Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

FROM FIRDAUSI IN EXILE.' 14

AT last one night, as lone Firdausi rode,
The dawn broke gray across the starry sky,
And far ahead behind the mountains flowed
A sudden gush of molten gold on high;
The glory spread from snowy horn to horn,

Tinged by the rushing dawn with sanguine dye,
And Tous, the little town where he was born,
Flashed at his feet, with white roofs clustered nigh.

His aged sister fell upon his neck;

His girl, his only child, with happy tears, Clung to his knees, and sobbing, with no check Poured out the story of her hopes and fears. Gravely his servants gave him welcome meet, And when his coming reached the townfolk's ears They ran to cluster round him in the street, And gave him honor for his wealth of years.

And there in peace he waited for the end;

But in all distant lands where Mahmoud sent, Each Prince and Sultan was Firdausi's friend, And murmured, like a high-stringed instrument Swept by harsh fingers, at a quest so rude,

And chid the zeal, austere and violent, That drove so sweet a voice to solitude,

And bade the Shah consider and relent.

And once from Delhi, that o'erhangs the tide
Of reedy Ganges like a gorgeous cloud,
The Hindu king, with Persia close allied,

Sent letters larger than the faith he vowed,
Smelling of sandalwood and ambergris,

And cited from Firdausi lines that showed Friendship should be eternal, and the bliss Of love a gift to make a master proud.

So while these words were fresh in Mahmoud's brain
He went one night into the mosque to pray,
And by the swinging lamp deciphered plain
The verse Firdausi, ere he fled away,

Wrote on the wall; and one by one there rose

Sad thoughts and sweet of many a vanished day, When his soul hovered on the measured close And wave-beat of the rich heroic lay.

Mourning the verse, he mourned the poet too;
And he who oftentimes had lain awake
Long nights in wide-eyed vision to pursue
His victim, yearning in revengeful ache,
Forgot all dreams of a luxurious death

By trampling elephant or strangling snake,
And thought on his old friend with tightened breath,
And flushed, remorseful for his anger's sake.

Back to his court he went, molten at heart,

And all his rage on faithless Hasan turned; For when he thought him of that tongue's black art, His wrath was in him like a coal that burned;

He bade his several ministers appear

Before his throne, and by inquiry learned

The cunning treason of the false vizier,

And all his soul's deformity discerned.

Hasan was slain that night; and of the gold

His monkey-hands had thieved from rich and poor, The Sultan bade the money should be told

Long due as payment at Firdausi's door; But when the sacks of red dinars were full,

Mahmoud bethought him long, and pondered sore, Since vainly any king is bountiful

Not knowing where to seek his creditor.

But while he fretted at this ignorance,

A dervish came to Ghaznin, who had seen,
In passing through the streets of Tous, by chance
Firdausi in his garden cool and green;
At this Mahmoud rejoiced, and, with glad eyes
Swimming in tears, quivering with liquid sheen,
Wrote words of pardon, and in welcoming wise
Prayed all might be again as all had been.

But while Firdausi brooded on his wrong,
One day he heard a child's clear voice repeat
The bitter jibe of his own scathing song;
Whereat he started, and his full heart beat
Its last deep throb of agony and rage;

And blinded in sharp pain, with tottering feet,
Being very feeble in extremest age,

He fell, and died there in the crowded street.

The light of three-and-fourscore summers' suns

Had blanched the silken locks round that vast brow; If Mahmoud might have looked upon him once, He would have bowed before him meek and low;

The majesty of death was in his face,

And those wide waxen temples seemed to glow
With morning glory from some holy place
Where angels met him in a burning row.

His work was done; the palaces of kings

Fade in long rains, and in loud earthquakes fall; The poem that a godlike poet sings

Shines o'er his memory like a brazen wall; No suns may blast it, and no tempest wreck, Its periods ring above the trumpet's call, Wars and the tumult of the sword may shake, And may eclipse it it survives them all.

Now all this while along the mountain road
The mighty line of camels wound in state;
Shuddering they moved beneath their massy load,
And swinging slowly with the balanced weight;
Burden of gold, and garments red as flame,

They bore, not dreaming of the stroke of fate,
And so at last one day to Tous they came
And entered blithely at the eastern gate.

But in the thronged and noiseless streets they found
All mute, and marvelled at the tears men shed,
And no one asked them whither they were bound,
And when, for very shame discomfited,

They cried, 'Now tell us where Firdausi lies!'
A young man like a cypress rose and said
The anger burning in his large dark eyes ·

'Too late Mahmoud remembers! He is dead!

'Speed! haste away! hie to the western port;
Perhaps the convoy has not passed it yet!
But hasten, hasten, for the hour is short,
And your short-memoried master may forget!
Behold, they bear Firdausi to the tomb,

Pour in his open grave your golden debt!
Speed! haste! and with the treasures of the loom
Dry the sad cheeks where filial tears are wet.

'Lead your bright-harnessed camels one by one, The dead man journeys, and he fain would ride; Pour out your unctuous perfumes in the sun,

The rose has spilt her petals at his side; Your citherns and your carven rebecks hold Here when the nightingale untimely died, And ye have waited well till he is cold,

Now wrap his body in your tigers' hide.'

And so the young man ceased; but one arose
Of graver aspect, not less sad than he.
'Nay, let,' he cried, 'the sunshine and the snows
His glittering gold and silk-soft raiment be;
Approach not with unhallowed steps profane
The low white wall, the shadowy lotus-tree;
Nor let a music louder than the rain

Disturb him dreaming through eternity.

'For him no more the dawn will break in blood, No more the silver moon bring fear by night; He starts no longer at a tyrant's mood,

Serene for ever in the Prophet's sight;

The soul of Yaman breathed on him from heaven,
And he is victor in the unequal fight;
To Mahmoud rage and deep remorse are given,
To old Firdausi rest and long delight.'

THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS.

[ocr errors]

'OUT in the meadows the young grass springs,
Shivering with sap,' said the larks, and we
Shoot into air with our strong young wings,
Spirally up over level and lea;
Come, O Swallows, and fly with us

Now that horizons are luminous !

Evening and morning the world of light,
Spreading and kindling, is infinite!"

« AnkstesnisTęsti »