#barmecide

Haroun the Just!—yet once that nameOf Just the ruler ill became,By whose too hasty sentence diedThe royal-hearted Barmecide.O Barmecide, of hand and heartSo prompt, so forward to impart,Of bounty so unchecked and free,That once a Poet sung, how heWould fear thy very hand to touch,Lest he should learn to give too much,Lest, catching the contagion thenceOf thy unmatched munificence,A beggar he should soon remain,Helpless his bounty to restrain—25O Barmecide of royal heart,My childhood’s tears again will startInto mine eyes, the tears I shed,As I remember, when I readOf harsh injustice done to thee,And all thy princely family.—What marvel that the Caliph, stungWith secret consciousness of wrong,Or now desiring every traceOf that large bounty to efface,With penalty of death forbadeThat mourning should for them be made;That any should with grateful songTheir memory in men’s hearts prolong?—“And who art thou, that day by dayHast dared my mandate disobey?Who art thou whom my guards have found,Now standing on some grass-grown mound,26Now wandering ’mid the ruined towers,Fall’n palaces, and wasted bowersOf those, at length for traitors known,And by my justice overthrown—Singing a plaintive dirge for themWhom my just vengeance did condemn;Till ever, as I learn, aroundThy steps a listening crowd is found,Who still unto thy sad lamentDo with their sobs and tears consent;While in the bosom of that throngRise thoughts that do their Monarch wrong?What doom I did for this assignThou knewest, and that doom is thine.”But then the offender,—“Give me room,And I will gladly take my doom,O King, to spend my latest breath,Ere I am hurried to my death,27In telling for what highest graceI was beholden to that race,Whose memory my heart hath kept,Whose sunken glories I have wept.For then, at least, it will appearThat not in disobedience mereThy mandate high I overpast.—O King, I was the least and lastOf all the servitors of him,Whose glory in thy frown grew dim,—The least and last—yet he one dayTo me, his meanest slave, did sayThat he was fain my guest to be,And the next day would sup with me.More time I willingly had craved,But my excuses all he waved,And by no train accompanied,His two sons only at his side,At my poor lodging lighted down,Which at the limits of the town28Stood in a close and narrow street.Him I and mine did humbly greet,Standing before him while he sharedWhat we meanwhile had best preparedOf entertainment, though the bestWas poor and mean for such a guest.“But supper done, with cheerful mien,‘Thy house,’ he cried, ‘I have not seen,Thy gardens;—let me pace awhileAlong some cool and shadowy aisle.’I thought he mocked me, but replied,‘Possessions have I not so wide:For house, another room with thisOur only habitation is;And garden have I none to show,Unless that narrow court below,Shut in with lofty walls, that nameIn right of four dwarf shrubs may claim.’29—‘Nay, nay,’ he answered, ‘there is more,If only we could find the door.’Again I told him, but in vain,That he had seen my whole domain.—‘Nay, go then quick, a mason call.’Him bade he straightway pierce the wall.—‘But shall we in this wise invadeA neighbour’s house?’—No heed he paid,And I stood dumb, and wonderingWhereto he would the issue bring.Anon he through the opening past,He and his sons, and I the last;When suddenly myself I foundIn ample space of garden ground,Or rather in a ParadiseOf rare and wonderful device,With stately walks and alleys wide,Far stretching upon every side;And streams, upon whose either bankStood lofty platanes, rank by rank,30And marble fountains, scattering highIllumined dew-drops in the sky;And making a low tinkling sound,As sliding down from mound to mound,They did at last their courses takeDown to a calm and lucid lake,By which, on gently sloping height,There stood a palace of delight;And many slaves, but all of rareAnd perfect beauty, marshalled there,Did each to me incline the knee,Exclaiming all—‘Thy servants we.’“And then my Lord cried, laughing—‘Nay,While this is thine, how could’st thou sayThat thou had’st shown me all before?Thine is it all.’—He said no more,But at my benefactor’s feetI falling, thanks would render meet.31He, scarcely listening, turned his head,And to his eldest son he said:‘This house, these gardens, ’twere in vain,Unless enabled to maintain,That he should call them his;—my son,Let us not leave this grace half done:’Who then replied—‘My farms beyondThe Tigris I by sealèd bondThis night before we part, will seeMade over unto him in fee,’—‘’Tis well; but there will months ensue,Ere his incomings will be due.What shall there, the meanwhile, be done?’He turned unto his younger son,Who answered—‘I will bid that gold,Ten thousand pieces, shall be toldUnto his steward presently;These shall his urgent needs supply.’’Twas done upon that very eve;And done, anon they took their leave,32And left me free to contemplateThe wonders of my novel state.“Prince of the faithful, mighty King,My fortunes from this source had spring,Which, if they since that time have grown,Him their first author still I own.Nor when that name, which was the praiseOf all the world, on evil daysHad fall’n, was I content to letBe quite forgotten the large debtI owe to him;—content to die,If such shall be thy pleasure high,And my offence shall seem to theeDeserving of such penalty.”What marvel that the King who heardWas in his inmost bosom stirred?What marvel that he owned the forceOf late regret and vain remorse?33That spreading palm, whose boughs had madeFar stretching such an ample shadeFor many a wanderer through life’s waste,He had hewn down in guilty haste;That fountain free, that springing wellOf goodness inexhaustible,His hand had stopt it, ne’er againTo slake the thirst of weary men.That genial sun, which evermoreDid on a cold, chill world outpourIts rays of love and life and light,’Twas he who quenched in darkest night.What marvel that he owned the forceOf late regret and vain remorse,And (all he could) now freely gaveThe life the other did not crave?Nay more, the offender did dismissWith gifts and praise—nor only this,But did the unrighteous law reverseWhich had forbidden to rehearse,34And in the minds of men prolong,By grateful speech or plaintive song,The bounteous acts and graces wide,And goodness of the Barmecide.    

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