  Upon a day in Ramadan— When sunset brought an end of fast, And in his station every man Prepared to share the glad repast— Sate Mohtasim in royal state, The pillaw smoked upon the gold; The fairest slave of those that wait Mohtasim's jewelled cup did hold. Of crystal carven was the cup, With turquoise set along the brim, A lid of amber closed it up; 'Twas a great king that gave it him. The slave poured sherbet to the brink, Stirred in wild honey and pomegranate, With snow and rose-leaves cooled the drink, And bore it where the Caliph sate. The Caliph's mouth was dry as bone, He swept his beard aside to quaff:— The news-reader beneath the throne, Went droning on with ghain and kaf.— The Caliph drew a mighty breath, Just then the reader read a word— And Mohtasim, as grim as death, Set down the cup and snatched his sword. "Ann' amratan shureefatee!" "Speak clear!" cries angry Mohtasim; "Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji,"— Trembling the newsman read to him How in Ammoria, far from home, An Arab girl of noble race Was captive to a lord of Roum; And how he smote her on the face, And how she cried, for life afraid, "Ya, Mohtasim! help, O my king!" And how the Kafir mocked the maid, And laughed, and spake a bitter thing, Are long as Barak's—if he heed— Your prophet's ass; and when he hears, He'll come upon a spotted steed!" The Caliph's face was stern and red, He snapped the lid upon the cup; "Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said, "Till such time as I drink it up. Wallah! the stream my drink shall be, My hollowed palm my only bowl, Till I have set that lady free, And seen that Roumi dog's head roll." At dawn the drums of war were beat, Proclaiming, "Thus saith Mohtasim, 'Let all my valiant horsemen meet, And every soldier bring with him A spotted steed,'" So rode they forth, A sight of marvel and of fear; Pied horses prancing fiercely north; The crystal cup borne in the rear! When to Ammoria he did win, He smote and drove the dogs of Roum, And rode his spotted stallion in, Crying, "Labbayki! I am come!" Then downward from her prison-place Joyful the Arab lady crept; She held her hair before her face, She kissed his feet, she laughed and wept. She pointed where that lord was laid: They drew him forth, he whined for grace: Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said— "She whom thou smotest on the face Had scorn, because she called her king: Lo! he is come! and dost thou think To live, who didst this bitter thing While Mohtasim at peace did drink?" Flashed the fierce sword—rolled the lord's head; The wicked blood smoked in the sand. "Now bring my cup!" the Caliph said. Lightly he took it in his hand, Mohtasim in his saddle laughed, And cried, "Taiba asshrab alan! By God! delicious is this draught!" |
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