HAROUN AL RASCHID

One day, Haroun Al Raschid read
A book wherein the poet said:—­

“Where are the kings, and where the rest
Of those who once the world possessed?

“They’re gone with all their pomp and show,
They’re gone the way that thou shalt go.

“O thou who choosest for thy share
The world, and what the world calls fair,

“Take all that it can give or lend,
But know that death is at the end!”

Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head: 
Tears fell upon the page he read.

KING TRISANKU

Viswamitra the Magician,
  By his spells and incantations,
Up to Indra’s realms elysian
  Raised Trisanku, king of nations.

Indra and the gods offended
  Hurled him downward, and descending
In the air he hung suspended,
  With these equal powers contending.

Thus by aspirations lifted,
  By misgivings downward driven,
Human hearts are tossed and drifted
  Midway between earth and heaven.

A WRAITH IN THE MIST

“Sir, I should build me a fortification, if I came to live here.” —­BOSWELL’S Johnson.

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
  Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
  So brave with his targe and claymore?

His form is the form of a giant,
  But his face wears an aspect of pain;
Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? 
  Can this be Sir Allan McLean?

Ah, no!  It is only the Rambler,
  The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court,
And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth,
  He would wall himself round with a fort.

THE THREE KINGS

Three Kings came riding from far away,
  Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
  For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
  That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
  Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
  Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
  Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
  Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
  With the people they met at some wayside well.

“Of the child that is born,” said Baltasar,
  “Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
  To find and worship the King of the Jews.”