The night before the murder was to be, I drew my long, keen dagger from its sheath, And stole on down the marble stair-way, past The throne-room, to the curtained arch wherein
My brothers lay asleep. No dream beset The guilty Dead-Sea of their rest. They lay Engulfed in pillows, like two ships mid waves. I saw their faces, and the one was fair.
Long dark brown hair fell from his noble brow, And on the silken billow of the couch lay curled Like spray. The other face was cold and dark I felt no pity in my angry breast
For this, the older brother of the twain. Yet he it was who always praised me most. Praise is a dust of diamond that, if thrown Well in the eyes of even noble men,
Will blind them to a host of flagrant faults. The moon was full, and‘ twixt two silvered clouds Looked forth, like any princess from between The tasseled curtains of her downy bed.
The vagrant wind came through the opened blind, And whispered of the desert; with its hand Fanning the flame that in the silver urn Mimicked a star. Beneath the rays I wrote:
I should have slain you both for your intent Of murder; but I spare, you, and I go. So, take the kingdom, and ride long and well. Between them there I laid the paper down,
Then thrust my dagger, to the golden hilt, Through it, deep in the couch. So passing on, I came to that high room wherein my sire, The king, lay sick, and drifting near to death.
My tutor at his feet, and on the floor, Embraced by needed sleep, lay like a dog. I came to see the king's face once again, Ere, like a maid who in her lover trusts,
I gave myself up, body and soul, To the great desert and the world beyond. How sweetly slept the king! His long white beard, And venerable face, were undisturbed
By even the breezy motion of his breath. Surely, I thought, the fever must have passed. I bent down tenderly to kiss the cheek. How cold! God help me, can the king be dead?
My heart gave one wild bound, driving a wave Of grief, vast as a mountain, up the sands Of my bleak desolation. The wave broke Into a blinding mist of tears at last.
I longed to moan out my despair, but paused, Checking my sobs to kiss the face once more; Then moved from the strange room, parting with care The massive silken curtains, fearful then
Their rustle might attract some wakeful ear. I found the jewels of the crown, and these With all my own I in a bag secured, And hung about my neck, beneath my robe.
Noiseless as a ghost I passed the hall, And down the stair-way wrought of sandal-wood Made lightest footsteps. As I stole Along the alcoves where the maidens slept,
A lady stood before me. She outstretched Her white and naked arms, and round my neck Entwined them. She was the captive, Veera, Once held for ransom from some Bedouin tribe;
But when the coin was brought she would not go; At this the king was pleased, for thus she made Perpetual peace between him and her kin. No maid in Mesched up and down, was found
To rival her for beauty. All her words Were apt and good, and all her ways were sweet. I, in her happy prison, ivory-barred By her white arms, was restless for release.
She would not set me free until I told The purport of my vigil, and revealed The place whereat my journey would be done. I did not wait to pay her back her kiss.
I hurried to the stables, where I found My coal-black steed. He neighed and pawed the floor. I bound the saddle firmly, grasped the reins, And in a moment passed the city's gate,
And shot out on the desert, where the wind Made race with us, but lagged behind at last.
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