| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895. |
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| Omàr and the Persian |
| | | Sarah Williams (1841–68) |
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| THE VICTOR stood beside the spoil, and by the grinning dead: | |
| “The land is ours, the foe is ours, now rest, my men,” he said. | |
| But while he spoke there came a band of foot-sore, panting men: | |
| “The latest prisoner, my lord, we took him in the glen, | |
| And left behind dead hostages that we would come again.” | 5 |
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| The victor spoke: “Thou, Persian dog! hast cost more lives than thine. | |
| That was thy will, and thou shouldst die full thrice, if I had mine. | |
| Dost know thy fate, thy just reward?” The Persian bent his head, | |
| “I know both sides of victory, and only grieve,” he said, | |
| “Because there will be none to fight ’gainst thee when I am dead. | 10 |
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| “No Persian faints at sight of Death,—we know his face too well,— | |
| He waits for us on mountain side, in town, or shelter’d dell; | |
| But I crave a cup of wine, thy first and latest boon, | |
| For I have gone three days athirst, and fear lest I may swoon, | |
| Or even wrong mine enemy, by dying now, too soon.” | 15 |
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| The cup was brought; but ere he drank the Persian shudder’d white. | |
| Omàr replied, “What fearest thou? The wine is clear and bright; | |
| We are no poisoners, not we, nor traitors to a guest, | |
| No dart behind, nor dart within, shall pierce thy gallant breast; | |
| Till thou hast drain’d the draught, O foe, thou dost in safety rest.” | 20 |
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| The Persian smil’d, with parched lips, upon the foemen round, | |
| Then pour’d the precious liquid out, untasted, on the ground. | |
| “Till that is drunk, I live,” said he, “and while I live, I fight; | |
| So, see you to your victory, for ’t is undone this night; | |
| Omàr the worthy, battle fair is but thy god-like right.” | 25 |
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| Upsprang a wrathful army then,—Omàr restrain’d them all, | |
| Upon no battle-field had rung more clear his martial call, | |
| The dead men’s hair beside his feet as by a breeze was stirr’d, | |
| The farthest henchman in the camp the noble mandate heard: | |
| “Hold! if there be a sacred thing, it is the warrior’s word.” | 30 |
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