Chapter VIII: Story of Sultan Toghral and the Slave Guard

I have heard that Toghral, on a cold, wintry night,Passed a slave-guard on duty and saw his sad plight.From the falling of snow and the torrents of rain,Like Canopus, he could not from trembling refrain.For the watchman, his heart out of pity grew hot,And he said, "Take this mantle of sheepskin, I've got!Near the roof for a moment, expecting it, stand!And I'll send it without, by a slave stripling's hand."The wind in the meantime a hurricane blew,As inside his palace the king slipped from view.He possessed in his household a fairy-faced slave,To whose charms a good share of attention he gave.On beholding the maiden, such joy did he find,That the wretched slave sentry escaped from his mind.The mantle of sheepskin went through the slave's ear ;From bad luck, on his shoulders it did not appear.With the pain of the cold, was it little to cope,That the tyrannous sky should have bidden him hope?Observe, when the king heedless slept on his bed,What the drummer, when daylight appeared, to him said :"Very likely Nek-Bakht on your thoughts did not rest,When you carried your hand to the fair maiden's breast !In enjoyment and pleasure, your night slips away,How know you how our night dissolves into day ?"When the head of the trav'ller is over the pot,What cares he concerning the sand-stayed one's lot?To your ships on the water, oh master, hold fast!For the water has over the pauper's head passed!Oh active, young man! you should practise delay !For feeble old men in the caravan stay.In the caravan litter, you sleep without qualm,While the halter is held in the camel-man's palm:What are deserts and hills, rocks and sand to your mind?Find the truth out from. those on the road left behind !A beast, like a mountain in form, bears you well,Of the footman who eats his own blood, can you tell?Those in comfort, asleep 'mong the baggage, who wait,Do not know of the famishing stomach's sad state.