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.”