Now while we gossiped, lounging slow along The packed bazaar, a fisher with his nets Passed, singing Abou Newas' newest song: A honey-merchant, then, his tinkling mule All hanap-hung with sweetness: then a throng Of scholars and their Sheikh from mosque or school: A milk-white woman on a cream-white ass, Black slaves attending.... And--I am no fool!-- I knew her of the Court, the noblest class, By her gem-bangled bracelets.... Let Haroun On the Euphrates with Zubeideh pass A single day, at royal Rekkeh,--noon And night his harem here, so it is said, Is all intrigue.--Then drawling out his tune, "Ten thousand pieces to be paid, be paid, For Yehya's head, Er Reshid's late vizier," A crier passed us. Then the market's shade Glittered with weapons; and we seemed to hear, Sword of the Khalif, Mesrour, and commands Naming the Khalif. One swart officer Flamed forth the Sultan's signet. And harsh hands Were laid on--whom?--I saw not! For my sight Was dazzled by the scimitars,--from bands Of jeweled belts that burned,--and, keen and bright, Swift hedged us out. Then broad the red blood dyed The ground around a body--and, hoar white, Was raised a severed head.--And, stupefied, Elbowing the rabble, "By my beard!" I cried, Marking the face, "Jaafer the Barmecide!" A PRE-EXISTENCE. An intimation of some previous life? Or dark dream--by my waking soul divined-- Of some uncertain sleep? in which the sin Of some past life, a life that some one lived-- Not I, yet I,--long, long ago in Spain, I live again.... Wherein again I see From heathen battles to Toledo's gates,-- Damascened corselet broken, his camail And armet shattered,--deep within the eve's Anger of brass, that burned around his helm, A hurrying flame,--a galloping glitter,--one Ride arrow-wounded. And the city catch Wild tumult from his coming, wilder fear-- A cry before him and a wail behind, Of walls beleaguered; ravin; conquered kings: Triumphant Taric; shackled Spain--revenge. And I, a Moslem slave, a miser Jew's, Housed near the Tagus--squalid and alone, Save for his slave,--a dog he beat and starved,-- Leaner than my lank shadow when the moon, A battle beacon, westerns; all my bones A visible hunger; famished with the fear, Soul-garb of slaves, I bore him--I, who held Him, heart and soul, more hated than his God, Stood silent. Fools had laughed. I saw my way.