I gather from that rill of thine,
Than maddening drunkards ever quaff'd,
Than all the treasures of the vine.
So smooth the pebbles on its shore,
That not a maid can thither stray,
But counts her strings of jewels o'er,
And thinks the pearls have slipped away.
TO ADVERSITY[48]
(By Abu Menbaa Carawash)
Hail, chastening friend Adversity! 'Tis thine