Part 3

I seek. Bestow no pity On Failure's courtier. Say: "'Twas well to find the city, But that was yesterday."

THE PILGRIMS

Athirst as the Hadramut, Our spirits correspond With God by all the gamut Of harmony, too fond Of Him for prayer that rifles His treasury for trifles. No load of blessing stifles The Pilgrims of Beyond.

DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE

And yet the empty-handed Hold richer merchandise Than ever fable landed From Dreamland's argosies,

Since we, the symbol-merchants, Are partners with Bulbul. The silversmith of her chants Knows how our chests are full.

In marts, where echoes answer And only they, we trade. But join our caravan, sir, And count your fortune made.

Dawn brings us dazzling offers With fingers gemmed and pearled, And evening fills our coffers As we explain the world,

Green fields and seas that curtsey To us and mock Despair; For blossoms in the dirt see Their spirit in the air.

And Ecstasy our servant Demands no other wage But that we be observant To joy in pilgrimage.

THE MERCHANTS

We do not bid our master Declare His word His bond, Or make His payments faster-- As though He would abscond! We ask Him for too little To strain at jot or tittle. We know our lives are brittle, We Pilgrims of Beyond.

DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE

We come from everlasting Towards eternity, Ho! not in dirge and fasting But lapped in jollity.

Though sackcloth be our clothing We bear no ash but fire. We have no sickly loathing Of youth and youth's desire.

We prize no consummation Of one peculiar creed. We travel for a nation, The one that feels our need.

Our tongue conceals no message, But leaves you free to find, And vaunts itself the presage Of those that come behind.

THE CAMELMEN

Here is no patch of shade. A Fierce wilderness and blonde Links Delhi to Hodeidah, Tashkent to Trebizond. The cargo is our brother's, We march and moil for others, Until the desert smothers The Pilgrims of Beyond.

DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE

Hark how our camels grumble At morn! Would you permit The stone on which you stumble To make you carry it?

And if at last your burden Be cheapened in a shop, Seraglio or Lur den, Should lack of humour stop

The game at its beginning? We lug the stuff of dreams. Earth does her best by spinning, She cannot help the seams;

But you can help to monger The broidery. She may Have made you richer, stronger, To give her best away.

I own no musk or camphor, I have no truck with care, Nor change the thing I am for The things men only wear.

THE SOLDIERS

First cousin of a sieve is The uniform we donned. We slop along on _ghivehs_, In rags caparisonned. No Shah has ever paid us. All brigands mock and raid us, And misery has made us The Pilgrims of Beyond.

DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE

What then! Would you be willing To quit the caravan, And fall again to drilling, Pent in the walled _meidan_,

When history flings open Blank scrolls for you to write Such victories as no pen Has ever brought to light?

You shall not burn as Jengiz, Nor rage like Timur Lang. Your foemen are _ferengis_ Of whom no epic sang.

The housed that blame the tented, Or comfort those that think, The flocks that die contented With settling down to blink

The sun we keep our eyes on, That bow their heads too far To face their own horizon, On these be war on war.

Cursed by the bonds you sever, The bondsmen you release, Go, seek the Land of Fever And find the Land of Ease.

THE CARAVAN

Lift up your hearts, ye singers! We lift them up in song. Behold, the sunset lingers. No less shall night be long. We meet her unaffrighted, Though never bourne be sighted. We _meant_ to be benighted Still moving fleet and strong.

We smooth the stony places For those that else despond. We pass, and leave no traces Save this, a broken frond, And this, that hands once craven Take hardship for the haven Upon whose rocks is graven: "The Pilgrims of Beyond."

XI

THE STORY OF THE SUTLER

And so the song was finished. Then they called To Kizzil Bash, the Sutler of Dilman, "Take up the tale, for you have wandered far Behind strange masters...." Once, he said, I served One of the Roumi lordlings, silver-faced, Who to forget some sorrow or lost love-- Such is their way--came with an embassage To cringe before the Caliph in Stamboul For something sordid, trade.... He mouthed our verse To please his guests, and I corrected him. The man was cypress-sad and lone, but he Could not be silent as the great should be, Because he neither knew his place nor me. The boatman marvelled at his lack of dignity. They knew the currents. He was bent on steering, And spoke of God in terms wellnigh endearing. I see him still, sharp beard, black velvet mantle, ear-ring. He dug with slaves for Greekling manuscript, Danced like a slave-girl when he found, and shipped Westward cracked heads and friezes we had chipped. I saw him kiss a statue, murmuring eager-lipped:

"Fear was born when the woods were young. Chance had gathered an heap of sods, Where the slip of a tree-man's tongue Throned the dam of the elder gods. Twilight, a rustled leaf, Started the first belief In some unearthly Chief Latent behind Cover of aspen shade. Skirting the haunted glade Some one found speech, and prayed. Was it the wind Sniffing his cavern or the demon's laughter? Here from the night he conjured up Hereafter, Quarried the river-mists to house the unseen. Only the woodpecker had found life hollow, And gods went whither none was fain to follow, Because the earth was green And Afterwards was black.

