Abu Midjan

"If I sit in the dust         For lauding good wine,     Ha, ha! it is just:         So sits the vine!"     Abu Midjan sang as he sat in chains,     For the blood of the grape ran the juice of his veins.     The Prophet had said, "O Faithful, drink not!"     Abu Midjan drank till his heart was hot;     Yea, he sang a song in praise of wine,     He called it good names--a joy divine,     The giver of might, the opener of eyes,     Love's handmaid, the water of Paradise!     Therefore Saad his chief spake words of blame,     And set him in irons--a fettered flame;     But he sings of the wine as he sits in his chains,     For the blood of the grape runs the juice of his veins:     "I will not think         That the Prophet said     Ye shall not drink         Of the flowing red!"     "'Tis a drenched brain         Whose after-sting     Cries out, Refrain:         'Tis an evil thing!     "But I will dare,         With a goodly drought,     To drink, nor spare         Till my thirst be out.     "I do not laugh         Like a Christian fool     But in silence quaff         The liquor cool     "At door of tent         'Neath evening star,     With daylight spent,         And Uriel afar!     "Then, through the sky,         Lo, the emerald hills!     My faith swells high,         My bosom thrills:     "I see them hearken,         The Houris that wait!     Their dark eyes darken         The diamond gate!     "I hear the float         Of their chant divine,     And my heart like a boat         Sails thither on wine!     "Can an evil thing         Make beauty more?     Or a sinner bring         To the heavenly door?     "The sun-rain fine         Would sink and escape,     But is drunk by the vine,         Is stored in the grape:     "And the prisoned light         I free again:     It flows in might         Through my shining brain     "I love and I know;         The truth is mine;     I walk in the glow         Of the sun-bred wine.     "I will not think         That the Prophet said     Ye shall not drink         Of the flowing red!     "For his promises, lo,         Sevenfold they shine     When the channels o'erflow         With the singing wine!     "But I care not, I!--'tis a small annoy     To sit in chains for a heavenly joy!"         Away went the song on the light wind borne;     His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn     Shook the hair that flowed from his curling lip     As he eyed his brown limbs in the iron's grip.         Sudden his forehead he lifted high:     A faint sound strayed like a moth-wing by!     Like beacons his eyes burst blazing forth:     A dust-cloud he spied in the distant north!     A noise and a smoke on the plain afar?     'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war!     He leapt aloft like a tiger snared;     The wine in his veins through his visage flared;     He tore at his fetters in bootless ire,     He called the Prophet, he named his sire;     From his lips, with wild shout, the Techir burst;     He danced in his irons; the Giaours he cursed;     And his eyes they flamed like a beacon dun,     Or like wine in the crystal twixt eye and sun.         The lady of Saad heard him shout,     Heard his fetters ring on the stones about     The heart of a warrior she understood,     And the rage of the thwarted battle-mood:     Her name, with the cry of an angry prayer,     He called but once, and the lady was there.         "The Giaour!" he panted, "the Godless brute!     And me like a camel tied foot to foot!     Let me go, and I swear by Allah's fear     At sunset I don again this gear,     Or lie in a heaven of starry eyes,     Kissed by moon-maidens of Paradise!     O lady, grant me the death of the just!     Hark to the hurtle! see the dust!"         With ready fingers the noble dame     Unlocked her husband's iron blame;     Brought his second horse, his Abdon, out,     And his second hauberk, light and stout;     Harnessed the warrior, and hight him go     An angel of vengeance upon the foe.         With clank of steel and thud of hoof     Away he galloped; she climbed the roof.         She sees the cloud and the flashes that leap     From the scythe-shaped swords inside it that sweep     Down with back-stroke the disordered swath:     Thither he speeds, a bolt of wrath!     Straight as an arrow she sees him go,     Abu Midjan, the singer, upon the foe!     Like an eagle he vanishes in the cloud,     And the thunder of battle bursts more loud,     Mingled of crashes and blows and falls,     Of the whish that severs the throat that calls,     Of neighing and shouting and groaning grim:     Abu Midjan, she sees no more of him!     Northward the battle drifts afar     On the flowing tide of the holy war.         Lonely across the desert sand,     From his wrist by its thong hung his clotted brand,     Red in the sunset's level flame     Back to his bonds Abu Midjan came.         "Lady, I swear your Saad's horse--     The Prophet himself might have rode a worse!     Like the knots of a serpent the play of his flesh     As he tore to the quarry in Allah's mesh!     I forgot him, and mowed at the traitor weeds,     Which fell before me like rushes and reeds,     Or like the tall poppies that sudden drop low     Their heads to an urchin's unstrung bow!     Fled the Giaour; the faithful flew after to kill;     I turned to surrender: beneath me still     Was Abdon unjaded, fresh in force,     Faithful and fearless--a heavenly horse!     Give him water, lady, and barley to eat;     Then haste thee and fetter the wine-bibber's feet."         To the terrace he went, and she to the stall;     She tended the horse like guest in hall,     Then to the warrior unhasting returned.     The fire of the fight in his eyes yet burned,     But he sat in a silence that might betoken     One ashamed that his heart had spoken--     Though where was the word to breed remorse?     He had lauded only his chief's brave horse!     Not a word she spoke, but his fetters locked;     He watched with a smile that himself bemocked;     She left him seated in caitiff-plight,     Like one that had feared and fled the fight.         But what singer ever sat lonely long     Ere the hidden fountain burst in song!     The battle wine foamed in the warrior's veins,     And he sang sword-tempest who sat in chains.         "Oh, the wine     Of the vine         Is a feeble thing!     In the rattle     Of battle         The true grapes spring!     "When on whir     Of Tecbir         Allah's wrath flies,     And the power     Of the Giaour         A blasted leaf lies!     "When on force     Of the horse         The arm flung abroad     Is sweeping,     And reaping         The harvest of God!     "Ha! they drop     From the top         To the sear heap below!     Ha! deeper,     Down steeper,      The infidels go!     "Azrael     Sheer to hell      Shoots the foul shoals!     There Monker     And Nakir         Torture their souls!     "But when drop     On their crop         The scimitars red,     And under     War's thunder         The faithful lie dead,     "Oh, bright     Is the light         On hero slow breaking!     Rapturous faces     Bent for embraces         Watch for his waking!     "And he hears     In his ears         The voice of Life's river,     Like a song     Of the strong,         Jubilant ever!     "Oh, the wine     Of the vine         May lead to the gates,     But the rattle     Of battle         Wakes the angel who waits!     "To the lord     Of the sword         Open it must!     The drinker,     The thinker         Sits in the dust!     "He dreams     Of the gleams         Of their garments of white;     He misses     Their kisses,         The maidens of light!     "They long     For the strong         Who has burst through alarms--     Up, by the labour     Of stirrup and sabre,         Up to their arms!     "Oh, the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost!     The wine of the fight is the joy of a host!"         When Saad came home from the far pursuit,     An hour he sat, and an hour was mute.     Then he opened his mouth: "Ah, wife, the fight     Had been lost full sure, but an arm of might     Sudden rose up on the crest of the battle,     Flashed blue lightnings, thundered steel rattle,     Took up the fighting, and drove it on--     Enoch sure, or the good Saint John!     Wherever he leaped, like a lion he,     The battle was thickest, or soon to be!     Wherever he sprang with his lion roar,     In a minute the battle was there no more!     With a headlong fear, the sinners fled,     And we swept them down the steep of the dead:     Before us, not from us, did they flee,     They ceased in the depths of a new Red Sea!     But him who saved us we saw no more;     He went as he came, by a secret door!     And strangest of all--nor think I err     If a miracle I for truth aver--     I was close to him thrice--the holy Force     Wore my silver-ringed hauberk, rode Abdon my horse!"         The lady rose up, withholding her word,     And led to the terrace her wondering lord,     Where, song-soothed, and weary with battle strain,     Abu Midjan sat counting the links of his chain:     "The battle was raging, he raging worse;     I freed him, harnessed him, gave him thy horse."         "Abu Midjan! the singer of love and of wine!     The arm of the battle, it also was thine?     Rise up, shake the irons from off thy feet:     For the lord of the fight are fetters meet?     If thou wilt, then drink till thou be hoar:     Allah shall judge thee; I judge no more!"         Abu Midjan arose; he flung aside     The clanking fetters, and thus he cried:     "If thou give me to God and his decrees,     Nor purge my sin with the shame of these,     Wrath against me I dare not store:     In the name of Allah, I drink no more!"