King Solomon, before his palace gate
At evening, on the pavement tessellate
Was walking with a stranger from the East,
Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast,
The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man,
And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan.
And as they walked the guest became aware
Of a white figure in the twilight air,
Gazing intent, as one who with surprise
His form and features seemed to recognize;
And in a whisper to the king he said:
‘What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead,
Is watching me, as if he sought to trace_
In the dim light the features of my face?’
The king looked, and replied: ‘I know him well;
It is the Angel men call Azrael,
‘T is the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?’
And the guest answered: ‘Lest he should come near,
And speak to me, and take away my breath!
Save me from Azrael, save me from death!
O king, that hast dominion o’er the wind,
Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind.’
The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky,
Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high,
And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase
On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze
With hidden fire, and rushing from the west
There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest
And lifted him from earth, and on they passed,
His shining garments streaming in the blast,
A silken banner o’er the walls upreared,
A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared.
Then said the Angel, smiling: ‘If this man
Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan,
Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer;
I was upon my way to seek him there.’
