[THE CALIPH.]
| In ancient days the Caliph Almamon A palace built in Bagdad, fairer far Than was the vaunted house of Solomon. The portico a hundred columns graced Of purest alabaster. Gold and blue And jasper formed the rich mosaic floor. Ceiled with the fragrant cedar, suites of rooms Displayed a wealth of sculpture; treasures rare In art and nature vied; fair flowers and gems, Perfumes and scented myrtles; verdure soft And piercing lustre; past the embroidered couch The gushing fountains rolled on dancing wave. And beauty reigned o'er all. Near this abode, but just beyond the gate, A simple cottage stood, old and dilapidate, The home of a poor weaver. There, content With little gain procured by labour long, Without a debt and thus beyond a care, The old man lived, forgotten perhaps, but free. His days all peaceful softly wore away And he nor envied was, nor envying. As hath been told, his small and mean retreat, Just masked the palace gates. The Grand Vizier Would pull it down, without formality Of law, or word of grace. More just his lord Commands to buy it first. To hear is to obey; They seek the weaver's bearing bags of gold; "These shalt thou have." "No; keep your lordly sum, My workshop yields my needs," responds the man, "And for my house, I have no wish to sell; Here was I born, and here my father died: [!-- Begin Page 148 --] And here would I die too. The Caliph may, Should he so will, force me to leave the place And pull my cottage down, but should he so Each day would find me seated on the stone The last that's left, weeping my misery. I know Almamon's heart; 'twill pity me." This bold reply the Vizier's choler raised; He would the rascal punish, and at once Pull down the sorry hut. Not so the Caliph: "No; while it stands my glory lives," saith he, "My treasure shall be taxed to make it whole; And of my reign it shall be monument; For when my heirs shall this fair palace mark They shall exclaim 'How great was Almamon!' And when yon cottage 'Almamon was just!'" —Florian. |
[THE BLIND MAN AND THE PARALYTIC.]
| Kindly let us help each other, Lighter will our burden lie, For the good we do our brother Is a solace pure and high,— So Confucius to his people, To his friends, the wise Chinese, Oft affirmed, and to persuade them, Told them stories such as these:— In an Asiatic city Dwelt two miserable men,— Misery knows nor clime nor country, Haunts alike the dome or den— Blind the one, the other palsied, Each so poor he prayed for death; Yet he lived, his invocations Seeming naught but wasted breath. On his wretched mattress lying, In the busy public square, See the wasted paralytic Suffering more that none doth care. Butt for everybody's humour, Gropes the blind his devious way, Guide, nor staff, nor helper has he, To supply the light's lost ray; E'en a poor dog's willing service, Love, and guidance are denied; Till one day his groping finds him By the paralytic's side. There he hears the sufferer's moaning, And his very soul is moved. He's the truest sympathizer Who, like sorrow, erst has proved. [!-- Begin Page 150 --] "I have, sorrows, thou hast others, Brother, let us join our woes, And their rigours will be softened," Thus the blind began propose. "Ah, my friend, thou little knowest That a step I cannot take; Thou art blind; what should we gain then Of two burdens one to make?" "Why, now, brother, see how lucky, 'Twixt us both is all we lack: Thou hast eyes, be thou the guide then, Thee I'll carry on my back; Thus without unfriendly question As to which bears heaviest load, I will walk for thee, and thou, friend, Choose for me the smoothest road." —Florian. |