At Haroun's court it chanced, upon a time, An Arab poet made this pleasant rhyme: "The new moon is a horseshoe, wrought of God, Wherewith the Sultan's stallion shall be shod." On hearing this, the Sultan smiled, and gave The man a gold-piece. Sing again, O slave! Above his lute the happy singer bent, And turned another gracious compliment. And, as before, the smiling Sultan gave The man a sekkah. Sing again, O slave! Again the verse came, fluent as a rill That wanders, silver-footed, down a hill. The Sultan, listening, nodded as before, Still gave the gold, and still demanded more. The nimble fancy that had climbed so high Grew weary with its climbing by and by: Strange discords rose; the sense went quite amiss; The singer's rhymes refused to meet and kiss: Invention flagged, the lute had got unstrung, And twice he sang the song already sung. The Sultan, furious, called a mute, and said, O Musta, straightway whip me off his head! Poets! not in Arabia alone You get beheaded when your skill is gone. Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907] |