  Ishmael, the Sultan, in the Ramadan, Amid his guards, bristling with yataghan, And kris,—his amins, viziers wisdom-gray, Pachas and Marabouts, betook his way Through Mekinez. For he had read the word That in the Koran says, "Slay! praying the Lord! Pray! slaying the victims!" so the Sultan went Straight to the mosque, his mind on battle bent. In white burnoose and sea-green caftan clad He entered ere the last muezzin had Summoned the faithful unto prayer and let The "Allah Akbar" from the minaret Invite to worship. 'Neath the lamps' lit gold The many knelt and prayed. Upon the old Mosaics of the mosque—whose high vault steamed With aloes' incense—lean ecstatics dreamed Of Allah and his Prophet, and how great Is God, and how unstable man's estate. Conviction on him in this chanting low Of Koran texts, the Caliph's passion so Exalted soared—lamped by religious awe— Himseemed he heard God's everlasting law 'Gainst unbelievers; and himself confessed The Faith's anointed sword; and, so impressed, Arose and spoke. The arabesques above— The marvellous work of oriental love— Seemed, with new splendors of Heaven's blue and gold, Applauding all. And, ere the gates were rolled, Ogival, back to let the many forth, War was declared on all the Christian Earth. Now had his army passed the closed bazaar, Thro' narrow streets gorged with the streams of war: Had passed the place of tombs and reached the wall Of Mekinez, above which,—over all Its merloned battlements,—in long array, Seraglios and towers, his palace gray Could still be seen when, girt with pomp and state, The Sultan passed the city's scolloped gate. Two dozing beggars, each one's face a sore, Sprawl'd in the sun the city's gate before; A leprous cripple and a thief, whose eyes— Burnt out with burning iron—as supplies The law for thieves—were wounds, fly-swarmed and raw,— Lifted shrill voices as they heard or saw; Praised God, and bowed into the dust each face, With words of "victory and Allah's grace Attend our Caliph, Mouley-Ishmael! Even at the cost of ours his day be well!" And grimly smiling as he grimly passed, "While Allah's glory is and still shall last— Now by Es Sirat!—will a leper's word And thief's avail to help us?—By my sword!— Yea, let us see. Whatever their intent Even as 'tis offered let their necks be bent! 'Though words be pious, evil at the soul The prayer is naught!—So let their prayer be whole. Better than gold is death, meseems, for these: So by the hands of you, my Soudanese, They die," he said; and even as he said Rolled in the dust each writhing, withered head. And frowning westward, as the day grew late, Two bleeding heads stared from the city gate 'Neath this inscription for the passer-by, "There is no virtue but in God most high." |
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