"Man, the child of a tale of rape, Drew the seas with his hunting ships, Cut their prows to a giant's shape, Fitted names to their snarling lips: Gods in his image born, Singing, fierce-eyed, unshorn, Lords of a drinking-horn Five fathoms deep; Holding the one reward Carved by a dripping sword, Feasts, and above them stored Ceiling-high sleep. Save to the conqueror Life was put-off Dying, And Death brought nothing but the irk of lying-- How long--with over-restful hosts abed. The rough immortals, whom he met unshrinking, Spared him from nothing but the pain of thinking. And so the earth was red While Afterwards was grey.

"Jungles thinned, and the clearings merged Where the wandering clans drew breath. Druids rose and the people surged. Then the blessing of Nazareth Fell on them mad and mild, Boasting itself a child. Smite it! And yet it smiled. There, as it kneeled, Lowliness rose to might, Deeming our days a night, Bodily joy a plight Soon to be healed; Gave to one god all credit for creation, But, lest the Path should seem the Destination, Strove to attune man's heartstrings to a rack, Until the soul was fortified to change hells, While saints and poets chanted songs of angels, Confessing earth was black But Afterwards was gold.

"Faith was raised to the power of millions, Went as wine to a single head, Took its chiefs for the sun's postillions, Claimed to speak in its founder's stead; Till in the western skies Reason's epiphanies Beckoned the other-wise Men to rebirth. Doubt, that makes spirits lithe, Woke and began to writhe, Burst through the osier withe, Freed the old earth. Nature cried out again for recognition, Claiming that flesh is more than mere transition, That mouths were made for sweeter things than prayer. Yea, she, that first revealed the superhuman, Out of the depths in us shall bring the new man Who knows that earth is fair, And Afterwards--who knows!"

We knew his childish searching meant no harm, But his own people somehow took alarm; For when his heart was healed, and he returned With songs, 'tis said that he and they were burned. Only this one survived. I put it by Lest one who lived so much should wholly die. He tried to spend far more than every day, And never asked what he would have to pay. To him a pint of music was a potion That set him dabbling in some small emotion. Wherever he could drown he marked an ocean He got no pleasure but the pains he took To bring himself to death by one small book Filled with what he had heard, the babble of a brook.

XII

THE LEGEND OF THE PEASANT

They passed a field of purple _badinjan_. A peasant raised his head to hear the tune, And, seeking some excuse for holiday, He followed humming ballads, this the first:

"It happened say a century ago, Somewhere between Mazanderan and Fars, A Frank was in the picture--that I know-- Mud-walls and roses, cypresses and stars, White dust and shadows black.

"It happened She was loved by more than One, Though no one now recalls the name and rank Of even One, whose heart was like the stone That framed the water of the garden tank Long gone to utter wrack.

"It happened that one night She had a mind To roam her garden. Youth was hidden there, It happened One was watching from behind A Judas-tree, though neither of the pair Heard the twigs sigh and crack.

"It happened that next night She wandered out Once more, and Youth was hiding there again. And One sprang forth upon them with a shout, And fanatics and _seyids_ in his train Streamed in a wolfish pack.

"It happened that the sun found something red Among the Judas-blossoms where Youth lay Upon his face; a crow was on his head, And desert dogs began to sniff and bay At something in his back.

"It happened that none ever knew Her fate-- Except that She was never heard of more-- Save One, and two that through a secret gate-- Perhaps they knew--a struggling burden bore. I think it was a sack."

Some one applauded; then the humming drone Was stung to louder efforts, and went on:

"They staggered down the stiff black avenue, Hiding the sack's convulsions from the moon, To drown its cries they feigned the shrill _iouiou_ Of owls, then dropped it in the swift Karûn, Paused, and admired the view.

