Part 5

"The myrtles of Damascus, The poppies of Shiraz, Have sent the breeze to ask us If they are dumb, because Wisdom and one that had her To wife still hug the fence, Where we have left a ladder To rescue men from sense."

The cypress swayed. Hard by another voice Climbed the twin tree, and thus its theme began:

"Young man, Shirín is out of date. We have to thank the West That Attar's latest is too late To waken Interest, And one of Love's great names, Majnûn, Is now generic for a loon.

"Our crust is cooling, and the bent For culture bears its fruit, As we that weed out sentiment Likewise outgrow the brute; While Providence matures a blend That pure philosophers commend

"In logic. Constancy declined Because we pruned our morals. Love practises the change of mind That ethics preach in quarrels...."

There cried the Dreamer: "Who are you that mock Exiles in search of that from which they came, Intent to know themselves and so the Lord Whose ways are as the number of men's souls? By these we compass our escape from Self, The mirage in the waste through which we pass Across the bridge Phantasmal to the Real; Until, forgetting Self, we see in All The Loved that leads us to the eternal beauty Shown in a thousand mirrors yet but one. These are the Sufi tenets. What of you?" From the first tree the quavering voice replied:

"It is my double, Peder Sag, The summit of the civilized Above such heats as woman or flag. It is my double, Peder Sag, Who bows the poet to the wag, The hero to the undersized. It is my double, Peder Sag, The summit of the civilized.

"His mission is to educate By atrophy, the cure for spasm, And so to serve the future state. His mission is to educate A world of fellowships that hate One living thing--enthusiasm. His mission is to educate By atrophy, the cure for spasm.

"He dresses us in faultless drab. His colour-scheme for you is tan, And, level as a marble slab, He dresses us in faultless drab. Him urchins call Abu Kilab: The Father-of-the-Modern-Man. He dresses us in faultless drab. His colour-scheme for you is tan.

"My double did a deal for truth. He teaches balance to the Young, And knows a better thing than youth. My double did a deal for truth, His emblem is the wisdom tooth, A flowery and fruitless tongue. My double did a deal for truth. He teaches balance to the Young."

Serdar-i-Jang impatient pulled his beard And growling Tous his bridle: "Let him be The fool I was, and so mine enemy From whom I part in peace." Farid Bahadur Shrugged that: "Our wares are not for such as these."

Once more the Brain: "I might have come with you, Leaving my gloomy castle in the air, For, overgrown with tangles, in its flank Lies hid the thrice-veiled door of happiness; Only--my double has mislaid the key."

Seyid Rida laughed and answered: "We have found it." The Lover knocked: "'Tis I!" The Loved One made reply: "There is no room for two Beyond the Gateway." In solitude he learned The Secret; so returned Saying: "O Love, 'tis you." And entered straightway.

A wicket opened gently of itself, And so a sceptic joined the caravan.

XVII

THE PRIDE OF THE TAILOR

Oh, sliding down the desert from Shiraz The tailor-man from Meshed tore his hose: A crowning test, a broken man! "Ah, was I born that fate might practise fancy-blows?

"The road is rougher than a magnate's mirth Toward the humble, long as a bad debt. I cannot dream of any woman worth This cloth. To me 'twas dearer than a pet."

Then Dreamer-of-the-Age cried: "Bring me thread Strong as the bridge as they call Pul-i-Katûn! For Meshed's champion tailor-man is dead Unless his wounded pride be succoured soon."

Launched on the seaward slope the pilgrims went On to the gulf, and heard, athwart the dim Night echoing, a sufferer's lament And Dreamer-of-the-Age consoling him:

"The night fits down on the desert, brother; We are drawn there-through like a piece of thread. The steepened sky and the vastness smother Uneasy sleep in her league-wide bed. Rocked to and fro with a camel's burden On broken tracks, that are thin as scars, We near the Gulf. Have we seen our guerdon?" "Yea, every night we have seen the stars."

"The dust is thick, and our own feet raise it. Our eyes were clear did our feet but rest. We give our heart and no sign repays it. What need we ever a further test! We drift along with the old dumb neighbour In the old blind alley we call our goal, Hope: all that comes of a soul's life-labour." "It was the labour that made the soul."

