University of Virginia Library

And thus as father and as son, the two
Passed with their slaves the royal city through,
Here earnest work, there careless mirth was loud,
Bee-like, or drone-like hummed that swarming crowd,
For there was held a solemn festival,
When these two reared, on pillars firm and tall,
Their spacious tent close to the Harem wall.
Merchants they seemed, and gems they brought to sell,
Veined through with splendours inconceivable—
None such 'mid Ava's glowing pebbles are,
Nor in the river-beds of Malabar.
Gems were they, that had shot their dazzling rays
Around some angel brow, in ancient days,
Ere yet in heaven was heard the sound of strife,
Or the red clay grew quick with Adam's life.
But whence, or how, the Magian called them through
Space measureless and void, He only knew.
Robes, too, shone there woven beneath the light
Of fairy lands, by fairy fingers white,
Steeped, as it were, in living smiles, that played,
Like many-coloured flames, about the braid.
For healing, too, strange elements they kept
Wherein lost powers and hidden magic slept;
Thus soon through that old city, built by man
From Eden fresh, the tale of wonder ran;
How chased by them, like baffled beasts of prey
Before the sun, diseases fled away.
So all men reverenced the sage, and yet
With deeper love they followed Neamet.
Beautiful was he, and without a peer;
But not for that alone they held him dear.
The sage around him breathed an atmosphere—
A subtle essence of delight and power,
Clothing his youth, as fragrance clothes a flower;
And in that atmosphere he moved and dwelt,
Till underneath his presence all men felt,
Down to the roots of being, a sweet sense
Of swift, inexplicable influence,
That drew their hearts out of themselves away,
Each motion of his spirit to obey;
As the numb soul of iron wakes to own
Life, thrilling through it, from the mystic stone.

But Time passed on; day after day, the same,
And still no tidings of lost Noam came.
She, when that traitress foul had given her up
To drink the bitter dregs of sorrow's cup,
Had found no mosque, no blessing—but was taken
Straight to the Viceroy's hall, and there forsaken.
He sneered and said, ‘Those glorious eyes are wet
With angry tears, that heart is sore, but yet
The queen I make to-day with thanks shall own her debt.
As the sun quenches moonlight, so the ray
Of power's bright orb will drive faint love away;
Or, if that love to Neamet still clings,
Think, short the life of those who rival kings.
It rests with you to save him or to kill.’
'Twas thus, with beating heart and broken will,
The bride of Neamet—no more a bride—
Was borne, escorted, and accompanied
By fifty horsemen, on in hurrying flight,
Unto the Caliph's mansions of delight.
There, though betrothed with Moslem rites, they gave
Her to the King, as paramour and slave.
He, doting on her beauty, left no art
Of love untried to touch and win her heart;
Poured out as gifts, in wild magnificence,
All that could glad the eye or charm the sense;
But vainly all, she, fixed and silent there,
Sat like a marble shape, in dumb despair.
To her, bewildered and disconsolate,
The Caliph seemed like an embodied Fate—
A Fate from whose stern grasp she might not fly,
Though, true to Neamet, she yet could die;
Her lord and master wondered, ne'er till then
His love had failed to win back love again.
But knightly was his nature, and he thought,
Like other youths, to earn the prize he sought.
And so she daily grew more thin and weak,
And the rose-blush upon her tender cheek,
Through changes never-ending, ebbed away
As sunset clouds wane into dimness grey.
Her memory to the loved one's image clung,
His voice within her ears for ever rung;
Too well she knew, yea, seemed almost to see,
How sad, how lost, how changed by grief was he.
Or if she slept, in dreams she saw him still,
But saw him dead, and felt Death's icy chill;
Then, waking with a scream, she lay forlorn,
And sobbed, and moaned, and shivered till the morn.
Just at that time it chanced the Caliph heard
How the great city to its depth was stirred
By the strange lore and power of that strange man,
The agèd Mede, the wise magician;
One trusted by the King at once was sent,
Though with scant hope, to seek the sage's tent.
A daughter, fading in her youth, she said,
Had made her bold to ask the Magian's aid.
He answered: ‘Ere I search yon orbs of heaven,
Her name, her age, her birth-place must be given;
For if the voice of her own stars be dumb,
Knowledge availeth not—the end must come.’
‘In Cufa were we born,’ she said, and lied;
‘My daughter Noam is an Emir's bride;
Scarce sixteen springs have touched her with their breath,
Now winter threatens, and the frost of death.’
‘Thy words are false,’ he answered straight; ‘but still
Insight they give me how to use my skill.
