and shelter of the poor.
Yet (Alas! “therefore” were the fitter word;
For when was it of virtue ever heard
That long it prospered in this world of woe,
Where worth and wisdom unregarded go
And the mainsprings of life are spite and greed?)
Death was untimely unto him decreed
Of fickle Fate; for hate and envy wrought
So sore against him in the jealous thought
Of the sick tyrant whom he served too well
That, like a thunderbolt, his terrors fell
In ruin from the blue on Jaafer's head
And sudden all save memory was dead
Of that brave gallant soul, all blotted out
From the sheer sunshine and the revel-rout
Of light and air and sense and sight and sound
Was that fair life and huddled underground
Was that bright royal brow, those radiant eyes,
That looked on men to gladden them, God-wise,
That heart, which but with love and pity beat,
Those lips, which nothing spoke but fair and feat,
Those hands, which grace and goodness only wrought,
That subtle brain, that all-embracing thought,
Nought of these all abode but memory;
And even memory by his decree
Fain would that trembling tyrant from men's minds
Have blotted out, lest, borne upon the winds,
The mere rememorance of what they were,
These noble Barmecides, the very air
And breath of that their world-renowméd worth,
Recalled, should yet avail to bring to birth
Some shadow of their lives of love and light,
Some phantom of their mild heroic might,
Which should belike suffice to batter down
The house of cards of his unstable crown,
His hate and fear it not sufficing in
The selfsame roll of death all Jaafer's kin,
Man, woman, child, young, old, fruit, blossom, bud,
To have writ down in characters of blood.
Wherefore he let proclaim abroad and cry,
In all the ways, to all the passers-by,
That whoso dared to mourn for Jaafer dead
Should share his fate with him and lose his head;
And many an one, whom memory moved and faith
To sorrow for the Barmecides, to death
He merciless let put. But all in vain;
For day and night, the mourning for the slain
Rose up and cried against him to the sky;
Yea, louder waxed the clamour and more high
Till, frighted from Baghdad, himself and crew
To Rakka by Euphrates he withdrew.

There, from his closet-lattice looking down,
One day, unseen, upon the teeming town,
Beyond the cinctures of the market-place
A ruined house he marked and in the space
Before it, on a pillar-foot, which told
Of where some goodly mansion stood of old,
An old man mounted saw, with grizzled beard
Wide-waving in the wind and arms upreared,
And folk about him gathered in a crowd,
To whom with speech right vehement and loud,
As, though the distance dumbed it, manifest
Was by his gestures, he himself addressed,
And all the folk to passion moved, 'twas plain,
(Although, for farness, he his ears in vain
Enforced to catch the substance of his speech,)
And pity with some sorrowful impeach.
The Khalif, curious to know the cause
Of that which tóward in the ruin was,
One of his officers despatched thereto,
Bidding him seek out that which was to do
And eke the greybeard to his presence bring.
The messenger, enquiring of the thing,
Came in a little back with the old man
Bound and “O scion of the Prophet's clan,”
Said, “yonder ruined house of those is one
Which heretofore pertained to Yehya's son,
Jaafer ben Bermek, and this elder here,
Mundir es Sádic highten, without fear
Of God or reverence for thy decree,
Which biddeth all leave grieving presently,
On pain of death, for Jaafer and his race,
Still at this hour each day takes up his place
Yonder, where Jaafer's mansion was whilere,
And to the general ear doth there declare
The graces and the greatness of the dead,
With many a groan and sigh and much tears shed,
Dead Jaafer's deeds and virtues telling o'er
And heartening the people, with great store
Of instances, to mourn for him full sore
And cry to God against his slayer, thee.”