"We stride ahead, but in every village A brother faints and a weakness falls. The tribes that till and the tribes that pillage Are reconciled with the life that palls. Oh, townsmen tread to a fixed thanksgiving, But what of us, if these pitying throngs Should ask the end of our harder living?" "God knows the answer. They know our songs,

"The coloured patch on the background, Silence, The gleaming thought that is Love's to wear Undimmed through space to a myriad-while hence. Could the hands be worthy that knew not care To weave Love's garb? Though we needs must suffer, Shall we sing the worse that we sing in vain? Our songs shall rise as the road grows rougher. In the breathless hills, in the fevered plain,

"They mount as sparks from the night's oases, And fall far short of the idol's feet. They are stored by God in his secret places, The least-lit stars of his darkest street. Yet ten worlds hence they shall dance, my brother, To travelling winds.... If our songs were worth One gleam of light to the Way of Another, We bless the sorrow that gave them birth."

XVIII

THE HISTORY OF THE ADVENTURER

So to the journey's end. The Gulf was there Steaming and soundless, and the weary feet Were stayed at last from following the Queen. The great _dhow_ nosed the creek; slow water lapped About her burnished; burnished in her sat Unmoving bronze, her oarsmen. Then they rose: "Hail, Bringers of the Queen!" "Hail, ship! you bear What cargo hence?" "We carry on your charge." "But leave us nothing--nothing in exchange?" "Only the ancient story of a slave. There lies a secret buried none too deep."

Thus the chief rower. This the far-off tale.

I dwelled beside the impulsive Rhone, a child that loved to be alone. The forest was my nursery. My happiness was all my own.

I knew by name each cloud that lowers the sunshine through in liquid showers. Deep in the tangled undergrowth I caught the singing of the flowers.

Our minstrels sang of rape and arson, all the joys of private wars. The forest wall was calm and tall. My tutor laughed, and drank to Mars.

Bald, vulture-like upon its perch, our crag-born castle seemed to search The gorge for prey, its shade to still the bells a-twitter in the church

Where, cheek by jowl with fearsome fowl and gargoyle, ghostly men, in foul Incense that tried to stifle me, recited magic formulæ.

At home clanked metal psalm and spur; but, oh the woods ...! I tried to tame A wolf-cub that the gardener called Life. He knew. The preacher came.

I see him yet, his visage wet with hot emotion, tears, and sweat. Contorted in the market-place he shrieked that all must pay a debt

To one Jehovah and His Son, by bursting eastward as the Hun Had scourged the West. In unison we all replied 'twere nobly done,

For he explained that heaven was gained more featly--wrenching Saint Jerome-- From Palestine than Christendom. That night no peasant durst go home.

His words were like a wind that fanned a grass-fire: God would lend His hand To purge away the infidel whose breath profaned the Holy Land.

He showered indulgences, and kissed the brows of those who would enlist To take a chance of martyrdom or give the devil's tail a twist.

He promised we should see the light, that cursèd Arabs could not fight, Counted them dead since we were "led by General Jesus," said the pope.

Moreover we must win and use Christ, His true Cross, the Widow's cruse, All talismans that found no scope for miracles among the Jews.

Upon the walls the veriest dolt and clown, arow like birds that moult, Chattered with one accord--or some small priestly prompting:-- "Diex el volt."

No wonder that our heartstrings glowed within us like a smelted lode Whence Kobolds welded Durandal; and like one man we ran or rode

Forth. Were we not enchanted? This was first among God's certainties. Even our steeds were like Shabdíz, the pride of King Khusraw Parvíz.

We saw our path made plain, the hills removed by faith, whose foaming course Flooded the continents like flats. We saw the world made one--by force.

In ecstasy our spirits soared. With beatific face toward My cloudland all the crowd shed tears, and vowed to serve and save the Lord.

But cloudland, seeming to disdain such warmth, replied with slapping rain. Conjuring such black augury the monks recited formulæ.

Besides, lest women, priests and traders should tempt the appetite of raiders, The Church proclaimed the Truce of God. Not all our barons were crusaders.

Those who were frightened not to go sold all they had to make a show, Land, tool and ware to pay a fare. The panic made sly kings its heir.

