Ismael.

Ismael, the Sultan, in the Ramazan,
Girdled with guards and many a yataghan,
Pachas and amins, viziers wisdom-gray,
And holy marabouts, betook his way
Through Mekinez. Written the angel's word,
Of Eden's Kauther, reads, "Slay! praying the Lord!
Pray! slaying the victims!" so the Sultan went,
The Cruel Sultan, with this good intent,
In white bournouse and sea-green caftan clad
First to the mosque. Long each muezzin had
Summoned the faithful unto prayer and let
The "Allah Akbar!" from each minaret,
Call to their thousand lamps of blazing gold.
Prostrated prayed the Sultan. On the old
Mosaics of the mosque whose hollow steamed
With aloes-incense lean ecstatics dreamed
On Allah and his Prophet, and how great
Is God, and how unstable man's estate.
Conviction on him, in this chanting low
Of Koran texts, the Caliph's passion so
Exalted rose, lamps of religious awe,
Loud smitings of the everlasting law
On unbelievers, - trebly manifest
The Faith's anointed sword he feels confessed.
So from the mosque, whose arabesques above
The marvellous work of Oriental love
Seen with new splendors of Heaven's blue and gold,
Applauding all, he, as the gates are rolled
Ogival back to let the many forth,
Cries war to all the unbelieving North.
Soon have they passed the tight bazaar; along
Close, crooked streets, too narrow for the throng;
The place of owls and tombs; the merloned wall,
Camel and steed and ass. Projecting all
Its towering battlements, his palace gray,
Seraglios and courts, against the day
Lifts, vanishes. And now, soul-set on hate,
From Mekinez they pass the scolloped gate.
Two dozing beggars, baking each a sore,
Sprawl in the sun the city gate before;
A leprous cripple and a thief, whose eyes
Burnt out with burning iron, as supplies
The law for thieves, two fly-thick wounds blood-raw,
Lifted shrill voices as they heard or saw;
Praised God, and flung into the dust each face
With words of "victory and Allah's grace
Attend our Caliph, Mouley-Ismael!
Even at the cost of ours his days be well!"
And grimly smiling as he grimly passed,
"While God most merciful, who is, shall last,
Now by Es Sirat! will a liar's word
And thief's prevail or prosper? Pray the Lord!
What! at your lives' cost? my devout intent!
Even as 't is bidden let their necks be bent!
Though words be pious, evil at the soul
Naught is the prayer! So let their prayer be whole.
Nay! give them gold; but when the sequins cease
From the slaves' hands, by these my Soudanese
They die!" he said; and even as he said
Rolled in the dust each writhing, withered head.
And frowning westward, as the day grew late,
Four bleeding heads stared from the city gate
'Neath this inscription, for the passer-by,
"There is no virtue but in God the High."