And the dark cucumber. 
        He reaps and stows them,
  Drifting—­drifting:—­round him,
      Round his green harvest-plot,
      Flow the cool lake-waves: 
        The mountains ring them.”—­p. 20.

From “the Sick King in Bokhara,” we have already quoted at some length.  It is one of the most considerable, and perhaps, as being the most simple and life-like, the best of the narrative poems.  A vizier is receiving the dues from the cloth merchants, when he is summoned to the presence of the king, who is ill at ease, by Hussein:  “a teller of sweet tales.”  Arrived, Hussein is desired to relate the cause of the king’s sickness; and he tells how, three days since, a certain Moollah came before the king’s path, calling for justice on himself, whom, deemed a fool or a drunkard, the guards pricked off with their spears, while the king passed on into the mosque:  and how the man came on the morrow with yesterday’s blood-spots on him, and cried out for right.  What follows is told with great singleness and truth:  “Thou knowest,” the man says,

        “’How fierce
    In these last day the sun hath burned;
  That the green water in the tanks
    Is to a putrid puddle turned;
  And the canal that from the stream
  Of Samarcand is brought this way
  Wastes and runs thinner every day. 
  “’Now I at nightfall had gone forth
    Alone; and, in a darksome place
  Under some mulberry-trees, I found
    A little pool; and, in brief space,
  With all the water that was there
    I filled my pitcher, and stole home
  Unseen; and, having drink to spare,
  I hid the can behind the door,
  And went up on the roof to sleep.

  “’But, in the night, which was with wind
    And burning dust, again I creep
  Down, having fever, for a drink.

  “’Now, meanwhile, had my brethren found
    The water-pitcher, where it stood
  Behind the door upon the ground,
  And called my mother:  and they all,
  As they were thirsty and the night
    Most sultry, drained the pitcher there;
  That they sat with it in my sight,
    Their lips still wet, when I came down.

  “’Now mark:  I, being fevered, sick,
  (Most unblessed also,) at that sight
    Brake forth and cursed them.  Dost thou hear? 
  One was my mother.  Now, do right.’

  “But my lord mused a space, and said,
    ’Send him away, sirs, and make on. 
  It is some madman,’ the king said. 
    As the king said, so was it done.

  “The morrow at the self-same hour,
    In the king’s path, behold, the man,
  Not kneeling, sternly fixed.  He stood
    Right opposite, and thus began,

  “Frowning grim down:  ’Thou wicked king,
    Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear;
  What?  Must I howl in the next world,
    Because thou wilt not listen here?

  “’What, wilt thou pray and get thee grace,
    And all grace shall to me be grudged? 
  Nay but, I swear, from this thy path
    I will not stir till I be judged.’