University of Virginia Library

Poor, very poor had Abon Hassen grown;
Of all the wealth his fathers called their own
To him remained two sequins. These he gave
To a low wretch, a miserable knave;
As full of sin and falsehood as the brain
Of the big-eared and red-faced rogue, whose gain
Grew from long tables, heaped with bills and gold,
Beneath whose shade the loathsome beggar rolled,
And whined for alms, to every passer-by,
In Allah's name. Young Abon's tender eye
Shone, like the morning sun, upon the place
Where lay the beggar; and a regal grace
Crowned his fair forehead, as he quickly cast
His sequins down, and, blushing, onward passed,
With “Take them, then, in Allah's holy name:
Thy greater need, poor soul, puts mine to shame!”
The youth passed quickly; but the lying tongue
Of the vile wretch pursued, and round him rung
The old, stale blessings that for years had paid
Such simple victims, glib words of his trade;
As bare of meaning, in their prayers and praise,
As to the parrot is the parrot's phrase.
But Abon paused, as if the seventh heaven
Before his eyes its ivory gates had riven;
Paused with a strange, sweet warmth about his heart,
With music in his ears, and far apart
From this rough world one moment he was caught,
Beyond the bounds of sense or farthest thought,
Into the depths of an ecstatic trance;
And there he reeled till rapture verged on pain.
Then slid he gently from that eminence;
And Abon whispered, as he woke again,
“Surely the hand of Allah touched me then!”

Out of the distance suddenly arose
A cry of terror; then the rapid blows
Of flying hoofs, along the stony way,
Broke on his ears. The crowd, in pale dismay,
Pressed back against the houses, leaving clear
The middle street; down which, in mad career,
A furious horse, whose meteor mane and tail
Blew straight behind him, on the roaring gale
Of his own speed, rushed headlong. And there clung
To the wild steed a form that toppling swung
Hither and thither in his giddy seat,
Helpless and failing. An old man, more meet
For propping cushions on the soft divan,
Than that fierce throne, was he. No venturous man,
Of all the throng, essayed to stop the course
Of the swift steed. Now Abon knew a horse
As well as one may know his own right hand.
No breed or cross betwixt the sea and sand,
Syrian or Arab, but young Abon knew;
And all their points of difference could view
In one quick glance. So Abon, without heed
Or thought of danger, towards the maddened steed
Sprang, as the leopard bounds, and caught the bit.
Borne from his feet an instant, he alit
With his firm hand still on the golden shank
Of the long curb; till on his haunches sank
The astonished horse, wide-eyed, subdued to naught.
Then from the saddle agile Abon caught
A mass of silks and jewels, falling prone
On his strong breast; and he who filled the throne
Of fair Damascus, without scratch or harm,
Lay safely panting upon Abon's arm.

When Abon Hassen, whom men call “the good,”
Years after, the Pasha, in counsel stood
With holy men before the mosque he raised
To hold his master's bones; and Osman praised
The glories of the temple; Abon told
The story of the beggar and the gold,
The trance, the flying horse; and how he stepped,
Watching the kingdom while his master slept,
Through actions spotless in the people's sight,
By slow advances to his princely height;—
Said Osman, holiest of the holy men,
“Surely the hand of Allah touched thee then!”