From fair Damascus, as the day grew late,
Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas' gate
Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard
Vie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird.
But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet
The lovely lines of gold and violet,
A guerdon left by the departing sun
To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon.
Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed,
And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade
Seemed but the presage of his doom to be,--
Death, and the triumph of his enemy.
"_One slain by slander_" cried he, with a laugh,
"Thus should the poets frame my epitaph,
Above whose mouldering dust it will be said,
'Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!'"
Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spake
From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake,
Hailing the night's first blossom in the sky.
And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh
The orchard-garden where his home was hid
Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid.
Despair mocked at him from the latticed gate
Where Love and Happiness had lain in wait
With tender greetings, and the lights within
Gleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been.
Fair Hope who daily poured into his ear
Her rainbow promises gave way to Fear
Who smote him blindly, leaving him to moan
With bitter tears before the gateway prone.
Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve,
When lo! a sudden hand touched Kafur's sleeve,
And then a voice cried, echoing his name,
"Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame!'"
Up sprang the prostrate man, and while he stood
Gripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood,
He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight;
Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur's night.
"Allah is just," he said.... Then burning ire
With vengeance visions filled his brain like fire;
And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late,
Delirious with delight he hugged his hate.
"Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn?
This night mine enemy shall know my scorn."
The stars looked down in wo'nder overhead
As backward Kafur toward Damascus sped.
The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief,
Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf;
Into the bird's song pleading notes had crept,
The happy fountains in the gardens wept,
And e'en the river, with its restless roll,
Seemed calling "pity" unto Kafur's soul.
"Allah" he cried, "O chasten thou my heart;
Move me to mercy, and a nobler part!"
Slow strode he on, the while a new-born grace
Softened the rigid outlines of his face,
Nor paused he till he struck, as ne'er before,
A ringing summons on his foeman's door.
His mantle half across his features thrown,
He won the spacious inner court unknown,
Where, on a deep divan, lay stretched his foe,
Sipping his sherbet cool with Hermon snow;
Who, when he looked on Kafur, hurled his hate
Upon him, wrathful and infuriate,
Bidding him swift begone, and think to feel
A judge's sentence and a jailer's steel.
"Hark ye!" cried Kafur, at this burst of rage
Holding aloft a rolled parchment page;
"Prayers and not threats were more to thy behoof;
Thine is the danger, see! I hold the proof.
Should I seek out the Caliph in his bower
To-morrow when the mid-muezzin hour
Has passed, and lay before his eyes this scrip,
Silence would seal forevermore thy lip.
"Ay! quail and cringe and crook the supple knee,
And beg thy life of me, thine enemy,
Whom thou, a moment since, didst doom to death.
I will not breathe suspicion's lightest breath
Against thy vaunted fame: and even though
Before all men thou'st sworn thyself my foe,
And pledged thyself wrongly to wreak on me
Thy utmost power of mortal injury,
In spite of this, should I be first to die
And win the bowers of the blest on high,
Beside the golden gate of Paradise
Thee will I wait with ever-watchful eyes,
Ready to plead forgiveness for thy sin,
If thou shouldst come, and shouldst not enter in.
"Should Allah hear my plea, how sweet! how sweet!
For then would Kafur's vengeance be complete."