Ferishtah's Fancies/The Melon-Seller
2. THE MELON-SELLER.
Going his rounds one day in Ispahan,—Half-way on Dervishhood, not wholly there,—Ferishtah, as he crossed a certain bridge,Came startled on a well-remembered face."Can it be? What, turned melon-seller—thou?Clad in such sordid garb, thy seat yon stepWhere dogs brush by thee and express contempt?Methinks, thy head-gear is some scooped-out gourd!Nay, sunk to slicing up, for readier sale, One fruit whereof the whole scarce feeds a swine?Wast thou the Shah's Prime Minister, men sawRide on his right-hand while a trumpet blewAnd Persia hailed the Favorite? Yea, twelve yearsAre past, I judge, since that transcendency,And thou didst peculate and art abased;No less, twelve years since, thou didst hold in handPersia, couldst halve and quarter, mince its pulpAs pleased thee, and distribute—melon-like—Portions to whoso played the parasite,Or suck—thyself—each juicy morsel. HowEnormous thy abjection,—hell from heaven,Made tenfold hell by contrast! Whisper me!Dost thou curse God for granting twelve years' blissOnly to prove this day 's the direr lot?" Whereon the beggar raised a brow, once moreLuminous and imperial, from the rags."Fool, does thy folly think my foolishnessDwells rather on the fact that God appointsA day of woe to the unworthy one,Than that the unworthy one, by God's award.Tasted joy twelve years long? Or buy a slice,Or go to school!"To school Ferishtah went;And, schooling ended, passed from IspahanTo Nishapur, that Elburz looks above—Where they dig turquoise: there kept school himself,The melon-seller's speech, his stock in trade.Some say a certain Jew adduced the wordOut of their book, it sounds so much the same, אמ־הםוכ כקבל םאת האל האלהיםואת־הרצ לא נקםל׃But great wits jump.
Wish no word unspoken, want no look away! What if words were but mistake, and looks—too sudden, say! Be unjust for once. Love ! Bear it—well I may!
Wish no word unspoken, want no look away! What if words were but mistake, and looks—too sudden, say! Be unjust for once. Love ! Bear it—well I may!
Do me justice always? Bid my heart—their shrine— Render back its store of gifts, old looks and words of thine —Oh, so all unjust—the less deserved, the more divine?