So much was sold by young and old, by fond, ambitious, hot and cold, That steel took sudden silver wings, then flew beyond the reach of gold.

In such a gust my tender age availed not with the preaching sage, For I was born of fighting men; and one of them took me for page,

Though I was loth to go, and prayed for mercy and a little maid Whose hair was shining sunflower brown. I thought of all the games we played

All day with hay and idle mowers. She dubbed me knight in pixy bowers, Where in the hindering undergrowth I caught the singing of the flowers,

Ah me, how distant!... I was blest in my young lord who shared the test, Being sent upon this pilgrimage, his snow-white love still unpossessed.

He, too, was paler than a ghost, as though already all were lost. She dreamed of empery for him. He taught me this to show the cost:

_My heart was mine. Ambition kept it whole. I gained the world, And so I lost my soul._

_Then you were mine, But only mine in part. You loved the world, And so I lost my heart._

Only my tutor lay abed, calling us savages, and read His pagan books. The fever would abate, he sneered, when we were bled.

He chilled me. His head was like a block of ice, so clear. He tried to shock Me with his whispered flings that saints and monarchs came of laughing-stock,

Or boasted some loud organ, Reason, which doctors had confused with treason, Looked round lest walls should hear, then wept that he was one born out of season.

Our preaching-man pronounced a ban upon him, cried good riddance: he Was like to lead young men astray because he knew geography,

(And sciences, as medicine, reduce the value of a shrine). My tutor passed for riding gnomes through space upon a pack of tomes.

But at the water-parting I waved to the castle green and dun, A tapestry where liquid sun--or tears--had made the colours run.

I looked my last on every stone and tree to whom my face was known. The warriors smiled and called me child. They had not understood the Rhone,

Nor that I _loved_ the birchwood's skin, the pansy's face, the sheep-dog's grin, That sleep with Nature in a field was sweet to me as mortal sin.

For love so fierce I stole: I gave my summer holidays to save Lambs from the butcher, built for them sanctuary at my wolf-cub's grave.

I stroked the landscape like a lute. No scentless words, no colours mute, Could paint its music. Henceforth I had only heaven for substitute.

Sling, crossbow, bludgeon, axe and spud, cilice and vials of sacred blood, On such equipment we relied. Our foes were misery and mud.

Each Norman keep, each Frankish hold, each corner of the Christian fold Sent forth its sheep to sound of bells. Our prophets might have had them tolled.

Prince, abbot, squire, felt the desire of bliss that swept stews, taverns, farms. Soft damosels ploughed through the mire with babe at breast and men-at-arms;

And, since this journey was the price of entrance into Paradise, The gaols belched out their criminals and beggars all alive with lice.

We took no food, for God is good; besides we heard that convents strewed Converted Hungary for us. We never dared mistrust His mood.

Heading the mass far up the pass, that led us straight to Calvary, The preaching-man upon an ass recited magic formulæ.

Soon we were joined by northern lords; no few among their folk had swords. (Walter the Pennyless his rout had gone before and died in hordes,

While Gotschalk's dupes, with geese and goats upon their flags, had found the boats To pass beyond the Bosphorus, where Kilidj Arslan cut their throats.)

Our force could not await the Turk, but in its ardour got to work That was not mentioned in the breves. It murdered all the Jews in Treves.

And I was sad a Christian lad should march with myrmidons so mad. They made our Holy War appear too near a Musulman Jehad.

We plodded on for many weeks through mazes where the Austrian ekes A bare existence on the slips of alp below the granite peaks,

And all those weeks did naught betide us palmers save that many died. Our gaol-birds eyed the preaching-man, and scholars spoke of vaticide;

But I was happy when our stout commander sent me on to scout. I cried for little Sunflower-tress, and made strange faces at the trout.