Thereat the horseshoe vein (the Háshimi
Hight, for to Háshim, father of the race,
Mohammed's grandsire, the grim feature trace
The sons of Abbas, so the people tell,)
Sudden between the Khalif's brows did swell,
In sign and token sure of wrath to be,
And anger overcame him like a sea.
Wherefore he presently commanded bear
Old Mundir to the ruin back and there
Him straightway crucify in all men's sight,
For warning to the folk. But that strange wight,
Claiming the boon, which no man may deny,
Of speech allowed, to those about to die,
A tale so pitiful, so sweet, so sad,
Of misery redeemed and grief made glad,
Of ruin told retrieved and dead distress
Brought back to life, of hope and happiness
By the fair force of faith and sympathy,
Of loving kindness and nobility,
New-made, of a soul's winter unto spring
By one man's hand returned, depicturing
Dead Jaafer's goodness with so shrewd a touch
Of longing lovefulness, with passion such
And wistful memory, that none dry-eyed,
For the remembrance of the Barmecide,
In all that company there might abide.
Nay, as of God Most High it was decreed,
Even on the stony soul of Er Reshíd
His sad true speech took hold, with love's mild heat
Melting the ice of hate and self-conceit,
And did its hardness on such sort surprise
That the tears welled in his unwonted eyes,
The old man's story all the love and truth
Of that brave gallant comrade of his youth,
That loyal counsel of his riper years,
That faithful sharer of his hopes and fears,
Recalling to his unaccustomed thought:
Yea, on such wise it stirred in him and wrought
Upon his hardened heart and brain that he
Withal to Mundir life and liberty
Not only did vouchsafe, but, catching up
A great gold jewel-studded drinking-cup,
That on the credence-table stood thereby,
And it with bright broad pieces brimming high,
Into his hands bestowed it, saying, “These
Have thou of me for thy necessities,”
And paused, as thanks expecting for the gift.
Yet Mundir, as to heaven he did uplift
The costly boon, no word of gratitude
Vouchsafed the monarch for the gifted good,
But cried, with eyes tear-streaming, “Even this,
This, also, of thy bounties, Jaafer, is!”

Haroun el Abbasi, hight Er Reshíd,
(Which is to say the Orthodox,) decreed,
Whenas he Jaafer slew, the Barmecide,
That whoso mourned him should be crucified;
Wherefore the folk, affrighted, at the least
From open tears and public mourning ceased;
But in their hearts they sorrowed none the less
For the great house of Bermek, and the stress
Of their resentment, waxing day by day,
Drove from Baghdad Haroun at last away.

Now in a far-off desert there abode
A Bedouin, who every year an ode
In Jaafer's honour made and therewithal
Came to the mighty Vizier's presence-hall
And to reward of Jaafer having had
A thousand dinars of largesse, full glad,
Unto his desert gat him back again
And there with all his family was fain
To live in plenty till the coming year.
So, when the end of the twelfth month was near,
The man his desert, with the wonted rhyme,
Departed and at the accustomed time
Came to Baghdad and finding Jaafer dead,
Betook himself to where, without a head,
His body hung upon the gallows-tree,
And there, his camel causing bend the knee
And lighting thence the gibbet down before,
Wept grievously and sorrowed passing sore.
Then, in the honour of his patron dead,
His ode he did rehearse and with his head
Upon the bare earth pillowed, there down lay,
Thinking to watch. But, with the travelled way
And grief forwearied inexpressible,
At unawares and fast on sleep he fell.
And as he slept and nothing saw or heard,
Jaafer the Barmecide to him appeared,
As in a dream it had been, and “Behold,
Thyself thou hast forwearied, as of old,
To come to us and honour us,” said he,
“And findest us, alack! as thou dost see.
But, when thou wakest, to Bassora go
And there for such an one, hight so and so,
Among the merchants of the place enquire
And having sought him out, of my desire
Possess him, saying unto him from me,
Jaafer the Barmecide saluteth thee
And bids thee, by the token of the bean,
Since he himself is dead and beggared clean,
A thousand dinars give of thine avail
Unto this Bedouin and do not fail!”
Then with his hand to him, as who should say,
“Farewell!” he signed and melted clean away.

The Bedouin, awaking, of his dream
Remembered him and on the Tigris stream
Forthright embarking, to Bassora fared
And there, the merchant found, to him repaired
And him of Jaafer's words and will possessed.
Which when he heard, he wept, as if his breast
The soul for sorrow should depart; then he,
The stranger bringing to his house, days three
Him for an honoured guest did entertain,
And him, unto departure being fain,
A thousand dinars gave and having laid
Thereto five hundred other, “These,” he said,
Are that which is commanded unto thee
And the five hundred are a gift from me:
And still, as thou from Jaafer hadst of old
Each year a thousand dinars of good gold,
So, whilst I live, imbursement of the same
Thou shalt of me receive, in Jaafer's name.”
The Bedouin for all his gifts and grace
Rendered him thanks; then, ere he set his face
His desert-ward, conjured him by God's sheen
The history to tell him of the bean,
So he might know the manner of the thing.
“With all my heart,” the merchant, answering,
Began and told him what is here set down.