"The ripples took her, trying not to leap, But, copying the uneventful sky, Serenely burnished where the stream grows deep They smoothened their staccato lullaby. And so she fell asleep

"Where no sharp rock disturbs the river bed, A moving peace, whose eddies turn half-fain Towards their youth's tumultuous watershed, And slow blank scutcheons widen like a stain Portending Sound is dead.

"No herd or village fouls the shining tide, Till ocean lays a suzerain's armistice On brawling tributaries. Like a bride Greeting her lord it laved her with a kiss, And left her purified.

"But the sea-_Jinn_, who dwell and dress in mauve, And hunt blind monsters down the corridors Between sunk vessels--fishers know the drove, Their horns and conches and the quarry's roars In autumn--hold that love

"Should meet with more than pardon. So the pack Spliced up a wand of all the spillikin spars Flagged with the purple fantasies of wrack, Composed a spell not one of them could parse, And tried it on the sack.

"'Twas filled with pearls! Each _Jinni_ dipped his hand, And scattered trails through labyrinths of ooze, Or sowed gems thick upon the golden sand, Festooned a bed from Bahrein to Ormuz, Muscat to Ras Naband....

"_Hajji_, a deeper meaning than appears Beneath the surface of my song may lurk Like _Jinn_. How oft the crown of gathered years, The dazzling things for which men thank their work, Are made by Woman's tears."

Tous shook his head and grunted, ceaselessly The caravan limped onward to the Gulf.

XIII

THE PROMOTION OF THE SOLDIER

Serdar-i-Jang, the Wazir of the west, Of all mankind had served his country best By weeding it. The terror of his name Lapped up the barren Pusht-i-kuh like flame, Till the Shah smiled: "My other lords of war lose Battles, but he wrings love from my Baharlus."

He smote them hip and thigh. The man was brave. Having four wives, he needs must take for slave Whatever captive baggage crossed his path, And never feared love for its aftermath. Thus fared the Wazir while his locks were blue. The silver in them found him captive too.

The singing caravan in chorus flowed Past the clay porticoes of his abode. She came, he saw, was conquered--like a puppet Drawn to the window, to the street and up it, Forth to the desert, leaving in the lurch His pleasant wars and policies to search

For what? He knew not. Haply for the truth Whose home is open eyes, not dreams or youth. But this he dimly knew, that something strange, Beauty, had come within his vision's range; And a new splendour, running through the world, Drummed at the postern of his senses, hurled

Him forth, this warrior proud and taciturn, Footsore upon a pilgrimage to learn Humility.... These beggars, in whose wake He toiled, ne'er paused for him to overtake Their echoes. When at dusk he joined their ring None rose or bowed. All watched him. Could he sing?

And he could not, for never had he thrown His days away on verse! He sat alone, So that his silence stamped him with the badge Of hanger-on or menial of this _haj_. Thrust as he would with much unseemly din, He found no place beside the palanquin,

Till Seyid Rida, scholar of Nejaf, Took pity on him, saying: "You shall laugh At these black days when, having served your time, You share the sovereignty of Persian rhyme. Be patient, pray to Allah, O my son, For power of worship. It shall come anon...."

Seyid Rida spoke in vain. The Wazir's place So far behind the Queen, her perfect face But half-divined, as Sight denied to Faith, A doubt lest love itself should be a wraith Dazzling but mocking him, these stirred his passion To sworn defiance, to his last Circassian

And thoughts of many a woman taken by force, Restive and then submissive as a horse. And now.... He followed in the wake of vision Lofty and pure as Elburz snows. Derision Would follow him in turn!... He shook his fist Toward the feet his soul would fain have kissed:

"Oh, I was born for women, women, women. Through my still boyhood rang the first alarm; And since that terror ever fresh invaders Have occupied and sacked me to their harm. I am the cockpit where endemic fever Holds the low country in a broken lease From waves that ruined dykes appear to welcome. Only one great emotion spares me--Peace!

"I have grown up for women, women, women; And suffering has had her fill of me. My ears still echo with receding laughter, As shells retain the voices of the sea. I am the gateway only, not the garden, That opens from a crowded thoroughfare. I stand ajar to every passing fancy, And all have knocked, but none have rested there.

"And I shall die for women, women, women, But not for love of them. Adventure calls Or waits with old romance to disappoint me Behind the promise of surrendered walls. I am the vessel of some mad explorer, That sails to seek for treasure in strange lands Without a steersman in a crew of gallants, And, finding fortune, ends with empty hands."

