And Iran’s sons are round him, and one with solemn tone
Tells how the Lord of Glory was rejected by His own;
Tells, from the wondrous Gospel, of the Trial and the Doom,
The words Divine of Love and Might—the Scourge, the Cross, the Tomb.
VI
Far sweeter to the stranger’s ear those Eastern accents sound
Than music of the nightingale that fills the air around:
Lovelier than balmiest odours sent from gardens of the rose,
The fragrance from the contrite soul and chastened lip that flows.
VII
The nightingales have ceased to sing, the roses’ leaves are shed,
The Frank’s pale face in Tokat’s field hath mouldered with the dead:
Alone and all unfriended, midst his Master’s work he fell,
With none to bathe his fevered brow, with none his tale to tell.
VIII
But still those sweet and solemn tones about him sound in bliss,
And fragrance from those flowers of God for evermore is his:
For his the meed, by grace, of those who, rich in zeal and love,
Turn many unto righteousness, and shine as stars above.
This was the beginning of the Persian New Testament:
To Rev. David Brown
Shiraz: June 24, 1811.