Their water-skins afresh, while some
Offer free draughts to all who come,
In name of the good Moslem soul
Whose bounty fills the brimming bowl.
The patient ass, that none will spare.
His crushing burden still must bear
Through the close lanes, while curses sore
The jostled passers on him pour.
These may not choose, they may not rest ;
Though faint with heat, with hunger pressed.
The poor, the brute, must toil or feel
From want or violence sharper ill.
Fanned by his slaves, the lordly Bey
On Persian mats soil dreaming lay.
Spacious the court and cool the air,
A thousand jets were playing there.
Breathing a low and hushing sound
More calm than silence ; all around
Choice flowers their fairest bloom were spreading,