“Know that of days bygone in Baghdad town
I dwelt and being miserably poor,
By hawking hot boiled beans from door to door,
Was fain to earn my dole of daily bread.
Now, one cold rainy day, when overhead
Was nought but clouds and all the streets about
Were mud and mire-water, I sallied out;
And as I went, with cold and hunger pined,
And shivered in the freezing rain and wind,
For I upon my body clothes enough
Had not to fend me from the weather rough,
Now stumbling in the pools of fallen rain,
Now splashing through the mire and out again,
And altogether in such piteous plight,
As whoso saw must shudder at the sight,
It chanced that Jaafer, from an upper room,
Where, with his officers and cupmates, whom
He most affected, he that day did sit,
Looked forth; and as his eyes upon me lit,
He took compassion on my sorry case
And sending out a servant, of his grace,
To bring me in to him, he bade me sell
My beans to those his people. So I fell
My merchandise to meting presently
Out with a measure which I had with me;
And each who took a measureful did fill
The empty vessel with gold pieces, till
The basket empty was of all I had.
Then, as to gather up the money, glad
In that which I had gotten, I bethought
Myself and go, quoth Jaafer, “Hast thou aught
Of beans yet left?” “I know not,” I replied
And in the basket sought on every side,
But found, however straitly I might look,
One only bean remained. This Jaafer took
And splitting with his finger-nail in twain,
Did for himself one half thereof retain
And to his favourite, who sat therenigh,
The other gave, “For how much wilt thou buy,”
Saying, “this half-a-bean?” And “For the tale
Of all this coin twice-told it shall avail,”
Quoth she. Whereat to wondering I fell
And in myself, “This is impossible,”
Said; but as I, confounded, there did stand,
She unto one her handmaid gave command,
Who brought me presently the whole in gold.
“And I,” said Jaafer, “for the tale twice-told
Of this and that my half thereof I e'en
Will buy.” Then, “Take the price of this thy bean,”
He said to me. Therewith, at his behest,
One of his servants, adding to the rest
The sum thereof twice measured, as he bade,
The heaped-up monies in my basket laid;
And I, o'ermuch amazed by word or look
To show my gratitude, the basket took
And back withal unto my lodging fared.
Thereafter to Bassora I repaired,
Where with the bounty of the Barmecide
Myself to trade and commerce I applied;
And God the Lord Most High hath prospered me,
To Him the praise, to Him the glory be!
So, if a thousand dinars I a year
Of Jaafer's bounties give thee, never fear
'Twill straiten neither irk me anywhat.”
And he who tells the tale (I mind me not
His name) for ending adds, “Consider now
The nobleness of Jaafer's soul and how
Extolled and glorified, alive and dead,
He was, God's mercies be upon his head!”

A certain king once proclamation made
Unto the people of his realm and said,
“Know that 'gainst almsgiving I've set my thought;
Wherefore his hands, who giveth alms of aught,
Will I cut off.” Whereat from almsgiving
The folk forbore, for terror of the king,
And none might give an alms of anything.
One day unto a certain woman came
A beggar and besought her in God's name
Give him to eat; and “How shall I,” quoth she,
“Give thee to eat, seeing the king's decree
Is that who giveth alms of aught shall feel
Upon his either hand the hangman's steel?”
But he forbore her not and round her feet
Clinging, conjured her, “Give thou me to eat
By God most High, who all things ordereth!
For I am hungered even unto death.”
And she, when thus she heard him her conjure,
Against his prayer no longer might endure,
But, “What God willeth be with me!” she said
And gave him of her store two cakes of bread.
When to the king this her transgression known
Became, he summoned her before his throne
And for her trespass against his commands
Reproaching her, let strike off both her hands
And sent her back, thus maimed, unto her place,
Where she was like to starve, except God's grace,
The people's hearts toward her softening,
Had boldened them to disobey the king,
So that they pity on her plight did take
And fed and tended her for heaven's sake.
Then the case came to the king's mother's ear,
Who brought her to the palace in to her
And unto her rich gifts and raiment gave;
Yea, for herself she took her to her slave
And taught her with her feet to serve and spin.
And for that she was chaste and clean from sin,
God lent her lovesomeness and made her fair
Of face and sweet of speech and debonair,
Beyond all other women, of demean.

