THERE came a priest into the court one day,
And standing by the throne with unbent knee,
He cried, "Great Allah bade me come and say,
'O king, thy brother hath sore need of thee.'"
"Our brother?" quoth the monarch, wondering,
"Know we are Ali, last of our race."
"Thy brother hath sore need of thee, O king,"
The priest replied, and vanished from the place.
At night the great town slept beside the sea,
But on his pallet restless tossed the king,
And heard, "Thy brother hath sore need of thee,"
Through all the palace chambers echoing.
Till, when gray morning through the window crept,
Forced by the summons pleading at his door,
Ali went forth, while all his sentries slept,
And took a way no king had gone before.
He went through fetid lane and alley dim,
He saw in prison foul the young child lie;
He heard by stake and cross the martyr's hymn,
He saw in lazar-hut the friendless die.
In vain they called him to his crown and throne;
He laughed that such poor playthings yet should be,
And answered all, "I find, at last, my own,
I know the brother that hath need of me."
If tomb King Ali had, it is unknown,
His palace columns razed by Time's rude hands,
For ages lost, his scepter, and his throne,
His ashes mingled with the desert's sands.
Yet down the chill wind of the past is blown
Like breath of roses o'er a wintry sea,
These words of love, "I find, at last, my own,
I know my brother that hath need of me."