EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. FROM FIRDAUSI IN EXILE.' 14 AT last one night, as lone Firdausi rode, Tinged by the rushing dawn with sanguine dye, 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 Sent letters larger than the faith he vowed, 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 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; By trampling elephant or strangling snake, 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, But while Firdausi brooded on his wrong, And blinded in sharp pain, with tottering feet, 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 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 They bore, not dreaming of the stroke of fate, But in the thronged and noiseless streets they found They cried, 'Now tell us where Firdausi lies!' 'Too late Mahmoud remembers! He is dead! 'Speed! haste away! hie to the western port; Pour in his open grave your golden debt! '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 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, THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 'OUT in the meadows the young grass springs, Now that horizons are luminous ! Evening and morning the world of light, |