Because I was a fighting-man I trained myself to nettle-stings, And copied oaths and made up things my tutor would have tried to scan:

_Briar and bramble, Don't be so dense. You scratch and you scramble Like things without sense. Why grudge me a ramble? You can't want my hose, White-coated bramble, Pink briar-rose._

_Bramble and briar, Leave me alone. Cling to the friar, Make him your own. Kiss him, the liar Who brought us all here, Gentle sweet-briar, Bramble my dear._

Thus through the months of slapping rain we plunged into the Hungarian plain, And paid its mounted bowmen dear for wretched stocks of fruit and grain,

Or shelter in a reed-built town. They asked for hostages. We gave Our leaders to these dirty-brown mongrels, who brought us to the Save

With loss. My tutor's Damocles perhaps had lived in times like these; For whoso straggled from the main body was never seen again.

Ere this my rhyme had spread, and swelled into a marching-song. I blushed To witness how the spearmen held their sides with laughter, as they yelled

"Bramble and briar." 'Twas the first faint mutiny. These men of Gaul Bantered the sterner pilgrims so I wondered why they came at all.

Yea, often now that I am old and hear how zealous scribes have told The zeal that made the first crusade, well--history is eaten cold.

My lord could think of nothing but the lady who had bidden him cut His way to her by such detours. Aye, this was true romance--the slut.

We called her secretly The Burr--whereof was plenty in our beds-- For night by night he crooned of her, nor even named the Sepulchre:

_I waited, and the hours were loth to close. They scarcely stirred till evening leapt to sight Between the shadows that all substance throws As bridges for its passage to the night._

_You never came. Life dozes at the touch Of those not wholly resolute to live, Who let themselves mistrust her overmuch To take the only thing she has to give._

Amid the rags there caracoled fop-penitents whose panders lolled With human baggage in the rear, and hound and hawk. So chaos rolled

Adown the Danube rolling east. Beyond Semlin the pinewoods filled With Celt and Saxon, man and beast inspired to leave the west untilled.

The locust-swarms were better drilled than we, the owls were not so blind. At every stage we left behind poor simpletons that moaned and shrilled,

Thinking each swamp Gethsemane. It seemed that at their agony The doctors scoffed with cross aloft, reciting magic formulæ.

Alone the princes lightly pranced, as if the pilgrimage enhanced Their right to weigh upon the world thereafter. So the doom advanced

To dervish cries and jester's japes. Hermit and boor and jackanapes, I and my ghost-pale master threw a trail of shadows, motley shapes,

Where Rhodopé's wine-purples mix snow with the moonlight. Oh, 'twas gall Amid the horror of it all that Bulgars thought us lunatics,

Or worse; for ever at our flank a stream, that in my nostrils stank, Seethed; and amid the best of her the scum of Europe wenched and drank.

At last we halted where Constantinople's grandeur puts to scorn The villaged west, and challenges the Orient on her Golden Horn.

Ah, brazen, were your heart as strong as looked your square-chinned ramparts.... Long We waited at the gates in dust knee-deep. The Emperor did not trust

The help that he had craved. He swore he had not asked so many ... more Would ruin him.... He let the heat suck out our strength at every pore.

But we were told great noblemen, Godfrey of Bouillon in Ardennes, Robert of Flanders, "Sword and Lance of Christians," all the flower of France

Were on our side, Hugh Vermandois, Stephen of Chartres and Troyes and Blois, Baldwin and Raymond of Toulouse. The preacher said we could not lose.

Moreover he had spoken with angel-reserves behind us, sith They sent assurance (Saracens we mocked, but had our own _Hadith_)

That we should root the heathen out, and blight as with a ten years' drought Their fields. Jehovah willed that we should leave no seed of theirs to sprout.

Our mates streamed in from lands beyond the Adriatic, Bohemond With Tancred; strait Dalmatian bays, Epirus, Scodra, devious ways

Bore them with boastful tales of sport and plunder, and a vague report That this was nothing to the spoil that beckoned from the Moslem court.

Henceforth impatient ups and downs possessed us. Asiatic towns Flamed to the general vision. We heard less perhaps of heavenly crowns

Than flowers and peacocks made of gems, the Caliph's crusted diadems That crushed the head like Guthlac's bell, and trees with solid emerald stems.

And I confess Christ counted less to us than tales of leash and gess, Or Hárún-el-Rashíd's largesse that sent the clock to Charlemagne.

We practised sums, and tried to train our cavalry in loss and gain. Upon the misty wizard-world rose like a star the money-brain.