1.A king，grown old in glory and renown，With wisdom wished his happy reign to crown.Feeling the years turn white upon his head，He thought upon his end，and thus he said：“Three sons I have，strong types of sturdy youth，Bredin all honour，manliness，and truth；Honest and brave are they，I know it well；But traitsthere are in all that none may tell.
I’11test them，therefore；for I fain would know Which one shall rule the best when I must go.”
2.Thereon he sent a slave to call his sons Into his presence.Strong and manly ones They surely were，to glad a father‘s sight，And mind him of his spring-time’s manly might.To whom the king：“My sons，the time draws near When I，your sire，shall be no longer here，And I would know which of you I may trustTo wield the sceptrewhen my hands are dust；And to that end I make you this request，Which of my three sons loves his father best？”
3.Then spake the eldest：“Sire，my love for thee Is deeper，broader，greater than the sea，Vast as it is，that wets thy kingdom‘s shore.Such is my love for thee，my sire，and more.”The second then：“My father and my king，There is not any yet created thingIn the whole universe，below，above，To mark the scope and measure of my love.”The youngest simply said：“I cannot tell Thee more than this，I love my father well.”
4.The king dismissed them with a tender word，And sat and pondered well what he had heard；Then called his minister，and to him spake：“My lord，a pilgrimage I fain would makeTo far-famed Mecca.That I may atoneFor sins unpardoned，I will go alone，Barefooted and bareheaded；and if IBy Allahshall be called upon to dieWhile on this pilgrimage，’tis my command That my three sons together rule the land.”
5.A year went by，and yellow were the leaves，The ripened grain was gathered into sheaves，And all made ready for the harvest sport，When through the kingdom-city，camp，and court，Seaport and hamlet-the sad news was sped，That the wise ruler and just king was dead.Loved as a monarch tender，brave，and true，His people mourned him deeply as his due.His sons were told the words the king had said，And reigned together in their father‘s stead.
6.The calendar had marked another year，And on the drooping stalk the full-grown ear Through golden husk and silken tassel showed，When wearily along the dusty roadA beggar slowly moved towards the town.Outside the open gate he sat him downAnd rested.Suddenly his thoughts were bent Upon a man near by，with garments rent，Who sighed，and wept，and beat upon his breast，And ever made this moan，“I loved him best.”
7.“Friend，”said the beggar，“tell，if I may know，What is the cause and secret of thy woe.Allah hath certain cure for every ill；Thine may He soften！”For a moment still The other sat；then，with fresh tears，he said：
“Great is my loss.I mourn the king that’s dead.Ah！never more shall men see such a one.
He was my father，I his oldest son.”
And then he beat once more upon his breast，And rent his clothes，and cried，“I loved him best.”
8.The beggar sighed.“Such love must Allah prize.
Thy brothers？mourn they also in this wise？”
“Not so，”the mourner said.“The next in ageHis grief with other thoughts did soon assuage ；With horse and hounds his hours are spent in sport，To the great shame and sorrow of the court.
The youngest bears the pains and cares of state；Works out our father‘s plans；to low and greatMetethout justice with impartialhand，And is beloved and honoured in the land.”
9.The beggar left the son on grief intent，And straightway to the court his footsteps bent；Cast off his beggar’s clothes before the throne，And，clad in purple，proudly claimed his own；Cried，in a voice that made the arches ring，“Hear ye，my people！As I am your king，My power，my crown，my sceptre，and my throne Go to my youngest son，and him alone！-Son of my heart，I fold thee to my breast；Who doth his father‘s work loves him the best.”