Look, this is but one single place, Though it be great; all the earth round, If a man bear to have it so, Things which might vex him shall be found. Upon the Russian frontier, where The watchers of two armies stand Near one another, many a man, Seeking a prey unto his hand, Hath snatch'd a little fair-hair'd slave; They snatch also, towards Merve, The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep, And up from thence to Orgunje. And these all, labouring 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 obey'd, 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-heap'd booths, Below there, in the Registan, Says: "Happy he, who lodges there! With silken raiment, store of rice, And for this drought, all kinds of fruits, Grape-syrup, squares of colour'd ice, "With cherries serv'd in drifts of snow." In vain hath a king power to build Houses, arcades, enamell'd mosques; And to make orchard-closes, fill'd 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 lighten'd, 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 honour 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;