"Friend of the English, free from fear, Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer, Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer, King of the Jungle,—go!" All night the red flame stabbed the sky A woman who veiled her head and wept, slept, And turned not for her tears. Small thought had he to mark the strife- When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame, One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze, Who had stood by the King in sport and fray, He said: "O shameless, put aside Who held the King and all his land To the wanton will of a harlot's hand! Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand? Stoop down, and call him now!" Then she: "By the faith of my tarnished soul, I had hoped to clear ere the fire died, While the others howl in Hell. "But I have felt the fire's breath, Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord He drew and struck: the straight blade drank "I had looked for the Queen to face the flame, But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dameSister of mine, pass, free from shame, Pass with thy King to rest!" The black log crashed above the white: Red as slaughter and blue as steel, That whistled and fluttered from head to heel, Leaped up anew, for they found their meal On the heart of the Boondi Queen! THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the His mercy fills the Khyber hills—his grace is He has taken toll of the North and the South- And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar. Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet, The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the And that was strait as running noose and swift as Tho' he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life. There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die. It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife; The Kaffir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life. Then said the King: "Have hope, O friend! Yea, Death disgraced is hard; Much honour shall be thine"; and called the Captain of the Guard, Yar Khan, a bastard of the Blood, so city-babble saith, And he was honoured of the King-the which is salt to Death; And he was son of Daoud Shah, the Reiver of the Plains, And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins; And 'twas to tame an Afghan pride nor Hell nor Heaven could bind, The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind. "Strike!" said the King. "King's blood art thouhis death shall be his pride!" Then louder, that the crowd might catch: "Fear not -his arms are tied!" Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again. "O man, thy will is done," quoth he; "a King this dog hath slain.” Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold. The North and the South shall open their mouth to a Ghilzai flag unrolled, When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and Ye have heard the song-How long? How long? That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear, The Governor of Kabul spoke: "My King, hast thou no fear? Thou knowest-thou hast heard,"-his speech died at his master's face. And grimly said the Afghan King: "I rule the Afghan race. My path is mine-see thou to thine-to-night upon thy bed Think who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head." That night when all the gates were shut to City and to throne, Within a little garden-house the King lay down alone. Before the sinking of the moon, which is the Night of Night, Yar Khan came softly to the King to make his honour white. |