POEMS BY A KING OF PERSIA.

(To the Editor.)

It is rather an unusual thing in the present age to hear of monarchs being authors, and much more so of being poets. It is true, there have been instances of this kind in former times; but perhaps none deserved more notice than Fath Ali Shah, the King of Persia. The author of a collection of elegies and sonnets, Mr. Scott Waring, in his "Tour to Sheeraz," has exhibited a specimen of the king's amatory productions. He also states that the government of Kashan, one of the chief cities in Persia, was the reward of the king to the person who excelled in poetical composition.

The four subjoined poems are the production of this celebrated monarch.

William Runting.

She who is the object of my love

Has just declared she will not grant me

Another kiss, but at the price of my existence:

Ah! why have I not a thousand lives,

That I might sacrifice them all on these conditions.

The flame which she has enkindled in my heart

Is so bright, that it dazzles the universe:

It is a torch enclosed within crystal.

This heart is a Christian temple,

Wherein Beauty has established her sanctuary;

And the sighs which escape from it

Are like the loud ringing bells.[⁵]

Ah! too fascinating object! how dangerous

Are thy looks!—they wound indifferently

The hearts of young and old: they are

More to be dreaded than the fatal arrows of the mighty Toos.[⁶]

Delight us with a glimpse of thy lovely form;

Charm our senses by the elegance of thy attitudes;

Our hearts are transported by thy glances.

The proud peacock, covered with confusion,

Dares not display before thee the rich

And pompous variety of his plumage.

Thy ebon ringlets are chains, which hold

Monarchs in captivity, and make

Them slaves to the power of thy charms.

The dust on which thou treadest becomes an ornament,

Worthy of the imperial diadem of Caus.[⁷]

Haughty kings now prostrate themselves

Before Khacan,[⁸] since he has obtained

A favourable look from the object of his love.

II.

That blessing which the fountain of life

Bestowed in former ages on Khezr [⁹]

Thy lips can communicate in a manner

Infinitely more efficacious.

Nature, confounded at the aspect of thy lovely mouth,

Conceals her rubies within a rock;—

Our hearts, ensnared by those eyes which express

All the softness of amorous intoxication,

Are held captive in the dimples of thy chin.

Love has excited in my soul a fire

Which cannot be extinguished;—

My bosom is become red with flames,

Like a parterre of roses;—

This heart is no longer mine:

It hangs suspended on the ringlets of thy hair—

And thou, cruel fair! thou piercest it

With a glance of thy cold disdain.

Ah! inquire not into the wretched. Khacan's fate:

Thy waving locks have deprived him of reason;

But how many thousand lovers, before him,

Have fallen victims to the magic of thy beauty.

III.

My soul, captivated by thy charms,

Wastes itself away in chains, and bends beneath

The weight of oppression. Thou hast said

"Love will bring thee to the tomb—arise,

And leave his dominions" But, alas!

I wish to expire at thy feet, rather than to abandon

Altogether my hopes of possessing thee.

I swear, by the two bows that send forth

Irresistible arrows from thine eyes,

That my days have lost their lustre:

They are dark as the jet of thy waving ringlets;

And the sweetness of thy lips far exceeds,

In the opinion of Khacan, all that

The richest sugar-cane has ever yielded.

IV.

The humid clouds of spring float over the enamelled meads,

And, like my eyes, dissolve in tears.

My fancy seeks thee in all places; and the beauties

Of Nature retrace, at every moment,

Thy enchanting image. But thou, O cruel fair one!

Thou endeavourest to efface from thy memory

The recollection of my ardent love—my tender constancy.

Thy charms eclipse the growing tulip—

Thy graceful stature puts to shame the lofty cyprus.

Let every nymph, although equal in beauty to Shireen,[¹⁰]

Pay homage to thy superiority; and let all men

Become like Ferhad [¹¹] of the mountain,

Distracted on beholding thy loveliness.

How could the star of day have shone amidst the heavens,

If the moon of thy countenance had not concealed

Its splendour beneath the cloud of a veil?

Oh! banish me not from thy sight;

Command me—it will be charitable—

Command me to die.

How long wilt thou reject the amorous solicitations

Of thy Khacan? Wilt thou drive him to madness

By thy unrelenting cruelty? The doomed

To endless tears and lamentations.