Now the king minded was to take a queen
And to his dam discovering his thought,
Some damsel fair to find him her besought
Enough and good and gracious for his bed,
Whom he unto his lawful wife might wed
And set her by his side upon the throne.
Quoth she, “No need to look beyond our own.
Here, in a palace of thy palaces,
Among the women in my service is
A maiden more of price than gems and gold,
Fairest of all fair women to behold:
But one default she hath and passing sore,
In that her two fair hands have heretofore
Been cruelly hewn off.” Whereunto he,
“Nay, bring her forth to me and let me see.”
So out to him she brought her and the maid
Sweet-faced and shining as the moon displayed.
And he of her forthright enamoured fell
And took her to his wife and loved her well
And lay with her; and ere a year was done,
The maid conceived by him and bore a son.

Now this was she whose hands cut off had been
For almsgiving; and when to be his queen
The king of all the land did her prefer,
The women of the palace envied her;
And when thereafterward a son she bore,
Their jealousy went waxing more and more,
Till at the last they counsel each with each
To work her ruin took; and to impeach
Her to her husband of adultery
They presently together did agree.
Wherefore, with lying letters to the king,
Who for the nonce was absent, warraying
Against his foes in a far distant land,
They gave him guilefully to understand
That she, whom he had wived and made his queen,
Was of her body blemished and unclean
And that the child which she had borne was none
Of his begetting, but another's son.
He, credit to their false advertisement
Vouchsafing, letters to his mother sent,
Into the desert that his wife unchaste
Bidding her bear and leave her in the waste,
To die of hunger. The old queen obeyed
Her son's behest and carried, as he said,
The damsel to a desert far away,
Where never any came by night or day,
And having bound the child about her neck,
There left the twain to perish without reck.

The damsel fell to weeping bitterly
For that which had befallen her; then she
(For she was parched with thirst) went wandering
Hither and thither, seeking for some spring
Where she might drink, and coming presently
Unto a running river, on her knee
(The child upon her bosom hanging still)
Knelt down thereby, to drink thereof her fill,
Well nigh forspended being with excess
Of thirst, for sorrowing and weariness.
But, as she stooped and bent her head to drink,
The child into the water at the brink
Fell from her neck and nought might she avail
To save it, for the hands to her did fail.
Then sat she weeping sore for that her child,
And as she wept, alone in that vast wild,
There came two men to her and saw her sad
And asked her why she wept. Quoth she, “I had
But now a child about my neck and he
Is fallen in the water, woe is me!”
Then said they, “Wilt thou that we bring him out
To thee?” And “Yea,” she answered; “without doubt.”
So unto God Most High they prayed and lo!
The child came forth the river evenso
And safe and sound was unto her restored.
Then to her said they, “Wilt thou that the Lord
Give thee thy hands again, as erst they were?”
“Surely,” quoth she; whereat they offered prayer
To God, extolled and hallowed be His name!
And she her hands again, yet not the same,
Received, but goodlier than they were by far.
Then said the two men, “Know'st thou who we are?”
“Nay, God alone all-knowing is,” she said;
And “We,” quoth they, “are thy two cakes of bread,
Which on the beggar thou bestow'dst whilere
And of the cutting-off thy hands which were
Th' occasion. Wherefore unto God Most High
Praise do thou render, for that at thy cry,
Thy child and eke thy hands He hath restored.”
So praise and thanks she rendered to the Lord
And glorified His might and majesty.
And eke, thereafterward, by His decree,
The king her husband, to his realm when he
Returned and came to know her innocence,
Her enemies and enviers banished thence
And seeking out his exiled wife, was fain
To take her to his bosom back again.

