Three days the domes of Ghazna
Have gilded Autumn's sky--
Three moonless nights of Autumn
Have slowly glided by.
And now the fourth deep midnight
Is black upon the town,
When from the palace-portals, led
By that grim Stranger at their head,
A troop, all silent as the dead,
With spears, and torches flashing red,
Wind towards the suburbs down.
On foot they march, and midmost
Mahmood the Ghaznavide
Is marching there, his kingly air
_Alone_ not laid aside.
In his fez no ruby blazeth,
No diamonds clasp his vest;
But a light as red is in his eye,
As restless in his breast.
And none who last beheld him
In his superb Divan
Would deem three days could cause his cheek
To look so sunk and wan.
The gates are pass'd in silence,
They march with noiseless stride,
'Till before a lampless dwelling
Stopp'd their grim and sullen guide.
In a little grove of cypress,
From the city-walls remote,
It darkling stood:--He faced Mahmood,
And pointed to the spot.
The Sultan paused one moment
To ease his kaftan's band,
That on his breast too tightly prest,
Then motion'd with his hand:--
"My mace!--put out the torches--
Watch well that none may flee:
Now, force the door, and shut me in,
And leave the rest to me."
He spoke, 'twas done; the wicket
Swung wide--then closed again:
Within stand Mahmood, night, and Lust--
Without, his watching men.
Their watch was short--a struggle--
A sullen sound--a groan--
A breathless interval--and forth
The Sultan comes alone.
None through the pitchy darkness
Might look upon his face,
But they _felt_ the storm that shook him
As he lean'd upon that mace.
Back from his brow the turboosh
He push'd--then calmly said,
"Re-light the torches, enter there,
And bring me forth the dead."
They light the torches, enter,
And bring him forth the dead--
A man of stalwart breadth and bone,
A war-cloak round him spread.
Full on the face the torches
Flash out----a sudden cry
(And those who heard it ne'er will lose
Its echo till they die,)
A sudden cry escapeth
Mahmood's unguarded lips,
A cry as of a suffering soul
Redeemed from Hell's eclipse.
"Oh, Allah! gracious Allah!
Thy servant badly won
This blessing to a father's heart,
'Tis not--'tis NOT my son!
Fly!--tell my joy in Ghazna;--
Before the night is done
Let lighted shrine and blazing street
Proclaim 'tis not my son!
'Tis not Massoud, the wayward,
Who thus the Law defied,
Yet I deem'd that none but my only son
Dared set my oath aside:
Though my frame grew faint from fasting,
Though my soul with grief grew wild,
Upon this spot I would have wrought
stern justice on my child.
I wrought the deed in darkness,
For fear a single ray
Should light his face, and from this heart
Plead the Poor Man's cause away.
Great Allah sees uprightly
I strive my course to run,
And thus rewards his servant----
_This dead_ is not my son!"