Crying—" I burn! " The voice was loud and harsh,
Aiid husky as with pain; seeming to reel
Under the weight of the eternal years,
And an astounding sense of hopelessness.

    This happen'd every morning; till at length—
His mind perplex'd with dark imaginings
And doubts, that in the night grew substantive,
Casting a shadow overthwart the day—
The Sultan sought the Chief of the Imams,
Commanding him to pluck the secret sense
Out of this prodigy. The holy man,
With his infallible face placid and smooth,
And his serene slow speech, ( as one who holds
The truth of all things by a silken cord,
Restraining its impatient wings from flight,)
Answer'd,—" Commander of the Faithful!  know
The meaning of this ominous sound. Thy sire
Was curst with love of change,—bad at all times—
Monstrous when join'd with sovereignty. His hand
Pluck'd the white beard of customary forms,
Beat up the paths of ages, confused rank
With baseness, made a scoff of privilege,
Broke the firm music of establish'd awe,
Dislodged authority from sacred seats,
Took reverence from habit, seized the staff
Of old command from priests and magistrates,
And—in the place of fix'd and steadfast law—
Brought roaring chaos, staggering, and dismay;—
Disturbing thus the most religious bones
Of wise and father-like Antiquity.
All such the Prophet (blessed be his name!)
Hath specially denounced; wherefore, I fear,
Thy father's heart is burning in his breast,
And that his voice speaks to thee from the grave,
Warning thee back, while yet thou hast the time."

    Forth went the Sultan, answering not a word,
And in his closet closely shut himself,
Till, after pondering on many things,—
On Life, and Death, and the world after Death,
And penance in the dreadful tomb,—his thoughts
Took sudden shape, and were resolv'd and calm.

    Word straight went forth, that, by the morning light,
The Sultan would proceed in state to pray
Beneath his father's tomb, that he might have
Some stronger confirmation of the truth
Of what his ears reported. Through the night
The hum of preparation rose and fell;
And at the dawn of day, the palace-gates
Were throng'd with solemn pageantries, which stood
Silent as visions underneath the sun.

    The Sultan join'd the train, and forth they went
Through the chief gate,—a tide of living strength,
Massive with numbers; dark with flowing robes
Of the old Doctors of the sacred Law;
Burning with banners, that, like crimson fire,
Danced overhead; gorgeous with silk and gold;
Alive with flash of steady scimitars;
And full of motion with the heavy roll
Of the horses, to and fro; while round about
The gusty trumpets flared like windy flame.

    The tomb was reach'd; the Sultan pray'd. Once more,
From the far depths, rose up the fearful voice!
The faces of the people crowding round
Caught sudden paleness, and some straightway felt
Unusual life within the hair. Not so
The Sultan. Rising to his feet, he called
His guards about him, and commanded them
To dig the pavement up, and move the tomb,
Right in the presence of those witnesses.

    Horror fell on the priests, who cried aloud
That it was profanation to disturb
The dead within their quiet palaces,
Or grope in darkness of the sepulchre
For secrets of the unrevealed world;
And that an act so cursed would call down
Some keen revenge, that might obliterate
All who stood there, to ashes blank and vague.
In vain! The Sultan would not stir a jot.

    The soldiers tore the marble pavement up,
And shovell'd out the earth, until they reach'd,
Within the deep foundations, a large hole;
When suddenly, with exclamations loud,
They cast up something like a clod of dirt,
Which soon sprawl'd forth two legs and arms, and then
Roll'd over, and display'd a face; and, lo!
It was a priest—yea, one of that grave tribe
Who dance in their devotions to a flute.

    Out laugh'd the Sultan in the sacred place,
As he survey'd the straggling weed that lay
Helplessly at his feet; then calmly said—
"Behold the visions and fantastic dreams
That crouch about the sacred tomb, and throw
Unloving doubts on the high-hearted dead;
Dreams terrible only in the night of Fear,
But laughter-fraught when, through impatient rifts
Of scorn, we let the sudden day-light in,
And the ghosts shrink to earthy human shapes.
Yet, stay! This holy man is burning. Guards,
Carry him forth—but softly! Have a care,
Or ye may take the heat into yourselves
By merest contact. Lead him gently out
To the next fountain, and there let him have
Water enough to quench his hottest flames."

    The people murmur'd, like a swarm of bees,
Among themselves, with lifting up of hands
And rolling of the eyes in wonderment;
And when the Sultan rode back with his train,
The priests and nobles cried continually—
"Allah is great, and works in secret ways!
The mystery of things surpasseth thought!"

Strong human Giant, whosoe'er thou art,
Who seekest to reform this erring world!
Thy course will ever lie through phantom-hordes
Of men's distorted minds, threat'ning thy way
With seeming fire, and ghastly voices round;
Like those black knights through whom Sir Launcelot rode,
Though half in dread, and found them fade like mist,
Beneath the keen sun-arrows. So pass thou,
And with thy sword hew out a lightning path
Through doubt, and fear, and the far-reaching dark,
Even to the presence of confusing Death.
The spirit of the world moves on before
Its corporal self, as light precedes the sun;
And thus the prophet of a fairer time
Must take his stand beneath the whelming night,
A star on the remotest mountain-top,
Steady, and large, and still. The earth is firm,