C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Sick King in Bokhara
By Matthew Arnold (1822–1888)
OThe cloth-merchants, and let them be,
Them and their dues, this day! the King
Is ill at ease, and calls for thee.
Here in Bokhara! but at noon,
To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay
Each fortieth web of cloth to me,
As the law is, and go your way.
Thou teller of sweet tales,—thine own,
Ferdousi’s, and the others’,—lead!
How is it with my lord?
Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait,
O Vizier! without lying down,
In the great window of the gate,
Looking into the Registàn,
Where through the sellers’ booths the slaves
Are this way bringing the dead man.—
O Vizier, here is the King’s door!
These many days, and heard no thing
(For Allah shut my ears and mind),
Not even what thou dost, O King!
Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,
Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste
To speak in order what hath chanced.
A certain Moollah, with his robe
All rent, and dust upon his hair,
Watched my lord’s coming forth, and pushed
The golden mace-bearers aside,
And fell at the King’s feet, and cried:—
On this great sinner, who did break
The law, and by the law must die!
Vengeance, O King!”
But the King spake:—
“What fool is this, that hurts our ears
With folly? or what drunken slave?
My guards, what, prick him with your spears!
Prick me the fellow from the path!”
And to the mosque my lord passed on.
Went forth again, the holy book
Carried before him, as his right,
And through the square his way he took,
From yesterday, and falling down
Cries out most earnestly:—“O King,
My lord, O King, do right, I pray!
If I speak folly? but a king,
Whether a thing be great or small,
Like Allah, hears and judges all.
In these last days the sun hath burned;
That the green water in the tanks
Is to a putrid puddle turned;
And the canal, that from the stream
Of Samarcand is brought this way,
Wastes, and runs thinner every day.
Alone, and in a darksome place
Under some mulberry trees I found
A little pool; and in short space
With all the water that was there
I filled my pitcher, and stole home
Unseen; and having drink to spare,
I hid the can behind the door,
And went up on the roof to sleep.
And burning dust, again I creep
Down, having fever, for a drink.
The water-pitcher, where it stood
Behind the door upon the ground,
And called my mother; and they all,
As they were thirsty, and the night
Most sultry, drained the pitcher there;
That they sate with it, in my sight,
Their lips still wet, when I came down.
(Most unblest also), at that sight
Brake forth, and cursed them—dost thou hear?—
One was my mother— Now, do right!”
“Send him away, sirs, and make on!
It is some madman!” the King said.
As the King bade, so was it done.
In the King’s path, behold, the man,
Not kneeling, sternly fixed! he stood
Right opposite, and thus began,
Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear!
What, must I howl in the next world,
Because thou wilt not listen here?
And all grace shall to me be grudged?
Nay, but I swear, from this thy path
I will not stir till I be judged!”
Drew close together and conferred;
Till that the King stood forth and said,
“Before the priests thou shalt be heard.”
And the thing heard, they doubted not;
But sentenced him, as the law is,
To die by stoning on the spot.
“Stoned must he be, the law stands so.
Yet, if he seek to fly, give way;
Hinder him not, but let him go.”
And cast it softly;—but the man,
With a great joy upon his face,
Kneeled down, and cried not, neither ran.
That they flew thick and bruised him sore,
But he praised Allah with loud voice,
And remained kneeling as before.
But when one told him, “He is dead,”
Turning him quickly to go in,—
“Bring thou to me his corpse,” he said.
I hear the bearers on the stair;
Wilt thou they straightway bring him in?
—Ho! enter ye who tarry there!
Now must I call thy grief not wise,
Is he thy friend, or of thy blood,
To find such favor in thine eyes?
Still, thou art king, and the law stands.
It were not meet the balance swerved,
The sword were broken in thy hands.
Why for no cause make sad thy face?—
Lo, I am old! Three kings, ere thee,
Have I seen reigning in this place.
Could bear the burden of his years,
If he for strangers pained his heart
Not less than those who merit tears?
And grievous is the grief for these;
This pain alone, which must be borne,
Makes the head white, and bows the knees.
One man is not well made to bear.
Besides, to each are his own friends,
To mourn with him, and show him care.
Though it be great; all the earth round,
If a man bear to have it so,
Things which might vex him shall be found.
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!
Clear in these things I cannot see.
My head is burning, and a heat
Is in my skin which angers me.
They that bear rule, and are obeyed,
Unto a rule more strong than theirs
Are in their turn obedient made.
Gazing up hither, the poor man
Who loiters by the high-heaped booths,
Below there in the Registàn,
With silken raiment, store of rice,
And for this drought, all kinds of fruits,
Grape-syrup, squares of colored ice,
In vain hath a king power to build
Houses, arcades, enameled mosques;
And to make orchard-closes, filled
With cisterns for the winter rain;
And in the desert, spacious inns
In divers places—if that pain
If his will be not satisfied;
And that it be not, from all time
The law is planted, to abide.
Thou wast athirst, and didst not see
That, though we take what we desire,
We must not snatch it eagerly.
And rooms of treasures, not a few,
But I am sick, nor heed I these;
And what I would, I cannot do.
When I am dead, will soon grow still;
So have I neither joy nor fame—
But what I can do, that I will.
Upon a hill on the right hand,
Hard by a close of apricots,
Upon the road of Samarcand;
This man my pity could not save,
And plucking up the marble flags,
There lay his body in my grave.
Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb!
Then say:—“He was not wholly vile,
Because a king shall bury him.”