Al Mamoun

Bagdad's palms looked tall in the tide
Of Tigris, tawny and swift and wide;
Bagdad's minarets gleamed and glowed
In the sun that burned in its blue abode;
Bagdad's life made rumble and jar
In booth and highway and bright bazaar;
Bagdad's monarch lolled in the dusk
Of the citron shade, 'mid the scent of musk,
While around him sat the makers of rhyme,
Come from many a distant clime,
For song by him was held as a boon,
Al Mamoun,
The son of the great Haroun!

From lands of cold and lands of the sun
He hearkened the poets, one by one,
Giving a portion of praise to each,
And a guerdon of gold with his pearls of speech;
Spreading a luscious banquet there
In the languid, richly-perfumed air;
Plucking from Luxury's laden stem
The royal wealth of its fruit for them;
Bidding the soul of the grape be brought
To kindle the fancy to happy thought;
Speeding the amber afternoon,
Al Mamoun,
The son of the great Haroun!

And on through the starlit purple hours
The sound of song was heard in the bowers;
The zither and lute would blend and blur
And tangle with notes of the dulcimer;
And above and over and through it all
Would soar and swell, or would fail and fall,
With the dreamful lull of the dying word,
An ecstasy voiced from the throat of a bird.
So, leashed by the love of song, would he,
Praising the poets and poesy,
Linger till night had neared its noon,
Al Mamoun,
The son of the great Haroun!

With crumbling mosque and with toppling tomb
Have vanished Bagdad's beauty and bloom,
While a far, faint breath on the lips of fame
Is all we know of the monarch's name.
But rather to him than his mightier sire
O'er gulfs of time shall the song aspire,
For song to the lover of song is due,
Though centuries darken with rust, and strew
With mosses the marble above his head;
And so, in the land of the happy dead,
May song still stir with its blissful boon
Al Mamoun,
The son of the great Haroun!