The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton ::

Beneath the shadow of a large-leaved plane,
Above the ripple of a shallow stream,
Beside a cypress-planted cemetery,
In a gay-painted trellis-worked kiosk,
A company of easy Muslims sat,
Enjoying the calm measure of delight
God grants the faithful even here on earth.
Most pleasantly the bitter berry tastes,
Handed by that bright-eyed and neat-limbed boy;
Most daintily the long chibouk is filled
And almost before emptied, filled again;
Or, with a free good-will, from mouth to mouth
Passes the cool Nargheelee serpentine.
So sit they, with some low occasional word
Breaking the silence in itself so sweet,
While o'er the neighbouring bridge the caravan
Winds slowly in one line interminable

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Of camel after camel, each with neck
Jerked up, as sniffing the far desert air.
Then one serene old Turk, with snow-white beard
Hanging amid his pistol-hilts profuse,
Spoke out—“Till sunset all the time is ours,
And we should take advantage of the chance
That brings us here together. This my friend
Tells by his shape of dress and peakèd cap
Where his home lies: he comes from furthest off,
So let the round of tales begin with him.”
Thus challenged, in his thoughts the Persian dived,
And, with no waste of faint apologies,
Related a plain story of his life,
Nothing adventurous, terrible, or strange,
But, as he said, a simple incident,
That any one there present might have known.

The hookah of the Levant.

THE PERSIAN'S STORY.

“Wakedi, and the Heshemite, and I,
Called each the other friend, and what we meant
By all the meaning of that common word,
One tale among a hundred—one round pearl
Dropped off the chain of daily circumstance
Into the Poet's hand—one luscious fruit
Scarce noticed in the summer of the tree,
Is here preserved, that you may do the like.

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“The Ramadhan's long days (where'er they fall
Certain to seem the longest of the year)
Were nearly over, and the populous streets
Were silent as if haunted by the plague;
For all the town was crowding the bazaar,
To buy new garments, as beseemed the time,
In honour of the Prophet and themselves.
But in our house my wife and I still sat,
And looked with sorrow in each other's face.
It was not for ourselves—we well could let
Our present clothes serve out another year,
And meet the neighbours' scoffs with quiet minds;
But for our children we were grieved and shamed;
That they should have to hide their little heads,
And take no share of pleasure in the Feast,
Or else contrast their torn and squalid vests
With the gay freshness of their playmates' garb.
At last my wife spoke out—‘Where are your friends?
Where is Wakedi? where the Heshemite?
That you are worn and pale with want of gold,
And they perchance with coin laid idly by
In some closed casket, or in some vain sport
Wasted, for want of honest purposes?’
My heart leapt light within me at these words,
And I, rejoicing at my pain as past,
Sent one I trusted to the Heshemite,
Told him my need in few plain written words,
And, ere an hour had passed, received from him

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A purse of gold tied up, sealed with his name:
And in a moment I was down the street,
And, in my mind's eye, chose the children's clothes.
—But between will and deed, however near,
There often lies a gulf impassable.
So, ere I reached the gate of the Bazaar,
Wakedi's slave accosted me—his breath
Cut short with haste; and from his choaking throat
His master's message issued word by word.
The sum was this:—a cruel creditor,
Taking the 'vantage of the season's use,
Pressed on Wakedi for a debt, and swore
That, unless paid ere evening-prayer, the law
Should wring by force the last of his demand.
Wakedi had no money in the house,
And I was prayed, in this his sudden strait,
To aid him, in my duty as a friend.
Of course I took the Heshemite's sealed purse
Out of my breast, and gave it to the slave;
Yet I must own, oppressed with foolish fear
Of my wife's tears, and, might be, bitter words,
If empty-handed I had home returned,
I sat all night, half-sleeping, in the mosque,
Beneath the glimmering feathers, eggs, and lamps,
And only in the morning nerved my heart,
To tell her of our disappointed pride.
She, when I stammered out my best excuse,
Abashed me with her kind approving calm,