One of God's friends aforetime I besought,
To tell me what it was with him that wrought
To leave the world and turned his heart and soul
Unto the service of the One, the Whole.
“With all my heart,” he said and thus began:
“Erst on the Nile I was a ferryman
And there for hire, to earn my living, plied
Betwixt the Eastern and the Western side.
One day, upon the hither bank await,
After my wont, for custom, as I sate,
I, chancing on one side to turn my glance,
An old man saw of a bright countenance,
In a patched gown attired and in his hand
A gourd-bottle and staff, before me stand,
Who with “Peace be on thee!” saluted me
And I his greeting rendered him. Then he,
“Wilt thou for God's sake give me,” said, “to eat
And after ferry me, before the heat
Wax greater, over to the thither side?”
And I, “With all my heart I will,” replied.
So he sat down with me and drank and ate,
And after, entering my boat, there sate,
Whilst to the other bank I rowed him o'er.
But, ere he rose from me to go ashore,
He said to me, “I have a trust, on thee
Which I would lay.” Quoth I, “Say on,” and he,
“Know that the hermit such an one am I
And it hath been of God the Lord Most High
Revealed to me that now my end is nigh
And that to-morrow morning I shall die.
Wherefore to-morrow, after noon, to me
Do thou come over and beneath yon tree
Thou of a surety shalt find me dead.
Wash me and in the shroud, beneath my head
Which thou shalt find, enfold me; then, at hand,
Dig me a grave hard by and in the sand
Bury me, having first prayed over me.
But take my bottle, staff and gown to thee
And presently deliver them to one
Who shall come to thee, with the next day's sun,
And shall of thee require them and receive.”
This having said, he took of me his leave
And going, left me wondered at his word.

That day no more of him I saw nor heard
And on the morrow, by I know not what
Diverted from remembrance, I forgot
What he had said, until the time drew nigh
The hour of afternoontide prayer, when I,
Remembering me, to the appointed place
Hastened and found him dead with shining face
Under a palmtree, and beneath his head
A new shroud folded, that a fragrance shed
Of musk. I washed and shrouded him and prayed
O'er him, then dug a grave for him and laid
His body there and covered it with sand;
Then, his gourd-bottle, staff and gown in hand
Taking, back to the Western side I rowed
And there, as of my wont, the night abode.

Next day, as soon as with the risen sun
The city-gate was opened, there came one
To me, a young man, whom I knew by ear
For a lewd fellow and a chamberer,
Clad all in gold-wrought silk, hands henna-dyed,
Aloes and ambergris on every side
Breathing, and said, “Art thou not so and so,
The ferryman?” “Ay am I,” quoth I, “trow.”
“Then,” said he, “give me that which thou for me
In trust hast.” “What is that?” asked I; and he,
“The gown, the bottle and the staff, to wit.”
And I, “Who told thee,” said, “of them and it?”
Quoth he, “A friend of mine yest'reven made
A marriage-banquet and thereunto bade
His fellows and among his fellows, me.
So I and all the merry company
Did eat with him the marriage-meats and spent
The night in wantoning and revelment
And carolling and mirth till hard on day,
When down, to sleep and take my rest, I lay.
And as I slept, behold, beside me one
With countenance resplendent as the sun
There stood and said unto me, “Know, my son,
That God Most High hath taken such an one
The hermit to Himself, of His great grace,
And hath appointed thee to fill his place.
Wherefore do thou forthright to so and so
The ferryman, when thou awakest, go
And at his hands the dead man's gear receive,
Gourd, gown and staff, which he with him did leave
For thee.” ” Whereat to him I brought them out
And he, his raiment doffing, the patched clout
Did on and bade me sell his silken wede
And widows with the price and orphans feed.
Then, taking leave of me, the staff and gourd
He took and went without another word.
And I for wonder and for pity fell
A-weeping; but, that night, as I slept well,
The Lord of Glory (hallowéd be He
And blesséd!) in a dream appeared to me
And “O My servant, is it grievous,” said,
“To thee that I have granted, as he prayed,
One of My servants to return to Me?
Nay, this is of My bounties, verily,
That I to whom vouchsafe and when I will,
Who all things at My pleasure can fulfil.”
And I withal, from sleep awakening,
Did make and say the verses following;
The lover with the Loved of will bereft is quite: All choice to thee's forbid, if but thou know aright.
Whether to thee He grant favour and grace or hold Aloof from thee, no wise may blame upon Him light.
His very rigours, nay, except thou glory in, Away! thou hast no call to stand with the contrite.
Know'st not His presence from His absence? Then art thou In rear and that thou seek'st in front and out of sight.
If I be haled away to slaughter for Thy sake Or, yearning, yield Thee up the last spark of my spright,
'Tis in Thy hand. Hold off, grant or deny; 'tis one: At that which Thou ordain'st 'tis vain to rail or flite.
No aim in this my love I have but Thine approof: So, if aloof Thou will to hold, 'tis good and right.