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!

THE KING.

O Vizier, thou art old, I young. Clear in these things I cannot see. My head is burning; and a heat Is in my skin which angers me.

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,

16

Says, "Happy he, who lodges there!
With silken raiment, store of rice,

And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,
Grape syrup, squares of color'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 honor 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. "He was not wholly vile,

Then say;

Because a king shall bury him."

THE HARP-PLAYER ON ETNA.

I.

THE LAST GLEN.

THE track winds down to the clear stream,
To cross the sparkling shallows: there
The cattle love to gather, on their way
To the high mountain pastures, and to stay,
Till the rough cow-herds drive them past,
Knee-deep in the cool ford for 'tis the last
Of all the woody, high, well-water'd dells
On Etna; and the beam

:

Of noon is broken there by chestnut boughs
Down its steep verdant sides: the air

Is freshen'd by the leaping stream, which throws
Eternal showers of spray on the moss'd roots
Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots
Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells
Of hyacinths, and on late anemones,
That muffle its wet banks: but glade,

And stream, and sward, and chestnut trees,

End here: Etna beyond, in the broad glare
Of the hot noon, without a shade,

Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare;
The peak, round which the white clouds play.

In such a glen, on such a day,
On Pelion, on the grassy ground,
Chiron, the aged Centaur, lay;
The young Achilles standing by.
The Centaur taught him to explore
The mountains: where the glens are dry,
And the tir'd Centaurs come to rest,
And where the soaking springs abound,
And the straight ashes grow for spears,
And where the hill-goats come to feed,
And the sea-eagles build their nest.
He show'd him Phthia far away,
And said O Boy, I taught this lore
To Peleus, in long-distant years.-
He told him of the Gods, the stars,

The tides: and then of mortal wars,

And of the life that Heroes lead

Before they reach the Elysian place

And rest in the immortal mead:

And all the wisdom of his race.