The uneventful night passed slowly away, and the gray dawn began to tint the distant mountain tops, but no other light was visible save the gleam of the morning star, when the watcher saw in the distance a figure approaching him. It was a venerable man wearing a green mantle,[[275]] and his white beard flowed down upon his garments like a cascade of silver. He bore in his hand a cup, filled with the nectar of immortality, and the reverent youth bent low before the genius of the mountain, and then drank eagerly of the proffered cup; therefore he still lives in the memory of man.
He was loyal to his native land, and the following lines indicate his strong attachment to the city of his birth.
SHĪRĀZ.
“May every blessing be the lot
Of fair Shīrāz, earth’s loveliest spot.
Oh Heaven! bid Time its beauties spare,
Nor print his wasteful traces there.
Still be thou blest of him that gave
Thy stream, sweet Ruknabad, whose wave
Can every human ill assuage,