At sound of that dread voice did ‘Umer now awake,
And straight himself disposed that task to undertake.
Towards the burial-ground he turned his steps amain,
The money in his breast, to seek the stranger, fain.
He walked about the ground, right, left, and everywhere.
No second soul was seen; the minstrel only there. 275
Thought he: “This cannot be my quest.” So, off again
He wandered; still no other offered; this was plain.
He said within himself: “The Lord of servant spake,
Devout, approved, accepted, loved for God’s own sake.
An ancient minstrel this. Of God can he be loved?
Some mystery is here. Hail, riddle, by God moved!
Once more he wandered o’er the spacious burial-ground,
As lion seeking for his prey goes round and round.
Convinced at length no other was there choice to make,
He thought: “When I’m in doubt, light from above I take.” 280
Respectfully he then approached the sleeping guest.
A sneezing seized him. Straight the harper woke from rest.
When ‘Umer he espied, he marvelled, sore amazed;
And rose to go away. Fear’s tremor held him dazed.
He thought: “O Lord, have mercy Thou on me!
This magistrate austere no harper ’ll kindly see.”
Now ‘Umer him considered; saw he was afraid;
His cheeks all pale and wan; looks, modest as a maid;
Then said: “Fear not! From me seek not to go away;
Good tidings from on high to thee I bring this day. 285
Of thee the Lord hath spoken in terms of highest praise.
The heart of ‘Umer’s moved to love thee and thy lays.
Be seated, then, by me, as friend by side of friend;
While I to thee impart the message God doth send.
The Lord doth thee salute; thy welfare doth inquire;
Trusts thou’st supported well all thy afflictions dire.
This trifle sends for present needs, as harpstrings’ worth.
When it is spent, come here again, and fear not dearth.”
The old man trembled as he heard those words so kind;
His finger in astonishment he bit;--near lost his mind. 290
Then cried aloud: “O God! Thou all-unequalled One!
In my old age I sink for shame; this mercy I’ve not won.”
A torrent, now, of tears, he shed, in anguish deep;
His harp then dashed to pieces. Why it longer keep?
He thus apostrophised it: “O thou source of ill!
Thou’st barred me from heaven’s path, as highwaymen who kill.
My blood thou’st sucked these seventy years, thou thing of shame!
Through thee I’m rendered vile in eyes of men of fame.
O Lord, Most Merciful! Thou giver of all good!
My past life pardon, squandered ill, in heedless mood!” 295