Matthew Arnold (1822–88). The Poems of Matthew Arnold, 1840–1867. 1909.
The Strayed Reveller, and Other PoemsThe Sick King in Bokhara
The cloth-merchants, and let them be,
Them and their dues, this day: the King
Is ill at ease, and calls for thee.
Here in Bokhara: but at noon
To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay
Each fortieth web of cloth to me,
As the law is, and go your way.
O Hussein, lead me to the King.
Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own,
Ferdousi’s, and the others’, lead.
How is it with my lord?
Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait,
O Vizier, without lying down,
In the great window of the gate,
Looking into the Registàn;
Where through the sellers’ booths the slaves
Are this way bringing the dead man.
O Vizier, here is the King’s door.
These many days, and heard no thing
(For Allah shut my ears and mind),
Not even what thou dost, O King.
Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,
Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste
To speak in order what hath chanc’d.
A certain Moollah, with his robe
All rent, and dust upon his hair,
Watch’d my lord’s coming forth, and push’d
The golden mace-bearers aside,
And fell at the King’s feet, and cried;
On this great sinner, who hath broke
The law, and by the law must die!
Vengeance, O King!’
But the King spoke:
‘What fool is this, that hurts our ears
With folly? or what drunken slave?
My guards, what, prick him with your spears!
Prick me the fellow from the path!’
As the King said, so was it done,
And to the mosque my lord pass’d on.
Went forth again, the holy book
Carried before him, as is right,
And through the square his path he took;
From yesterday, and falling down
Cries out most earnestly; ‘O King,
My lord, O King, do right, I pray!
If I speak folly? but a king,
Whether a thing be great or small,
Like Allah, hears and judges all.
In these last days the sun hath burn’d:
That the green water in the tanks
Is to a putrid puddle turn’d:
And the canal, that from the stream
Of Samarcand is brought this way,
Wastes, and runs thinner every day.
Alone, and in a darksome place
Under some mulberry trees I found
A little pool; and in brief space
With all the water that was there
I fill’d my pitcher, and stole home
Unseen: and having drink to spare,
I hid the can behind the door,
And went up on the roof to sleep.
And burning dust, again I creep
Down, having fever, for a drink.
The water-pitcher, where it stood
Behind the door upon the ground,
And call’d my mother: and they all,
As they were thirsty, and the night
Most sultry, drain’d the pitcher there;
That they sate with it, in my sight,
Their lips still wet, when I came down.
(Most unblest also) at that sight
Brake forth, and curs’d them—dost thou hear?
One was my mother—Now, do right!’
‘Send him away, Sirs, and make on.
It is some madman,’ the King said:
As the King said, so was it done.
In the King’s path, behold, the man,
Not kneeling, sternly fix’d: he stood
Right opposite, and thus began,
Frowning grim down:—‘Thou wicked King,
Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!
What, must I howl in the next world,
Because thou wilt not listen here?
And all grace shall to me be grudg’d?
Nay but, I swear, from this thy path
I will not stir till I be judg’d.’
Drew close together and conferr’d:
Till that the King stood forth and said,
‘Before the priests thou shalt be heard.’
And the thing heard, they doubted not;
But sentenc’d him, as the law is,
To die by stoning on the spot.
‘Ston’d must he be, the law stands so:
Yet, if he seek to fly, give way:
Forbid him not, but let him go.’
And cast it softly: but the man,
With a great joy upon his face,
Kneel’d down, and cried not, neither ran.
That they flew thick and bruis’d him sore:
But he prais’d Allah with loud voice,
And remain’d kneeling as before.
But when one told him, ‘He is dead,’
Turning him quickly to go in,
‘Bring thou to me his corpse,’ he said.
I hear the bearers on the stair.
Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?
—Ho! enter ye who tarry there!
Now must I call thy grief not wise.
Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,
To find such favour in thine eyes?
Still, thou art king, and the Law stands.
It were not meet the balance swerv’d,
The sword were broken in thy hands.
Why for no cause make sad thy face?
Lo, I am old: three kings, ere thee,
Have I seen reigning in this place.
Could bear the burden of his years,
If he for strangers pain’d his heart
Not less than those who merit tears?
And grievous is the grief for these:
This pain alone, which must be borne,
Makes the head white, and bows the knees.
One man is not well made to bear.
Besides, to each are his own friends,
To mourn with him, and show him care.
Though it be great: all the earth round,
If a man bear to have it so,
Things which might vex him shall be found.
The watches of two armies stand
Near one another, many a man,
Seeking a prey unto his hand,
They snatch also, towards Mervè,
The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep,
And up from thence to Orgunjè.
Eat not the fruit of their own hands:
Which is the heaviest of all plagues,
To that man’s mind, who understands.
Vex one another, night and day:
There are the lepers, and all sick:
There are the poor, who faint alway.
Whilst other men make cheer, and sing.
Wilt thou have pity on all these?
No, nor on this dead dog, O King!
Clear in these things I cannot see.
My head is burning; and a heat
Is in my skin which angers me.
They that bear rule, and are obey’d,
Unto a rule more strong than theirs
Are in their turn obedient made.
Gazing up hither, the poor man,
Who loiters by the high-heap’d booths,
Below there, in the Registàn,
With silken raiment, store of rice,
And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,
Grape syrup, squares of colour’d ice,
In vain hath a king power to build
Houses, arcades, enamell’d mosques;
And to make orchard closes, fill’d
With cisterns for the winter rain;
And in the desert, spacious inns
In divers places;—if that pain
If his will be not satisfied:
And that it be not, from all time
The Law is planted, to abide.
Thou wert athirst; and didst not see,
That, though we snatch what we desire,
We must not snatch it eagerly.
And rooms of treasures, not a few.
But I am sick, nor heed I these:
And what I would, I cannot do.
When I am dead, will soon grow still.
So have I neither joy, nor fame.
But what I can do, that I will.
Upon a hill on the right hand,
Hard by a close of apricots,
Upon the road of Samarcand:
This man my pity could not save;
And, plucking up the marble flags,
There lay his body in my grave.
Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb.
Then say; ‘He was not wholly vile,
Because a king shall bury him.’