Sabqatī.
GAZEL
A rose-leaf o’er the spikenard fall’n—the red fez lies on her dark hair;
The perspiration studs her cheeks—the dew-drops which the roses wear.
Since mirrored in th’ o’erflowing bowl did yon cup-bearer’s chin beam bright,
My eyes were fixed upon that wine, like bubbles which that wine did bear.
Behold thou, then, her braided locks, as musk, all dark and sweet perfumed;
Like ambergris, her tresses shed abroad an odor rich and rare.
Those who set forth on Mystic Path behind soon leave the earth-born love;
The Bridge, as home, within this world of ours, no man hath taken e’er.
Now, O Belīg, that steed, thy reed, doth caracole across this page;
Thy finger-points, the Hayder bold whom that Duldul doth onward bear.
Belīg.
ON A DANCING-GIRL
When that beauty of a dancing-girl her castanets hath ta’en,
Should the sun and moon behold her, jealous, each were rent in twain.
Patience from my soul is banished when beginneth she to dance;
Leaps with her my heart; my eyesight, faltering, is like to wane.
When the moon looks down upon her, must it not be seared of heart?
Yonder moon-fair one her crimson skirt for halo bright hath ta’en.
In her motions and her pausings what varieties of grace!
While her lovely frame doth tremble, like to quicksilver, amain!
Full delighted at her motions, loud as thunder roars the drum;
Beats its breast the tambourine, its bells commence to mourn and plain.
When she cometh, like a fairy, begging money from the crowd,
In her tambourine, had one a hundred lives, he’d cast them fain.
Deck her out on gala-days, and take her by the hand, Belīg;
Yonder spark-like Idol hath consumed my soul with fiery pain.
Belīg.
GAZEL
Surge in waves my streaming tears, e’en like a rushing flood, once more,
From their smallest drop, the sources of a hundred Niles would pour.
Overwhelm the raging billows of my tears the heart’s frail bark,
Though the mem’ry of her cheek, like to the beacon, radiance throw.
What my pen writes down appeareth, in the eyes of brutish men,
Like the needle to the blinded, of discerning clear the foe.
One the beggar’s bowl would be with the tiara of the King,
Were it but reversed, for then like to the royal crown ’twould show.
Though it be coarse as a rush-mat, is that soul the seat of grace,
Which doth, like the wattle basket, freely bread to guests bestow,
“Yonder hair-waist I encircled,” did the braggart rival say;
But her waist exists not—hair-like slight his boasting’s truth doth show.
O thou vain one! see, what anguish to the head of Nimrod brought
Was by one gnat’s sting, which like to trunk of elephant did grow.
Sāmī, it is thy intention to compare to heaven’s bowers
These thy distichs eight, with shining flowers of rhetoric that glow.
Sāmī.