O Hussein, lead me to the King.
Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own,
Ferdousi’s, and the others’, lead.
How is it with my lord?

‘Justice, O King, and on myself!
On this great sinner, who hath broke
The law, and by the law must die!
Vengeance, O King!’

                                But the King spoke:

‘What fool is this, that hurts our ears
With folly? or what drunken slave
My guards, what, prick him with your spears!
Prick me the fellow from the path!’
As the King said, so was it done,
And to the mosque my lord pass’d on.

But on the morrow, when the King
Went forth again, the holy book
Carried before him, as is right,
And through the square his path he took;

My man comes running, fleck’d with blood
From yesterday, and falling down
Cries out most earnestly; ‘O King,
My lord, O King, do right, I pray!

‘How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern
It I speak folly? but a king,
Whether a thing be great or small,
Like Allah, hears and judges all.

‘Wherefore hear thou! Thou know’st, how fierce
In these last days the sun hath burn’d:
That the green water in the tanks
Is to a putrid puddle turnd:
And the canal, that from the stream
Of Samarcand is brought this way,
Wastes, and runs thinner every day.

‘Now I at nightfall had gone forth
Alone, and in a darksome place
Under some mulberry trees I found
A little pool; and in brief space
With all the water that was there
I fill’d my pitcher, and stole home
Unseen: and having drink to spare,
I hid the can behind the door,
And went up on the roof to sleep.

‘But in the night, which was with wind
And burning dust, again I creep
Down, having fever, for a drink.

‘Now meanwhile had my brethren found
The water-pitcher, where it stood
Behind the door upon the ground.
And call’d my mother: and they all.
As they were thirsty, and the night
Most sultry, drain’d the pitcher there;
That they sate with it, in my sight,
Their lips still wet, when I came down.

‘Now mark! I, being fever’d, sick,
(Most unblest also) at that sight
Brake forth, and curs’d them—dost thou hear?—
One was my mother—Now, do right!’

But my lord mus’d a space, and said:
‘Send him away, Sirs, and make on.
It is some madman,’ the King said:
As the King said, so was it done.

The morrow at the self-same hour
In the Kings path, behold, the man,
Not kneeling, sternly fix’d: he stood
Right opposite, and thus began,
Frowning grim down:—‘Thou wicked King,
Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!
What, must I howl in the next world,
Because thou wilt not listen here?

‘What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace,
And all grace shall to me be grudg’d?
Nay but, I swear, from this thy path
I will not stir till I be judg’d.’

Then they who stood about the King
Drew close together and conferr’d:
Till that the King stood forth and said,
‘Before the priests thou shalt be heard.’

But when the Ulemas were met
And the thing heard, they doubted not;
But sentenc’d him, as the law is,
To die by stoning on the spot.

Now the King charg’d us secretly:
‘Ston’d must he be, the law stands so:
Yet, if he seek to fly, give way:
Forbid him not, but let him go.’

So saying, the King took a stone,
And cast it softly: but the man,
With a great joy upon his face,
Kneel’d down, and cried not, neither ran.

So they, whose lot it was, cast stones;
That they flew thick and bruis’d him sore:
But he prais’d Allah with loud voice,
And remain’d kneeling as before.

My lord had cover’d up his face
But when one told him, ‘He is dead,’
Turning him quickly to go in,
‘Bring thou to me his corpse.’ he said.

And truly, while I speak, O King,
I hear the bearers on the stair.
Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?
—Ho! enter ye who tarry there!

Nay, were he thine own mother’s son,
Still, thou art king, and the Law stands.
It were not meet the balance swerv’d,
The sword were broken in thy hands.

But being nothing, as he is,
Why for no cause make sad thy face?
Lo, I am old: three kings, ere thee,
Have I seen reigning in this place.

But who, through all this length of time,
Could bear the burden of his years,
If he for strangers pain’d his heart
Not less than those who merit tears?

Fathers we must have, wife and child;
And grievous is the grief for these:
This pain alone, which must be borne,
Makes the head white, and bows the knees.

But other loads than this his own
One man is not well made to bear.
Besides, to each are his own friends,
To mourn with him, and show him care.

Look, this is but one single place,
Though it be great: all the earth round,
If a man bear to have it so,
Things which might vex him shall be found.

Upon the Russian frontier, where
The watchers of two armies stand
Near one another, many a man,
Seeking a prey unto his hand,

Hath snatch’d a little fair-hair’d slave:
They snatch also, towards Mervè,
The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep,
And up from thence to Orgunjè.

And these all, labouring for a lord,
Eat not the fruit of their own hands:
Which is the heaviest of all plagues,
To that man’s mind, who understands.

The kaffirs also (whom God curse!)
Vex one another, night and day:
There are the lepers, and all sick:
There are the poor, who faint alway.

All these have sorrow, and keep still,
Whilst other men make cheer, and sing.
Wilt thou have pity on all these?
No, nor on this dead dog, O King!

But hear ye this, ye sons of men!
They that bear rule, and are obey’d,
Unto a rule more strong than theirs
Are in their turn obedient made.

In vain therefore, with wistful eyes
Gazing up hither, the poor man,
Who loiters by the high-heap’d booths,
Below there, in the Registàn,

Says, ‘Happy he, who lodges there!
With silken raiment, store of rice,
And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,
Grape syrup, squares of colour’d ice,

‘With cherries serv’d in drifts of snow.’
In vain hath a king power to build
Houses, arcades, enamell’d mosques;
And to make orchard closes, fill’d

With curious fruit trees, bought from far;
With cisterns for the winter rain;
And in the desert, spacious inns
In divers places;—if that pain

Is not more lighten’d, which he feels,
If his will be not satisfied
And that it be not, from all time
The Law is planted, to abide.

Thou wert a sinner, thou poor man!
Thou wert athirst; and didst not see,
That, though we snatch what we desire,
We must not snatch it eagerly.

And I have meat and drink at will,
And rooms of treasures, not a few.
But I am sick, nor heed I these:
And what I would, I cannot do.

Even the great honour which I have,
When I am dead, will soon grow still.
So have I neither joy, nor fame.
But what I can do, that I will.

I have a fretted brick-work tomb
Upon a hill on the right hand,
Hard by a close of apricots,
Upon the road of Samarcand:

Thither, O Vizier, will I bear
This man my pity could not save;
And, plucking up the marble flags,
There lay his body in my grave.

Bring water, nard, and linen rolls.
Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb.
Then say; ‘He was not wholly vile,
Because a king shall bury him.’