Hassan Aga

WHAT white form is shimmering on yon lea?

Is it snow, or is it swans we see?

Snow? It would have melted in the ray.

Swans? Long since they must have flown away.

Snow it is not; swans it cannot be;

'Tis the tent of Hassan Aga shining:

There the wounded warrior lieth pining.

Mother, sisters, all to tend him come;

But his wife, too shamefaced, weeps at home.

Wherefore, when his wounds were looking better,
Sent he to the faithful one this letter —
"Go! Depart thee from my bed and door;
Bear my name and eat my bread no more."

When the wife this bitter word received
Oh! her loving heart was pierced and grieved.
Hark! a courser's tramping nears the house;
Is it Hassan comes, her lord and spouse?
So she deems, and, frenzied by her woe,
Mounts the tower to cast herself below.
Two dear daughters follow her anon,
Tear-drops trickling down their faces wan.
"This is not our father, mother dear!
'Tis our uncle Suleiman is here."

Then the wife of Hassan Aga, turning,

Clasps her brother's neck with tears and mourning.

"Oh, my brother! how shall I survive

This disgrace? Oh, miserable me!

Such a black, black day as this to see!

Me, the mother of these helpless five!"

But the brother, without word or pause,
Stern of soul and countenance, — his course
Fixed and changeless, — from his bosom draws
Forth the fateful writing of divorce,
Bound in silk and edged with damask border;
And aloud he reads the rigid order
Which again consigns her to her mother,
Free to win and free to wed another.

When the mother saw herself dismissed,
For her choking grief she could not speak;
Both her girls she kissed upon the cheek,
Both her boys upon the brow she kissed,
But she could not tear herself away
From the babe that in the cradle lay;
So the brother dragged her out by force,
And he placed her on his Arab horse,
And away with her, like wind, from thence
Galloped to his mother's residence.

Now, ere seven days and nights were over,
Many a stately lord and titled lover,
Many a capitan, and bey, and noble,
Came to woo the widow in her trouble.

And of all these great and gallant men
Fair Imoski's Cadi was the chief.

Spake the mourner to her brother then,
While she struggled with her tears and grief,
"I adjure thee by these tears, my brother,
Give me not in marriage to another,
Lest, when once again my babes I see,
This poor heart should break with agony."

But the brother laughed her tears to scorn,
"Plighted shalt thou be to-morrow morn,
And the noon shall see the nuptial feast." —
"Then, oh, brother! hear me now at least,
Send this message to Imoski's Cadi —
4 Health and greetings from the widow lady.

'Might the humblest of thy slaves demand
'One slight favour from thine honoured hand?
' When again thou visitest this place
' Bring a veil to hide her form and face,
'Lest, when passing Hassan Aga's door,
' She behold her little ones once more.' "

Thought the Cadi, " What she asks is meet."

With the morn he summons all his suite,
And the cavalcade, a glittering throng,
Moves with music tow'rds the house along,
He whom all as lord and master hail
Bearing on his arm the silken veil.

Safely have they now achieved their route,
Safely have they led the veiled one out,
Jewelled as becomes the Cadi's spouse;
But, alas! they near the dreaded house.
And the mother hears her children cry,
"Mother! mother! dost thou pass us by?
Wilt thou sit in stranger-halls? Ah! rather
Come and eat thy bread with us and father!"

This the mother heard with fond distress —
Heavy was her heart, like heavy lead;
"May my lord live long!" she sadly said —
"May his reverend shadow ne'er be less!
Bid, I pray thee, the procession wait
One short moment at the Aga's gate,
While I go and leave some keepsakes here,
Robes and playthings for my children dear."

Then once more within the well-known gate
Doth she enter in her dress of state —
Sees once more her little girls and boys,
Gives them shining robes and gives them toys — •
Gives her daughters costly silks and suits,
Gives her sons rich vests and gold-laced boots,
Nor forgets the babe, but leaves it some
Little socks and caps for years to come.

Now the father saw all this aside,
Saw she did not weep and did not speak;
And, with hollow voice and hollow cheek,
Turning to his little ones, he cried —
"Come to me, my children! come to me!
For your mother's heart is turned to steel,
Is as cold as stone, and cannot feel,
Cannot feel for either me or ye."

But when Hassan's widow heard him speak,
And beheld her offspring leaving her,
On the floor she fell without a shriek,
On the floor she lay without a stir,
And her cruel grief no more had power,
For the soul went out of her that hour.