She shall not die. Do thou, my son, prepare
Our balms from Eden mixed with spices rare.
Thy horoscope and hers are one; though mine
The saving thought, the fated hand is thine.’
The boy went forth, re-entering soon he bore
A casket of white moon-stone from their store.
‘Take this, a charm it holds whose destined scope
Is to relight the dying lamp of Hope;
Pain in its presence, sorrows are no more,
It will the maid to loving arms restore.’
The woman took the gift with reverence due,
And to her lady's chamber straight withdrew.
By mystic letters here and there embrowned,
With gold embossed that casket was, and bound,
And this the healing balm that Noam in it found:
‘My love, I come to die, or to regain thee,
Noam, to die for thee, long-sought;
Nor let my death, even for a moment pain thee,
For life, if lonely life, is nought.
Long mateless years would be but death for either—
False death, since far from wicked men
The true death joins us. Let us die together,
Or live, as we have lived, again.’
Poor Noam trembled, shaken from her grief,
From head to foot she trembled as a leaf,
Then, bathed in tears, half bitter and half sweet,
Threw herself down before the woman's feet.
‘O my friend, look in pity on our lot,
Save him, and help him, and betray him not.’
And then she told her all from first to last:
How their blue sky of love was overcast,
How on their heads the sudden thunder fell,
She told her, pleading passionately well,
Until that agèd woman, weeping too,
Recalled past years when she was warm and true,
And vowed to aid them in that dangerous hour
With her whole spirit, her whole heart, and power;
Yea, though the Caliph should the deed mislike,
She would face death to save them—let him strike!
Then, seeking Neamet, she led him through
A wicket gate by windings known to few;
Next, as a girl disguised, she placed him where
To Noam's chamber rose an ivory stair.
‘Be calm,’ she said, ‘be cautious; the sixth door
As you move through yon golden corridor—
Pass it, and find yourself at Noam's feet.
The sixth, I say; be silent and discreet.’
But Neamet, impetuous and young,
As from the leash a greyhound, onward sprung,
His heart beat wildly, many-coloured light
Flashed round his dim and palpitating sight,
His knees fail under him, he seems to hear
The voice of a great flood within his ear;
The rooms come gliding past him, and the ground
Heaves into billows like a sea around.
What wonder, then, if 'mazed and passion-tost,
The clue went from him and the path was lost?
What wonder that amid the gathering gloom
He reeled on blindly to that royal room,
Where the maid Leila, on her maiden throne,
Twin sister to the Caliph, mused alone?
‘Nay, who is this?’ she cried; ‘new come, I trow;
Why, Noam's self is not so fair as thou.
Still she gazed on; but when from Neamet
Her gracious looks and words no answer met,
She rose, and touched his breast, then in surprise
She started back, scarce trusting her own eyes.
Then half in wrath, she cried, and half in fear,
‘Thou art no maiden,—what has brought thee here?
What hast thou done, rash youth? Why thus disguised?
Back, back at once, if life be not despised.
I would not see thee slain;’ but then he fell
At her feet, pleading passionately well,
And told her the whole tale from first to last:
How their blue sky of love was overcast,
And what the Mede had done for him, and what
The agèd slave, and how he heeded not,
But lost in passion's mist had gone astray
To place his life in her fair hands that day.
Then his great beauty, and yet more the spell
Wrought by the mighty master, served him well.
At length she spake, thrilled through with the sweet pain
Of pity, which she could not hide, though fain:
‘I vow to guide you through this dangerous hour,
With my whole spirit, my whole heart and power;
Yea, though my brother should the act mislike,
And in his anger slay me—let him strike!
Yet lose not hope; who knows him if not I?
Trust but in Allah, and we shall not die.’
Then to her maids she called, ‘At once begin,
My children, to set forth a feast within;
With incense, flowers, and crimson hangings graced,
Let the hall brighten—only make ye haste.
And thou, Mamouna, tell my brother dear,
That I entreat his gracious presence here,
And as thou goest, through the dim light guide
This rival fair one to fair Noam's side.’
She said and smiled, then whispered, ‘Neamet,
Take heed, for snares around thee may be set.
None but myself must speak to him; and oh,
Would it were over! His great heart I know;
But yet the will of kings who can foretell—
As the sea, fathomless, inscrutable?
This, this at least, young Neamet, I give,
One golden moment thou hast now to live;
I would forego all possibilities
Of sceptred pomp, all that before me lies—
The mocking splendours, whilst the heart is dead,
When I draw near my joyless marriage bed,
As Caliph's sister, not as woman wed.
Away with them! I could lose all to be
Noam, whose rush of rapture waiteth thee,
Though with my blood I bought the dear delight
Of love, for one sweet hour, in Fate's despite.
At least that one sweet hour is thine; no eye
Upon that meeting, worth a life, shall pry.
Go, and be happy, but return before
The Caliph comes, or ye may meet no more.’
Why tell how lovers one another greet,
With no eye watching, no tongue to repeat—
How their joy, sparkling out to upper air
From gloom, made rich the bleak wastes of despair;
As that flood, conscious of the Prophet's hand,
Leapt from black rocks in Horeb's thirsty land,
To hide with flowers and fruit the desert sand.
Enough to say it passed, as all things will,
And they returned to wait and tremble still.
The Princess soothed them ever with a smile,
That cheered, though sick at heart herself the while—
Till silver trumpets sounded, and the beat
Was heard without of slowly-stepping feet;
Then leaving guards without, the Caliph came:
She rose, and called him by his childish name—
A name of early love, with power to bring
A breath from dawn, a freshness as of spring.
She placed young Neamet before his eyes,
Whilst his strong heart grew soft with memories,
And cried, ‘Behold, this is my gift; I pray
That what I give thee thou wilt love alway.’
The Caliph gazed upon the seeming bride
Delightedly, and laughing low, replied,
‘Thanks, thanks, sweet sister mine, no need to fear
Lest I hold not this bright young creature dear;
Thy slave is fair as Noam is, and they
Shall live together from this very day.
But tell me, Leila, how it comes that thou
Hast wept? There is a trouble on thy brow,
Thy cheeks are pale, and dark around thine eyes
The trace of tears from some fresh sorrow lies.’
‘Tell me, my own,’ she answered, ‘am I pale?
In truth, but now I heard a piteous tale
Of two unhappy lovers, into pain
By foes entrapped, and mercilessly slain.’
And then she told him all from first to last,
Much as from Neamet to her it passed,
But added this: ‘He unto whom the maid
Was by that wicked chief but now betrayed,
The king, regarding not their plighted troth,
In his own halls has foully murdered both:
Red-reeking on the steps of his divan,
Their young blood cries aloud to God from man!’
Ere the last word had died upon her lips,
As the sun frowns, pressed by some dark eclipse,
A gloom of instant anger blackly flies
Across his broad clear brow and radiant eyes;
Then all at once, aflame with righteous ire,
Up leapt the Caliph like a beacon fire.
‘A most unroyal act,’ he cries, ‘indeed;
Could not their love, their beauty, for them plead?
There are three reasons strong against the deed:
First, all who love should pardon lovers; all
Who know how beauty can the heart enthrall
Must feel for other men, as true must hold
That by the poet sung so well of old;
Though law be trampled on, and power defied,
“The faults of love by love are justified.”
But here no fault there was, no wrong was done,
The daring lover but reclaimed his own.
Who risks his life for love, to him belong
The praise and tears of youth, the poet's song;
And whoso lays on him a murderous hand
Accurst through all the years to come shall stand.
Next, the king's house gives shelter; The king's face
Should be known there but as a sign of grace.
Who once sees God may not be shut from bliss;
We kings should emulate our God in this.
And my third reason, stronger yet I deem:
Justice should shine as the sun's perfect beam;
No colour on its whiteness should infringe,
To cloud that pure ray with an alien tinge.
Nor is there any truth more clear than this,
“He who decides in haste, though right, decides amiss.
We, above all, who stand in Allah's place,
His delegates, should weigh the lightest case
With a grave patience and deliberate care
(As Heaven is), slow to punish, quick to spare.
Beyond this general duty to the laws,
If I, the king, am judge in my own cause,
Surely, then, surely there is tenfold need
Of wrath, and urging passion to take heed,
To silence them when they grow loud, and steel
The heart against their blind and bitter zeal.
But this man, neither reverencing love
Nor his own roof-tree (brooding shamed above
The shameful act), nor yet the eternal claim
Of justice upon every royal name,
A stain on us, his brethren, hath let fall,
Together with himself, dishonouring all;
I know not where he reigns, perchance afar,
Beyond the reach of this bright scimitar;
But this, at least, the caitiff wretch shall know,
That if I meet him here on earth below,
Aye, or in heaven itself, I hold him as a foe.’
He paused; at once the Princess, half-afraid,
Yet full of hope, the truth before him laid.
‘Nay, he is ruler of no rival state
From thee remote; nor is there need of hate,
If thou wilt be but to thyself a friend;
Thou art the man—all but the bitter end.
‘See now;’ and then she placed them side by side,
‘The daring lover here, and there the bride;
Kneel, Noam, in thy mournful loveliness,
To ask of this great judge a great redress;
Kneel, Neamet, let thy just claim be heard,
Our Caliph never has recalled his word.’
A flush of dark red anger flitted o'er
His cheek, to leave it paler than before;
His eye shot savage fire, a scarlet stain
Rushed o'er his wounded lip, then dropped like rain;
But when he saw the lovers prostrate lie,
He smiled once more, though somewhat bitterly.
‘Fear not,’ he said, ‘I can be firm and strong
Against myself—ye shall not suffer wrong;
But thou, my sister, thou with whom I strayed,
From my first youth, through sunshine and through shade,
I should have deemed that thou, so wise and kind,
With all our childish memories intertwined,
With our twinned souls laid bare to one another,
Whilst yet thou wast but sister to thy brother,
Without a thought why I was called the prince,
Might know my heart as none have known it since.
Leila, was this well done? I thought that we,
What then we were, till death—till death should be,
That through thy spirit, crystal-clear as glass
From the sea-city, truth should ever pass
Undimmed and undistorted; but, alas!
It is the curse of kings that they must live
Ever alone; and, therefore, I forgive.
Yet learn thou also, lady, to be just;
Loving me still—love with a nobler trust.
But it is time these children to release
From doubt and fear; Go, little ones, in peace;
This hand of mine shall on your foemen fall,
Ruthless as that which gloomed along the wall,
When Cyrus came in wrath at Allah's call;
So dread them not, your debt is fully paid
If the wise Median will but lend his aid,
And teach me how to rule; with such a guide
I scarce can swerve from the straight path aside.’
The Magian straight was summoned from his tent,
His stately form before the Caliph bent;
From the throne questioned then, he would not hide
Aught from the Caliph, but at once replied:
‘I come,’ he said, ‘of a forgotten race,
Once mighty amongst nations; now their place
Knows them no more. My very name will sound
Strange in your ears, though widely once renowned;
It tells of a dim past, an older creed,
For I was named Deioces the Mede.
That name a dauntless chief in days of yore,
From whom I here inherit it, first bore.
Long years have fled since I was taught in youth
To ride, to draw the bow, to speak the truth;
Great rivers in that time have turned aside
Their course; great forests have been born and died;
Great empires have arisen, but to fall;
Great hearts are dust, yet I live on through all.
From the dead summers that have dropped away,
From centuries old that bloomed but to decay,
I have drawn out the spirit and the power,
As the bee, murmuring on from flower to flower,
Draws virtue forth; then, faithful to a trust,
Reels home beneath her load of golden dust.
All I have hived and garnered thus, is due,
Great King, to justice-loving kings, like you—
Hence, if your will avouch it, I abide,
A loyal servant, ever at your side.’
So near the throne Deioces remained,
Shared his lord's toil, his mighty life sustained;
His great soul, through its depths, with wisdom fed,
Till it was filled, as is the ocean bed,
For ever with a light of waters overspread;
And thus in strength and nobleness he grew,
Nor did love fail, nor friendships firm and true.
Through a long reign his power, his wealth, his fame,
By peace and war increased, until his name,
Motar the Just, beneath the sun unfurled,
Shone like a banner streaming o'er the world;
And when his days were done, and Azrael
Called him to reap the harvest sown so well,
The nations that lay safe beneath his wing
Had but one heart to mourn their noble King.
'Tis said that when the funeral rites were o'er,
Deioces the Mede was seen no more;
He vanished, silent as a drop of dew,
Or voiceless cloud that melts amid the blue;
Men turned, and he was gone; to reappear
Perchance, when Islam's danger draweth near.
Still, why swift hours of golden sunshine mar
With shadows from a darkness yet afar?
Let the grim future claim its prey—but now
A mandate from the Court tells Hatim how
He is to execute a righteous doom,
And rule his province in the dead man's room,
Like a house built on shifting sands alone,
By the King's breath that power was overthrown;
So fell the Viceroy, and the land had rest,
Whilst high and low the name of Motar blest;
His noble heart rejoiced to see meanwhile
Those married lovers on each other smile,
And showered his favours down with bounteous hand,
Till they asked leave to go to their own land.
Dismissed with royal gifts and speeches fair,
Thus home to Cufa went that lovely pair.
Soon goodly sons and daughters, graced by Heaven
With strength and beauty, to their arms were given;
They rose, fulfilling Hatim's early dream,
Like palm-trees rising by a silver stream;
And thus with joy, with love that could not pall,
They dwelt together in that stately hall,
Till the divider, Death, came down and ended all.