 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
117
THE THREE SINGERS.
“Where is a singer to cheer me?
My heart is weary with sadness,
I long for a verse of gladness!”
Thus cried the Shah to his Vizier.
My heart is weary with sadness,
I long for a verse of gladness!”
Thus cried the Shah to his Vizier.
He sat on his couch of crimson,
And silent he smoked, and waited,
Till a youth, with face elated,
Entered, and bent before him.
And silent he smoked, and waited,
Till a youth, with face elated,
Entered, and bent before him.
He swung the harp from his shoulder,
And ran o'er its strings, preluding,
O'er his thought for a moment brooding,
Then his song went up into sunshine.
And ran o'er its strings, preluding,
O'er his thought for a moment brooding,
Then his song went up into sunshine.
It leaped, like the fountain, breaking
At the top of its aspiration;
It fell from its culmination,
In tears, to life's troubled level.
At the top of its aspiration;
It fell from its culmination,
In tears, to life's troubled level.
He sang of the boundless future,
That had the gates of the morning,
His fancies the song adorning,
Like pearls on a white-necked maiden.
That had the gates of the morning,
His fancies the song adorning,
Like pearls on a white-necked maiden.
118
“My hope, like a hungered lion,”
He sang, “for its prey is panting;
Oh! what is so glad, so enchanting,
As Manhood, and Fame, and Freedom.
He sang, “for its prey is panting;
Oh! what is so glad, so enchanting,
As Manhood, and Fame, and Freedom.
“To youth there is nothing given,
The fruit on the high palm groweth,
And thither life's caravan goeth,
For rest and delight in its shadow.”
The fruit on the high palm groweth,
And thither life's caravan goeth,
For rest and delight in its shadow.”
He ceased,—and the Shah, half smiling,
Beckoned, and said, “Stay near me,
Your song hath a charm to cheer me;
Ask! what you ask shall be given.
Beckoned, and said, “Stay near me,
Your song hath a charm to cheer me;
Ask! what you ask shall be given.
“Now bring me that other singer,
That ere I was born enchanted
The world with a song undaunted!”
They went,—and an old man entered.
That ere I was born enchanted
The world with a song undaunted!”
They went,—and an old man entered.
His forehead, beneath his turban,
Was wrinkled,—he entered slowly,—
Bending—and bending more lowly,
Waited,—the Shah commanded—
Was wrinkled,—he entered slowly,—
Bending—and bending more lowly,
Waited,—the Shah commanded—
“Sing me a song;” his fingers
Over the light strings trembled,
And the sound of the strings resembled
The wind, in the cypresses grieving.
Over the light strings trembled,
And the sound of the strings resembled
The wind, in the cypresses grieving.
119
He sang of the time departed,
In his song, as in some calm river,
Where temples and palm-trees quiver,
But pass not—his youth was imaged.
In his song, as in some calm river,
Where temples and palm-trees quiver,
But pass not—his youth was imaged.
“Our shadow, that lay behind us,
Ere the noonday sun passed o'er us,
Now darkens the path before us,
As we walk away from our morning.
Ere the noonday sun passed o'er us,
Now darkens the path before us,
As we walk away from our morning.
“Oh! where are the friends that beside us
Walked in the garden of roses?
The dear head no longer reposes
On the bosom, to feel the heart's beating.
Walked in the garden of roses?
The dear head no longer reposes
On the bosom, to feel the heart's beating.
“Oh, Life! 't is a verse so crooked,
On Fate's sharp scimitar written,
And Joy—a pomegranate bitten
By a worm that preys at its centre.”
On Fate's sharp scimitar written,
And Joy—a pomegranate bitten
By a worm that preys at its centre.”
He ceased, and the harp's vibration
Throbbed only,—a slow tear twinkled
On the rim of those eyes, so wrinkled,
And the fountain renewed its plashing.
Throbbed only,—a slow tear twinkled
On the rim of those eyes, so wrinkled,
And the fountain renewed its plashing.
The Shah was silent—a dimness
Clouded his eyes—from his finger
He drew a great ruby—the singer
Bowed low at this token of honor.
Clouded his eyes—from his finger
He drew a great ruby—the singer
Bowed low at this token of honor.
120
At last, from his musing arousing,
He spoke, “Is there none you can bring me
The praise of the present to sing me?
Seek him—and bring him before me.”
He spoke, “Is there none you can bring me
The praise of the present to sing me?
Seek him—and bring him before me.”
He waited—the morning—the noonday
Passed—at last, when the shadows
Lengthened on gardens and meadows,
A poor, maimed cripple they brought him.
Passed—at last, when the shadows
Lengthened on gardens and meadows,
A poor, maimed cripple they brought him.
“What! you sing the praise of the Present;
You, by Fortune and Fate so forsaken,
What charms can the Present awaken?”
“I love, and am loved,” was the answer.
You, by Fortune and Fate so forsaken,
What charms can the Present awaken?”
“I love, and am loved,” was the answer.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |