Over mart and mosque outbroken,
Came the silver-solemn chime
For some parted spirit’s token!
Mahmoud, with free breath sublime,
Summoned one whose snow-locks heaving
Made the vision of hoar Time;
And the red tides of thanksgiving
On his lifted brow, he said:
‘In my city of the living,
Which, proclaimed of bells, is dead?’
And the gray beard answered: ‘Master,
One who yesternight for bread
At thy gateway’s bronze pilaster
Begged in vain: blind Selim, he,
Victim of the old disaster.’
And the vassal suddenly
Looked on his hard lord with wonder,
For those tears were strange to see.
II.
Yet again, where boughs asunder
Held the wavy orchard-tent,
Sun-empurpled clusters under
In changed mood the Caliph went;
And anew heard sounds upgather,
(Chidings with caressings blent,
As the voice once of his father):
‘Haughty heart! not thou wert wise,
Rich, belovèd; Selim, rather,