A deathly silence fell. Green-turbaned men Fell noiselessly to sharpening their knives On their bare hardened feet. Seyid Rida sighed: "Alas, your heart is set upon reward For gifts of self. You cannot understand Love loves for nothing, brother. Those who serve God the most purely cannot count that He Will love them in return...." The Wazir scowled. But Dreamer-of-the-Age took him aside, "I would unfold a story like a carpet. The camel Tous told it to me last night:

"King Suleiman's wives were as jewels, his jewels as stones of the desert In number. His concubines herded as desert-gazelles in their grace, That answered his bidding as meekly as all his wild animal kingdom, The beasts and the birds and the fishes. Yet the world was as pitch on his face.

"Now it chanced that the ruler of Saba had news by a merchant of peacocks From this king like a hawk-god of Egypt, whose beak was set deep in the gloom Of his grape-purple beard, and she said: 'We shall see how his vanities stead him When from under the arch of his eyebrows he sees my feet enter his room.'

"For her feet were far whiter than manna. Her body was white as the cry Of a child when the chords of hosanna draw the beauty of holiness nigh. The droop of her eyelids would fan a revolt from Baghdad to Lake Tsana, Her fingers were veined alabaster. The sprites of her escort would sigh,

"As they bathed her with sun set in amber and cooled in the snow of a cloudlet, And taught her chief eunuch to clamber up moonbeams as fleet as a ghost: These, lavish of reed-pipe and tamburine, slaves of the Son of Daoud, let Her palanquin down into Zeila--gambouge and magenta, the coast!"

And the Wazir cried, "Ha!" to the rhymes.

"Round the harbour a hoopoe was strutting, for Suleiman's Seal had appointed Him messenger-bird, and he thought: 'If I bring the good news of this beauty, This Sovereign of Silkiness, I shall harvest great thanks and promotion.' So he flew to the Presence and twittered a text on the pleasure of Duty.

"'Fulfiller of faint Superstition, whose hand rolls the eyeballs of Thunder, And lightens forked tongues on a mission of menace to bat or to eagle! There comes to your portal a vision whose light shall make Israel wonder. Immortal her beauty and mortal her glance that is soft as a seagull.'"

And the Wazir cried, "Hey!" to the rhymes.

"But Suleiman, sated with women and governance, lifted his beak From his beard. Naught escaped the magician, not a thought, not a tone. Ah, he knew All! He said: 'I have measured your mind as my pity has measured my people. We shall speak of reward when she comes; I may live to regret it--and you!

"'Lo, I am the servant of God, whom I serve as you serve me, not asking For pay by each day or each act, but just for the general sum. The work of the world must be done without wage to be done to our credit. We shall profit in claiming our guerdon not by what we are but become.'

"So the Queen came to Kuddus. Mashallah! Shall a picture be limned of her coming! Flushed dancers and lutists athrumming light-limbed as Daoud round the Ark! Crushed roadway and crowd-applause rumbled, loud music, hushed barbarous mumming! To the cry, 'On to Sion' above her, this lover rode straight at her mark!"

And the Wazir cried, "Ho!" to the rhymes.

"She had but to flatter the wizard to win him. He said to the hoopoe: 'I will haggle no more. You shall learn to your cost what the bargainer buys, Whose faith levies toll upon duty, whose trust will not serve me on trust, Or love for Love. On your head be it.' The hoopoe said: '_Cheshm_--on my eyes!'

"All other birds fainted with envy, as Suleiman lifted a digit. Thereon was the Ring-of-most-Magic. Then he spat on the dust from his bed, And the miracle came! for the hoopoe went swaggering out of the presence (So he struts in his walking to-day) with a crown of pure gold on his head.

"But the Jews thus learnt avarice. Some one spread news of the bird-coronation To the ends of the kingdom. The tribes ran out as one man armed with lime, Bows, nets, slings--and slew the hoopoes for the sake of their crowns. There was profit In sport then; none other has liked them so well since King Suleiman's time.

"They divided the spoil till in Israel only our messenger-bird Survived with two fellows.... He fled to Suleiman's closet for _bast_, Sobbing, 'Spare us, O king! Make a sign with the ring that men sing of! We fare as Amalekites. If I have sinned, I am punished. We three are the last

"'Of our race. In your grace turn your face to our case. We place hope in your favour! My brood is a Yahudi's food. Israel--who disputes it--insane For gain. We are slain all day long by the strong sons of Cain. Let us waive our Gold bane for plain down, lest we drown in our own blood! Discrown us again!'"

And the Wazir cried, "Hi!" to the rhymes.