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Saying—‘The parents' honour clothes the child.’
Thus I grew cheerful in her cheerfulness,
And we began to sort the children's vests,
And found them not so sordid after all.
‘This might be turned—that stain might well be hid—
This remnant might be used.’ So we went on
Almost contented, till surprised we saw
The Heshemite approach, and with quick steps
Enter the house, and in his hand he showed
The very purse tied up, sealed with his name,
Which I had given to help Wakedi's need!
At once he asked us, mingling words and smiles,
‘What means this secret? you sent yester morn
Asking for gold, and I, without delay,
Returned the purse containing all I had.
But I too found myself that afternoon
Wanting to buy a sash to grace the feast;
And sending to Wakedi, from my slave
Received this purse I sent you the same morn
Unopened.’ ‘Easy riddle,’ I replied,
‘And, as I hope, no miracle for me—
That what you gave me for my pleasure's fee
Should serve Wakedi in his deep distress.’
And then I told him of Wakedi's fate:
And we were both o'ercome with anxious care
Lest he, obeying his pure friendship's call,
Had perilled his own precious liberty,
Or suffered some hard judgment of the law.

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But to our great delight and inward peace,
Wakedi a few moments after stood
Laughing behind us, ready to recount,
How Allah, loving the unshrinking faith
With which he had supplied his friend's desire
Regardless of his own necessity,
Assuaged the creditor's strong rage, and made
His heart accessible to gentle thoughts,
Granting Wakedi time to pay the debt.
—Thus our three tales were gathered into one,
Just as I give them you, and with the purse
Then opened in the presence of the three—
We gave my children unpretending vests,
Applied a portion to Wakedi's debts,
And bought the Heshemite the richest sash
The best silk merchant owned in the Bazaar.”

Soon as he ceased, a pleasant murmur rose,
Not only of applause, but of good words,
Dwelling upon the subject of the tale;
Each to his neighbour in low utterance spoke
Of Friendship and its blessings, and God's grace,
By which man is not left alone to fight.
His daily battle through a cruel world.

The next in order, by his garb and look,
A Syrian merchant seemed, who made excuse

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That he had nothing of his own to tell,
But if the adventure of one like himself,
Who roamed the world for interchange of gain,
Encountering all the quaint varieties
Of men and nature, pleased them, it was theirs.

THE SYRIAN'S STORY.

“A merchant of Damascus, to whom gain
Tasted the sweetest when most boldly won,
Crossed the broad Desert, crossed th' Arabian Gulf,
Entered with goods the far-secluded land
That Franks call Abyssinia, and became
The favourite and companion of its King.
And little wonder—for to that rude chief
He spoke of scenes and sights so beautiful,
Of joys and splendours that had hardly place
In his imagined Paradise, of arts
By which all seasons were made sweet and mild.
In the hot sandy winds and blazing sun,
He spoke of alleys of delicious shade,
Of coloured glass that tempered the sharp light,
Of fountains bubbling up through heaps of flowers,
And boys and maidens fanning genial airs:
In the bleak snow-time, when the winds rung shrill
Through the ill-jointed palace, he pourtrayed
The Syrian winter of refreshing cool,

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And breezes pregnant with all health to man.
At last the King no more could hold in check
The yearning of his heart, and spoke aloud—
‘Friend! what is now to me my royal state,
My free command of all these tribes of men,
My power to slay or keep alive,—my wealth,
Which once I deemed the envy of all kings,—
If by my life amid these wild waste hills
I am shut out from that deliciousness
Which makes existence heavenly in your words,—
If I must pass into my Father's tomb,
These pleasures all untasted, this bright earth
To me in one dark corner only known?
Why should I not, for some, short time, lay by
My heavy sceptre, and with wealth in hand,
And thee to guide and light me in my path,
Travel to those fair countries God-endowed,—
And then with store of happy memories,
And thoughts, for pauses of the lion-hunt,
And tales to tell, to keep the evenings warm,
Return once more to my paternal throne?’
Gladly the merchant, weary with his stay
In that far land, and fearing lest kind force
Might hold him prisoner there for some long time,
Accepted the proposal, praised the scheme
As full of wise, and just, and manly thought,
Recounted the advantages the land
Would from their King's experience surely draw:

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And ended by determining the day
When they two should set out upon their road,
Worthily armed, with ample store of gold,
And gems adroitly hid about their dress.

“The day arrived, big with such change of life
To this brave Monarch: in barbaric pomp
Were gathered all the princes of the race,
All men of name and prowess in the state,
And tributary chiefs from Ethiop hills.
With mingled admiration and dismay
They heard the King announce he should go forth
To distant nations ere that sun went down;—
That for two years they would not see his face;
But then he trusted God he should return
Enriched with wisdom, worthier of his rule,
And able to impart much good to them.
Then to the trust of honourable men
Committing separate provinces and towns,
And over all, in delegated rule,
Establishing his favourite brother's power,
Amid applauses, tumults, prayers, and tears,
Towards the Arabian Gulf he bent his way.
A well-manned boat lay ready on the shore;
A prosperous gale was playing on the sea;
And after some few days of pleasant sail,
From Djedda's port to Mekkeh's blessed walls
The Merchant and the King advanced alone.

