Classic Poem

In ancient days the Caliph Almamon
A palace built in Bagdad, fairer far
Than was the vaunted house of Solomon.
The portico a hundred columns graced
Of purest alabaster. Gold and blue
And jasper formed the rich mosaic floor.
Ceiled with the fragrant cedar, suites of rooms
Displayed a wealth of sculpture; treasures rare
In art and nature vied; fair flowers and gems,
Perfumes and scented myrtles; verdure soft
And piercing lustre; past the embroidered couch
The gushing fountains rolled on dancing wave.
And beauty reigned o'er all.
Near this abode, but just beyond the gate,
A simple cottage stood, old and dilapidate,
The home of a poor weaver. There, content
With little gain procured by labour long,
Without a debt and thus beyond a care,
The old man lived, forgotten perhaps, but free.
His days all peaceful softly wore away
And he nor envied was, nor envying.
As hath been told, his small and mean retreat,
Just masked the palace gates. The Grand Vizier
Would pull it down, without formality
Of law, or word of grace. More just his lord
Commands to buy it first. To hear is to obey;
They seek the weaver's bearing bags of gold;
“These shalt thou have.”
“No; keep your lordly sum,
My workshop yields my needs,” responds the man,
“And for my house, I have no wish to sell;
Here was I born, and here my father died:
And here would I die too. The Caliph may,
Should he so will, force me to leave the place
And pull my cottage down, but should he so
Each day would find me seated on the stone
The last that's left, weeping my misery.
I know Almamon's heart; 'twill pity me.”
This bold reply the Vizier's choler raised;
He would the rascal punish, and at once
Pull down the sorry hut. Not so the Caliph:
“No; while it stands my glory lives,” saith he,
“My treasure shall be taxed to make it whole;
And of my reign it shall be monument;
For when my heirs shall this fair palace mark
They shall exclaim ‘How great was Almamon!’
And when yon cottage ‘Almamon was just!’”