Читать книгу COMMODUS & THE WOOING OF MALKATOON (Illustrated) - Lew Wallace - Страница 4

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Child Mahommed 1

The dance and song, the tales and juggleries,

With which the wise Sultana-mother used

To speed the laggard hours of harem life,

Were good for folk with souls of every day;

But Mahommed would nothing have that did

Not stir his warrior sense. The cymbal's crash,

And trumpets strident notes, unmixed of plaint

Or melody, could always bid him near

And hold him fast, a wild-eyed listener;

And with his urchin's fist he beat the drum,

And trembled with delight to hear its roll

Invade the silent places of the house,

And die in distant halls. And all day long,

With a heap of stippled ivory cubes,

The gift antique of a forgotten prince

Who erstwhile ruled a land of elephants

Off in the sunrise somewhere, he would build

Tall castle piles, and wall and moat them round,

And when he thought them perfect for defence,

Retire a little space, and with his bow

And arrows shoot them into formless wrecks.

But best of all he loved of afternoons,

When, in the musky - shaded central court,

The ladies of the household met to feast

On spiced meats, and nuts, and snow-cooled draughts,

And exchange trinketries and quips as rich,

And chorus loud the while the slaves before

Them spread what all the merchants from the gates

Without had dared to send them — such the time

The doughty child best loved to dight himself

As Eastern knights for battle bound were wont,

And on the Kislar-Aga's sword for steed,

And yelling shrill,, with undissembled rage

And fury burst upon the startled groups,

And send them screaming thence, and, doing so,

Imagine that he did but re-enact

The role of black Antar, who used alone

To sheer ten thousand horsemen of their heads.

Nor were there any of the luresome wiles

With children potent since the world began

Enough to lay the martial jealousy

With which he held the court. Nor cared he more

For truce proposed in form by heralds trained,

And leading troops of buglers clad in gold,

And blowing flourishes until the sky

Were like to crack and fall. At length would come

The high Sultana. In her deep reserve

Of mother-love she held the only charm

To calm his mood and raise the well-kept siege.

"The battle's done. My lord must now dismount;

And I will tell him of our Othman bold,

And how he wooed and won his Malkatoon."

And with the saying she would gravely reach

Her hands to him, and he would run to her,

And at her feet throw down his lance and shield;

And haply seated then, his ruddy cheek

Soft pillowed on her twin - orbed, ample breast,

The tale she would unfold.