And Wordsworth!—­Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice! 
     For never has such soothing voice
     Been to your shadowy world conveyed,
     Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
     Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
     Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
     Wordsworth has gone from us—­and ye,
     Ah, may ye feel his voice as we! 
     He too upon a wintry clime
     Had fallen—­on this iron time
       Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
     He found us when the age had bound
     Our souls in its benumbing round;
       He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 
     He laid us as we lay at birth,
     On the cool, flowery lap of earth. 
     Smiles broke from us and we had ease;
     The hills were round us, and the breeze
     Went o’er the sunlit fields again;
     Our foreheads felt the wind and rain,
     Our youth returned; for there was shed
     On spirits that had long been dead,
     Spirits dried up and closely furled,
     The freshness of the early world.

     Ah! since dark days still bring to light
     Man’s prudence and man’s fiery might,
     Time may restore us in his course
     Goethe’s sage mind and Byron’s force;
     But where will Europe’s latter hour
     Again find Wordsworth’s healing power? 
     Others will teach us how to dare,
       And against fear our breast to steel;
     Others will strengthen us to bear—­
       But who, ah! who, will make us feel? 
     The cloud of mortal destiny,
     Others will front it fearlessly—­But
     who, like him, will put it by? 
     Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
     O Rotha, with thy living wave! 
     Sing him thy best! for few or none
     Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA

HUSSEIN

O most just Vizier, send away
The cloth-merchants, and let them be,
Them and their dues, this day! the King
Is ill at ease, and calls for thee.

THE VIZIER

O merchants, tarry yet a day
Here in Bokhara! but at noon,
To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay
Each fortieth web of cloth to me,
As the law is, and go your way.

O Hussein, lead me to the King! 
Thou teller of sweet tales,—­thine own,
Ferdousi’s, and the others’,—­lead! 
How is it with my lord?

HUSSEIN

Alone,
Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait,
O Vizier! without lying down,
In the great window of the gate,
Looking into the Registan,
Where through the sellers’ booths the slaves
Are this way bringing the dead man.—­
O Vizier, here is the King’s door!

THE KING

O Vizier, I may bury him?

THE VIZIER

O King, thou know’st, I have been sick
These many days, and heard no thing
(For Allah shut my ears and mind),
Not even what thou dost, O King! 
Wherefore, that I may counsel thee,
Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste
To speak in order what hath chanced.