Nimrod now suffered Abraham to depart, and as his anger was abated, the child remained in his father’s house, and no attempts were made against his life.
Here must be inserted a legend of the childhood of Abraham, which I have ventured to render into verse.
THE GIFT OF THE KING.
Nimrod the Cushite sat upon a throne
Of gold, encrusted with a sapphire stone,
And round the monarch stood, in triple rank,
Three hundred ruddy pages, like a bank
Of roses all a-blow,
Two gentle boys, with blue eyes clear as glass,
And locks as light as tufted cotton grass,
And faces as the snow
That lies on Ararat, and flushes pink
On summer evenings, as the sun doth sink,
Were stationed by the royal golden chair
With fillets of carnation in their hair,
And clothed in silken vesture, candid, clean,
To flutter fans of burnished blue and green,
Fashioned of peacock’s plume.
A little lower, on a second stage
On either side, was placed a graceful page,
To raise a fragrant fume—
With costly woods and gums on burning coals
That glowed on tripods, in bright silver bowls;
And at the basement of the marble stair,
Sweet singing choirs and harping minstrels were,
In amber kirtles purple gilt and sashed. The throbbing strings in silver ripples flashed,
Where slaves the choral song
Accompanied with psaltery and lyre,
In red and saffron, like to men of fire,
Whilst hoarsely boomed the gong:
Or silver cymbals clashed, or, waxing shrill,
Danced up the scale a flute’s melodious thrill.
Now at the monarch’s signal, pages twain,
With sunny hair as ripened autumn grain,
And robed in lustrous silver tissue, shot
With changing hues of blue forget-me-not,
Start nimbly forth, and bend
Before the monarch, at his gilded stool,
And crystal goblets brimming, sweet and cool,
Obsequiously extend;
But Nimrod, slightly stirring, stately, calm,
Towards the right-hand beaker thrusts his arm,
And languid, raises it towards his lips;
Yet ere he of the ruby liquor sips,
He notices upon the surface lie—
Fallen in and fluttering—a feeble fly,
With draggled wings outspread.
Then shot from Nimrod’s eyes an angry flare,
And passionately down the marble stair
The costly draught he shed.
He spoke no word, but with a finger wave,
Made signal to a scarlet-vested slave;
And as the lad before him, quaking, kneels,
Above him swift the gleaming falchion wheels,
Then flashes down, and, with one leap, his head
Bounds from his shoulders, and bespirts with red
The alabaster floor.
And, mingled with the outpoured Persian wine,
Descends the steps a sliding purple line
Of smoking, dribbled gore;
And floats the little midge upon a flood
Of fragrant grape-juice, and of roseate blood.
Then Nimrod said: “I would you ugly stain
Were wiped away; and thou, my chamberlain,
Obtain for me a stripling, to replace
This petty fool. Let him have comely face,
And be of slender mould:
Be lithely built, of noble birth; a youth,
The choicest thou canst find. His cost, in sooth!
I heed not. Stint no gold,
But buy a goodly slave: for I, a king,
Will have the best, the best of every thing—
Of gems, of slaves, of fabrics, meats, or wine;
The best, the very best on earth be mine.” Then, prostrate flung before his master’s throne,
The servant said, “Sire! Terah hath a son
Whose equal in the whole round world is none,
Beloved as himself.
But, Sire! I fear the father will not deign
To yield his son as slave through love of gain,
For great is he in wealth.”
“Go!” said the monarch, “I must have the child:
Be sure the father can be reconciled,
If you expend of gold a goodly store,
And, if he haggles at your price, bid more;
I will it, chamberlain!
I care not what the cost. I’ll have the lad!”
And then, he leaned him idly back, and bade
The slaves to fan again.
Now on the morrow, to the royal court,
Terah Ben-Nahor from old Ur was brought—
Protesting loud he would not yield his son
As slave, at any price, to any one.
“My flesh and blood be sold!
Fie on you! Do you reckon that I prize
My first-begotten as mere merchandise,
To barter him for gold!
A curse on him who would the old man’s stay,
That bears him up, with money buy away!
Require me not to offer child of mine
To serve and brim a tyrant’s cup with wine;
To waste a life from morning to its grave,
Branded in mind and soul and body ‘Slave!’
How could I be repaid?
His artless fondlings, all his childish ways:
The reminiscences of olden days,
That sudden flash and fade,
Of her who bore him—her, my boyhood’s choice—
Resemblances in feature, figure, voice,
In gesture, manner, ay! in very tone
Of pealing laugh, of that dear partner gone?
Thou, Nimrod, to an old man condescend
To hear his story; your attention lend,
And judge if acted well.
Last year to me thou gav’st a goodly steed,
From thine own stud, of purest Yemen breed:
And thus it me befel.
A stranger offered me a price so fair
That I accepted it, and sold the mare.”
“My gift disposed of!” with an angry start,
King Nimrod thundered: “Thou, old man, shalt smart
For this thy avarice. A royal gift,
Thou knowest well, must never owners shift,
As thing of little worth.” Then Terah raised his trembling hands, and said,
“From thine own mouth, O King has judgment sped.
The Lord of Heaven and Earth,
The King of Kings to me my offspring gave,
And shall I sell His gift to be a slave?
Nimrod! that child, which is His royal gift,—
Thy mouth hath said it,—may not owners shift.”
At this time idolatry was commonly practised by all. Nimrod and his servants Terah and his whole house worshipped images of wood and stone. Terah had not only twelve idols of the twelve months which he adored, but he manufactured images and sold them.
One day, when Terah was absent, and Abraham was left to manage the shop, he thought the time had come when he must make his protest against idolatry. This he did as follows. Every purchaser who came, was asked by Abraham his age; if he answered fifty or sixty years old, Abraham exclaimed, “Woe to a man of such an age who adores the work of one day!” and the purchaser withdrew in shame.
Another version of the incident is more full.