Hark how our camels grumble At morn! Would you permit The stone on which you stumble To make you carry it? And if at last your burden Be cheapened in a shop, Seraglio or Lur den, Should lack of humour stop The game at its beginning? We lug the stuff of dreams. Earth does her best by spinning, She cannot help the seams; But you can help to monger The broidery. She may Have made you richer, stronger, To give her best away. I own no musk or camphor, I have no truck with care, Nor change the thing I am for The things men only wear. THE SOLDIERS First cousin of a sieve is The uniform we donned. We slop along on _ghivehs_, In rags caparisonned. No Shah has ever paid us. All brigands mock and raid us, And misery has made us The Pilgrims of Beyond. DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE What then! Would you be willing To quit the caravan, And fall again to drilling, Pent in the walled _meidan_, When history flings open Blank scrolls for you to write Such victories as no pen Has ever brought to light? You shall not burn as Jengiz, Nor rage like Timur Lang. Your foemen are _ferengis_ Of whom no epic sang. The housed that blame the tented, Or comfort those that think, The flocks that die contented With settling down to blink The sun we keep our eyes on, That bow their heads too far To face their own horizon, On these be war on war. Cursed by the bonds you sever, The bondsmen you release, Go, seek the Land of Fever And find the Land of Ease. THE CARAVAN Lift up your hearts, ye singers! We lift them up in song. Behold, the sunset lingers. No less shall night be long. We meet her unaffrighted, Though never bourne be sighted. We _meant_ to be benighted Still moving fleet and strong. We smooth the stony places For those that else despond. We pass, and leave no traces Save this, a broken frond, And this, that hands once craven Take hardship for the haven Upon whose rocks is graven: "The Pilgrims of Beyond." XI THE STORY OF THE SUTLER