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“At every step he made in this new world,
At every city where they stopped a while
On their long journey, with the fresh delight
His eye was ravished and his heart was full;
And when at last upon his vision flashed
Holy Damascus, with its mosques, and streams,
A gem of green set in the golden sand,
The King embraced his friend; and, thanking God
That he had led him to this heaven, despised
The large dominion of his Afric birth,
And vowed he'd rather be a plain man there,
Than rule o'er all the sources of the Nile.
Thus in Damascus they were safely housed,
And as the King's gold through the Merchant's hands
Flowed freely, friends came pouring in amain,
Deeming it all the fortunate reward
Of the bold Merchants venture; for he spoke
To none about the secret King, who seemed
Rather some humble fond companion brought
From the far depths of that gold-teeming land.
Oh! what a life of luxury was there!
Velvet divans, curtains of broidered silk,
Carpets, as fine a work of Persian looms
As those that in the Mosque at Mekkeh lie;
The longest, straitest, pipes in all the East,
With amber mouth-pieces as clear as air;

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Fresh sparkling sherbet, such as Franks adore;
And maidens who might dazzle by their charms
The Sultan seated in his full Hareem.
The months rolled on with no diminished joys,
Nay, each more lavish in magnificence
Than that which went before; and, drunk with pleasure,
The Merchant lost all sense and estimate
Of the amount of wealth he and the King
Had brought together from that distant clime.
The gold was soon exhausted, yet remained
A princely store of jewels, which for long
Sustained that fabric of enchanted life,
But one by one were spent and passed away;
Then came the covert sale of splendours bought;
Then money borrowed easily at first,
But every time extracted with more pain
From the strong griping clutch of usury.
But all the while, unwitting of the truth,
Without the faintest shadow of distrust
Of his friend's prudence, care, or honesty,
Taking whatever share of happiness
He gave him with an absolute content,
Tranquil the Abyssinian King remained,
Confiding and delighted as a child.

Statius (Sylv. 1, 6, 14), speaks of Syrian plums, as, “Quod ramis pia germinat Damascus.”

Our champagne is the favourite sherbet of the East.

“At last the hour came on, though long delayed,
When the bare fact before the Merchant's eyes

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Stood out, that he was ruined without hope!
What could be done? Not only for himself,
But for his friend, that poor deluded King,
Become an useless burthen on his hands?
He knew his doors, that guests so lately thronged,
Would soon be thronged as thick with creditors;
And he himself, by law, be forced to pay
In person, where he had no gold to give:
He must escape that very hour—but how?
Without one good piastre to defray
His cost upon the road, or bribe the porters
To set his creditors on some false scent.
Then rose a thought within him, and, it seemed,
Was gladly welcomed by a sudden start,
And a half-cruel, half-compassionate, smile.
For straight he sought the Abyssinian King,
Whom he found watching with a quiet smile
The gold fish in the fountain gleam and glide.
He led him, ever ductile, by the hand
Down many streets into a close-built court
Where sat together many harsh-browed men,
Whom he accosted thus: ‘Friends, I want gold;
Here is a slave I brought with me last year
From Abyssinia; he is stout and strong,
And, but for some strange crotchets in his head
Of his own self-importance and fond dreams,
Which want a little waking now and then
By means that you at least know well to use,

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A trusty servant and long-headed man;
Take him at your own price—I have no time
To drive a bargain.’ ‘Well, so much,’—one cried—
‘So much’ another. ‘Bring your purses out,
You have bid most, and let me count the coin.’
Dumb as a rock the Abyssinian King,
Gathering the meaning of the villany,
Stood for a while; then, in a frantic burst,
Rushed at his base betrayer, who, his arm
Avoiding, gathered up his gold and fled:
And the slave-merchant, as a man to whom
All wild extremities of agony
Were just as common as his daily bread,
Shouted, and like a felon in a cage
The King was soon forced down by many hands.
“None know what afterwards became of him:
Haply he died, as was the best for him;
And, but that the false Merchant, proud of crime,
Oft told the story as a good device
And laughable adventure of his craft,
The piteous fate of that deluded King
Had been as little known to anyone
As to the subjects of his distant realm,
Who still, perchance, expect their Lord's return,
Laden with all the wealth of Eastern lands.”

