Hath snatched a little fair-haired slave; They snatch also, towards Mervè, The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep, And up from thence to Orgunjè. And these all, laboring for a lord, Eat not the fruit of their own hands; Which is the heaviest of all plagues, To that man’s mind who understands. The kaffirs also (whom God curse!) Vex one another, night and day; There are the lepers, and all sick; There are the poor, who faint alway. All these have sorrow, and keep still, Whilst other men make cheer, and sing. Wilt thou have pity on all these? No, nor on this dead dog, O king! THE KING. O vizier, thou art old, I young! Clear in these things I cannot see. My head is burning, and a heat Is in my skin which angers me. But hear ye this, ye sons of men! They that bear rule, and are obeyed, Unto a rule more strong than theirs Are in their turn obedient made. In vain therefore, with wistful eyes Gazing up hither, the poor man, Who loiters by the high-heaped booths, Below there, in the Registàn,-- Says, “Happy he who lodges there! With silken raiment, store of rice, And for this drought, all kinds of fruits, Grape-sirup, squares of colored ice,-- “With cherries served in drifts of snow.” In vain hath a king power to build Houses, arcades, enamelled mosques; And to make orchard-closes, filled With curious fruit-trees brought from far, With cisterns for the winter-rain, And, in the desert, spacious inns In divers places,--if that pain Is not more lightened, which he feels, If his will be not satisfied; And that it be not, from all time The law is planted, to abide. Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man! Thou wast athirst; and didst not see, That, though we take what we desire, We must not snatch it eagerly. And I have meat and drink at will, And rooms of treasures, not a few. But I am sick, nor heed I these; And what I would, I cannot do. Even the great honor which I have, When I am dead, will soon grow still; So have I neither joy, nor fame. But what I can do, that I will. I have a fretted brick-work tomb Upon a hill on the right hand, Hard by a close of apricots, Upon the road of Samarcand; Thither, O vizier, will I bear This man my pity could not save, And, plucking up the marble flags, There lay his body in my grave. Bring water, nard, and linen-rolls! Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb! Then say, “He was not wholly vile, Because a king shall bury him.” _BALDER DEAD._[6] I. SENDING.