Chapter III: The Resting-Place

Brother, beside the jungle track, thy stone
Half raised, a nameless, carven slab, I see,
Half hidden by the tangle, secretly;
Where roots join twisted hands above thy head,
Where scarce a footfall passes save my own,
Nor white man’s tread.

I have been wandering since noon was high,
And now, because the evening comes apace,
Thy tomb shall be my rest a little space;
From thy long-vanished hand this loan I take,
Across the years this hospitality
That thou dost make.

The jungle has grown over thee, O friend,
For, scarce a furlong from thy buried dust,
Once stood a city where the great and just
Built high the parapet and mosque and dome,
Where now the creeper flings its tasselled end
Around their home.

How many centuries have come and gone
Since first thou sawest, with awakened eyes,
The green-scarfed houris proffering Paradise;
Since thy young cresent moon, athwart this shade,
Son of the Prophet, has in silver shone
Where thou art laid!

Mayhap, thy spirit loved what mine loves best;
The tread of horses and the pride of life,
The jungle’s magic and the joy of strife,
The long nights spent beneath the spangled sky--
O dead Mahommedan! Thy passing guest
By these accepts from thee this meed of rest
_Salaam, O Bhai!_[2]

[2] Brother.

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