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'Twas strange to see how upon different minds
The Syrian's tale with different meanings fell.
One moralised of the vicissitudes
Of mortal greatness, how the spider's web
Is just as safe from harm and violence
As the bright-woven destiny of kings.
Another cursed the Merchant for his deed:
And a third laughed aloud and laughed again,
Considering the strange contrast of the pomp
Of that departure from a regal throne
And grand commission of so many powers,
With the condition of a kennelled slave;
For true it is, that nothing moves to mirth
More than the gap that fortune often leaps,
Dragging some wretched man along with her.

To an Egyptian soldier, scarred and bronzed,
The duty of narration came the next:
Who said, “that soldiers' tales were out of place
Told in calm places and at evening hours:
His songs required the music of the gun:
He could recount a thousand desperate feats,
Hair-breadth escapes and miracles of war,
Were he but cowering round a low watch-fire
Almost in hearing of the enemy;
But now his blood was cold, and he was dull,
And even had forgot his own wild past.
They all had heard—had East and West not heard

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Of Mehemet Ali and of Ibrahim?
It might be that the Great Pasha was great,
But he was fond of trade—of getting gold,
Not by fair onslaught and courageous strength,
But by mean interchange with other lands
Of produce better in his own consumed;
This was like treason to a soldier's heart;
And all he hoped was that when Ibrahim
Sat in his father's seat, he would destroy
That flight of locusts—Jew, and Greek, and Frank,
Who had corrupted Egypt and her power,
By all their mercenary thoughts and acts,
And sent him there, brave soldier as he was,
To go beg service at the Sultan's hand.
Yet Ibrahim's heart was still a noble one;
No man could contradict him and not fear
Some awful vengeance;—was this story known?”

THE EGYPTIAN'S STORY

“Once, when in Syria he had let war loose,
And was reducing, under one strong sway,
Druses, and Christians, and Mohammedans,
He heard that his lost child, the favourite
Born of a favourite wife, had been let fall
By a young careless Nubian nurse, and hurt,
So as to cripple it through all its days.
No word of anger passed the warrior's lips,—

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No one would think the story on his mind
Rested a single moment. But due time
Brought round his glad return, and he once more
Entered his hall, within which, on each side,
Long marble stairs curved towards the balcony,
Where right and left the women's chambers spread;
Upon the landing stood the glad Hareem
To welcome him with music, shouts, and songs;
Yet he would not ascend a single step,
But cried—‘Where is the careless Nubian girl
That let my child fall on the stony ground?’
Trembling and shrieking down one marble flight
She was pushed forward, till she reached the floor:
Then Ibrahim caught her in one giant grasp,
Dragged her towards him, and one brawny hand
Tight-twisting in her long and glossy hair,
And with the other drawing the sharp sword
Well known at Nezib and at Koniah,
Sheer from her shoulders severed the young head,
And casting it behind him, at few bounds
Cleared the high stair and to his bosom pressed
The darling wife his deed had just reveng'd.
O! he is god-like in his hour of rage!
His wrath is like the plague that falls on man
With indiscriminate fury, and for this
His name is honoured through the spacious East,
Where all things powerful meet their just reward.”

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The Soldier paused; and surely some one else
Had taken up the burden of a tale;
But at that moment through the cypress stems
Shot the declining crimson of the sun
Full on the faces of that company,
Who for some instants in deep silence watched
The last appearance of the ruddy rim,
And, little needing the clear warning voice
Which issued round the neighbouring minaret,—
Bidding all earthly thoughts and interests
Sink in their breasts as sunk that fiery sun—
Bowed, old and young, their heads in blest accord,
Believers in one Prophet and one God!

Story-telling is, now as ever, the delight of the East: in the coffee and summer houses, at the corners of the streets, in the courts of the mosque, sit the grave and attentive crowd, hearing with childly pleasure the same stories over and over again, applauding every new turn of expression or incident, but not requiring them any more than the hearers of a European sermon.

University of Virginia Library

THE KIOSK.

THE PERSIAN'S STORY.

THE SYRIAN'S STORY.

THE EGYPTIAN'S STORY