In the Tents of Akbar
In the tents of AkbarAre dole and grief to-day,For the flower of all the IndiesHas gone the silent way.
In the tents of AkbarAre emptiness and gloom,And where the dancers gather,The silence of the tomb.
Across the yellow desert,Across the burning sands,Old Akbar wanders madly,And wrings his fevered hands.
And ever makes his moaningTo the unanswering sky,For Sutna, lovely Sutna,Who was so fair to die.
For Sutna danced at morning,And Sutna danced at eve;Her dusky eyes half hiddenBehind her silken sleeve.
Her pearly teeth out-glancingBetween her coral lips,The tremulous rhythm of passionMarked by her quivering hips.
As lovely as a jewelOf fire and dewdrop blent,So danced the maiden SutnaIn gallant Akbar’s tent.
And one who saw her dancing,Saw her bosom’s fall and risePut all his body’s yearningInto his lovelit eyes.
Then Akbar came and drove him—A jackal—from his door,And bade him wander far and lookOn Sutna’s face no more.
Some day the sea disgorges,The wilderness gives back,Those half-dead who have wandered,Aimless, across its track.
And he returned—the lover,Haggard of brow and spent;He found fair Sutna standingBefore her master’s tent.
“Not mine, nor Akbar’s, Sutna!”He cried and closely pressed,And drove his craven daggerStraight to the maiden’s breast.
Oh, weep, oh, weep, for Sutna,So young, so dear, so fair,Her face is gray and silentBeneath her dusky hair.
And wail, oh, wail, for Akbar,Who walks the desert sands,Crying aloud for Sutna,Wringing his fevered hands.
In the tents of AkbarThe tears of sorrow run,But the corpse of Sutna’s slayer,Lies rotting in the sun.