From Astrabad to Ispahan
  At camel speed the rumor ran
  That, breaking through tradition hoar,
  And throwing all his kinsmen o’er,
  The miser’d left his mighty store
  Of gold—­his palaces and lands—­
  To needy and deserving hands
  (Except a penny here and there
  To pay the dervishes for prayer.)
  ’Twas known indeed throughout the span
  Of earth, and into Hindostan,
  That our beloved mute was the
  Residuary legatee. 
  The people said ’twas very well,
  And each man had a tale to tell
  Of how he’d had a finger in ’t
  By dropping many a friendly hint
  At Astrabad, you see.  But ah,
  They feared the news might reach the Shah! 
  To prove the will the lawyers bore ’t
  Before the Kadi’s awful court,
  Who nodded, when he heard it read,
  Confirmingly his drowsy head,
  Nor thought, his sleepiness so great,
  Himself to gobble the estate. 
  “I give,” the dead had writ, “my all
  To Meerza Solyman Zingall
  Of Ispahan.  With this estate
  I might quite easily create
  Ten thousand ingrates, but I shun
  Temptation and create but one,
  In whom the whole unthankful crew
  The rich man’s air that ever drew
  To fat their pauper lungs I fire
  Vicarious with vain desire! 
  From foul Ingratitude’s base rout
  I pick this hapless devil out,
  Bestowing on him all my lands,
  My treasures, camels, slaves and bands
  Of wives—­I give him all this loot,
  And throw my blessing in to boot. 
  Behold, O man, in this bequest
  Philanthropy’s long wrongs redressed: 
  To speak me ill that man I dower
  With fiercest will who lacks the power. 
  Allah il Allah! now let him bloat
  With rancor till his heart’s afloat,
  Unable to discharge the wave
  Upon his benefactor’s grave!”

  Forth in their wrath the people came
  And swore it was a sin and shame
  To trick their blessed mute; and each
  Protested, serious of speech,
  That though he’d long foreseen the worst
  He’d been against it from the first. 
  By various means they vainly tried
  The testament to set aside,
  Each ready with his empty purse
  To take upon himself the curse;
  For they had powers of invective
  Enough to make it ineffective. 
  The ingrates mustered, every man,
  And marched in force to Ispahan
  (Which had not quite accommodation)
  And held a camp of indignation.

  The man, this while, who never spoke—­
  On whom had fallen this thunder-stroke
  Of fortune, gave no feeling vent
  Nor dropped a clue to his intent. 
  Whereas no power to him came
  His benefactor to defame,
  Some (such a length had slander gone to)
  Even whispered that he didn’t want to! 
  But none his secret could divine;
  If suffering he made no sign,
  Until one night as winter neared
  From all his haunts he disappeared—­
  Evanished in a doubtful blank
  Like little crayfish in a bank,
  Their heads retracting for a spell,
  And pulling in their holes as well.