So Dara shepherded a province wide, Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride Than in his crook before; but Envy finds More soil in cities than on mountains bare, And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds. Soon it was whispered at the royal ear That, though wise Dara's province, year by year, Like a great sponge, drew wealth and plenty up, Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest, Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest, Went to the filling of his private cup. For proof, they said that whereso'er he went A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent, Went guarded, and no other eye had seen What was therein, save only Dara's own, Yet, when 'twas opened, all his tent was known To glow and lighten with heapt jewels' sheen. The king set forth for Dara's province straight, Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate The viceroy met him with a stately train; And there, with archers circled, close at hand, A camel with the chest was seen to stand, The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain. "Open me now," he cried, "yon treasure-chest!" 'Twas done, and only a worn shepherd's vest Was found within; some blushed and hung the head, Not Dara; open as the sky's blue roof He stood, and "O, my lord, behold the proof That I was worthy of my trust!" he said. "For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had; My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad, Still to the unstained past kept true and leal, Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air, And Fortune's heaviest gifts serenely bear, Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel. "To govern wisely I had shown small skill Were I not lord of simple Dara still; That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!" Strange dew in royal eyes grew round, and bright And thrilled the trembling lids; before 'twas night Two added provinces blest Dara's sway. TO J. F. H. Nine years have slipped like hour-glass sand From life's fast-emptying globe away, Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, And lingered on the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay. I held the keepsake which you gave, Until the dim smoke-pennon curled O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And closed the distance like a grave, Leaving me to the outer world; The old worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and scope; While you, where silent surges fleet Toward far sky beaches still and sweet, Sunk wavering down the ocean-slope. Come back our ancient walks to tread, Old haunts of lost or scattered friends, Amid the Muses' factories red, Where song, and smoke, and laughter sped The nights to proctor-hunted ends.