Verses 1889-1896 Part 8

But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon him fell, The King behind his shoulder spake: "Dead man, thou dost not well!

'Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night; And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write.

But three days hence, if G.o.d be good, and if thy strength remain, Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless me in thy pain.

For I am merciful to all, and most of all to thee.

My butcher of the shambles, rest -- no knife hast thou for me!"

_Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, holds hard by the South and the North; But the Ghilzai knows, ere the melting snows, when the swollen banks break forth, When the red-coats crawl to the sungar wall, and his Usbeg lances fail: Ye have heard the song -- How long? How long?

Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl!_

They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was in the sky, According to the written word, "See that he do not die."

They stoned him till the stones were piled above him on the plain, And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled back again.

One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered thing, And him the King with laughter called the Herald of the King.

It was upon the second night, the night of Ramazan, The watcher leaning earthward heard the message of Yar Khan.

From shattered breast through shrivelled lips broke forth the rattling breath, "Creature of G.o.d, deliver me from agony of Death."

They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby: "Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!"

"Bid him endure until the day," a lagging answer came; "The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name."

Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day once more: "Creature of G.o.d, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!"

They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of his pain, And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again.

Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing, So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King.

_Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told, He has opened his mouth to the North and the South, they have stuffed his mouth with gold.

Ye know the truth of his tender ruth -- and sweet his favours are: Ye have heard the song -- How long? How long?

from Balkh to Kandahar._

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST

When spring-time flushes the desert gra.s.s, Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pa.s.s.

Lean are the camels but fat the frails, Light are the purses but heavy the bales, As the s...o...b..und trade of the North comes down To the market-square of Peshawur town.

In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill, A kafila camped at the foot of the hill.

Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose, And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose; And the picketed ponies, s.h.a.g and wild, Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled; And the bubbling camels beside the load Sprawled for a furlong adown the road; And the Persian p.u.s.s.y-cats, brought for sale, Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale; And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food; And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood; And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk A savour of camels and carpets and musk, A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke, To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke.

The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high, The knives were whetted and -- then came I To Mahbub Ali the muleteer, Patching his bridles and counting his gear, Crammed with the gossip of half a year.

But Mahbub Ali the kindly said, "Better is speech when the belly is fed."

So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep, And he who never hath tasted the food, By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good.

We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease, We lay on the mats and were filled with peace, And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south, With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth.

Four things greater than all things are, -- Women and Horses and Power and War.

We spake of them all, but the last the most, For I sought a word of a Russian post, Of a s.h.i.+fty promise, an unsheathed sword And a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford.

Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes In the fas.h.i.+on of one who is weaving lies.

Quoth he: "Of the Russians who can say?

When the night is gathering all is gray.

But we look that the gloom of the night shall die In the morning flush of a blood-red sky.

Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies?

We know what Heaven or h.e.l.l may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King.

That unsought counsel is cursed of G.o.d Attesteth the story of Wali Dad.

"His sire was leaky of tongue and pen, His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen; And the colt bred close to the vice of each, For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech.

Therewith madness -- so that he sought The favour of kings at the Kabul court; And travelled, in hope of honour, far To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are.

There have I journeyed too -- but I Saw naught, said naught, and -- did not die!

He harked to rumour, and s.n.a.t.c.hed at a breath Of 'this one knoweth' and 'that one saith', -- Legends that ran from mouth to mouth Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South.

These have I also heard -- they pa.s.s With each new spring and the winter gra.s.s.

"Hot-foot southward, forgotten of G.o.d, Back to the city ran Wali Dad, Even to Kabul -- in full durbar The King held talk with his Chief in War.

Into the press of the crowd he broke, And what he had heard of the coming spoke.

"Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled, As a mother might on a babbling child; But those who would laugh restrained their breath, When the face of the King showed dark as death.

Evil it is in full durbar To cry to a ruler of gathering war!

Slowly he led to a peach-tree small, That grew by a cleft of the city wall.

And he said to the boy: 'They shall praise thy zeal So long as the red spurt follows the steel.

And the Russ is upon us even now?

Great is thy prudence -- await them, thou.

Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong, Surely thy vigil is not for long.

The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran?

Surely an hour shall bring their van.

Wait and watch. When the host is near, Shout aloud that my men may hear.'

"Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies?

A guard was set that he might not flee -- A score of bayonets ringed the tree.

The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow, When he shook at his death as he looked below.

By the power of G.o.d, who alone is great, Till the seventh day he fought with his fate.

Then madness took him, and men declare He mowed in the branches as ape and bear, And last as a sloth, ere his body failed, And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed, And sleep the cord of his hands untied, And he fell, and was caught on the points and died.

"Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies?

We know what Heaven or h.e.l.l may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King.

Of the gray-coat coming who can say?

When the night is gathering all is gray.

Two things greater than all things are, The first is Love, and the second War.

And since we know not how War may prove, Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!"

WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI

_More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi, an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps, on his saddle-bow. He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety.

A Maratta trooper tells the story:--_