Khalifah Haroun, surnamed Er-Rasheed,
In the calm evening of a festal day,
Ordered his bard, Abu-l’Atahiyeh,
To praise the life it pleased his lord to lead.
The poet bowed and stirred the silver wires,
And sang, ‘Khalifah, peace and pleasure wait
Within the shadow of your palace gate,
And deep fulfilment of your heart’s desires.’
Said Haroun, smiling, ‘Here is silver speech
That shall be sealed with silver; speak again,
And find my bounty boundless as the main
Which knows, so poets say, no further beach.’
Again the poet’s voice and lute allied,
‘Let not the day star nor the night star shine
Upon the hour that leaves a wish of thine,
Thy lightest wish, Haroun, ungratified.’
Still Haroun smiled, ‘This time thy words are gold,
And shall be guerdoned with a golden fee;
Sing on, sweet voice, sing on and comfort me,
Nor ever fear to find thy master cold.’
Then sang Abu-l’Atahiyeh aloud,
‘In those dark moments when thy faltering breath
Shall strive in vain against all-conquering death,
These things shall seem like shadows on a shroud.’
There fell a fearful silence on the place,
While the scared guests saw Haroun from his throne
Frown at the bard, and then, with a deep groan,
Hide in his trembling hands his weeping face.
Straightway a supple courtier standing by
Cried to the singer, ‘Blasted be the throat
Which frights our master with a boding note
In lieu of mirthful music; look to die.’
‘Nay,’ Haroun whispered, ‘do not blame the bard;
He saw our soul benighted, and, like wind,
Dispersed the veil of error. Let him find
My richest gems too poor for his reward.’