Behold the roses, how they shine, e’en like the cheeks of maids most fair;
The fresh-sprung hyacinth shows like to beauties’ dark, sweet, musky hair.
The loved one’s form behold, like cypress which the streamlet’s bank doth bear;
In sooth, each side for soul and heart doth some delightful joy prepare.
O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow;
’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow.
The parterre’s flowers have all bloomed forth, the roses, sweetly smiling, shine;
On every side lorn nightingales, in plaintive notes discoursing, pine;
How fair, carnation and wallflower the borders of the garden line!
The long-haired hyacinth and jasmine both around the cyprèss twine.
O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow;
’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow.
Arise, my Prince! the garden’s court hath wondrous joys in fair array;
Oh, hark, there midst the rose’s boughs, the wailing nightingale’s fond lay
Thy bright cheek show the new-oped rose and make it blush with shamed dismay;
With graceful air come then, thy cypress mien before the mead display.
O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow;
’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow.
Enow! thy lovers pain no more, of faithful plight the days are now;
On streamlet’s banks, of mirth and joy and gay delight the days are now;
In hand then take the heart’s dear joy, the goblet bright, its days are now;
O Fitnet, come, and these thy verses sweet recite, their days are now.
O Liege, come forth! from end to end with verdure doth the whole earth glow;
’Tis springtide now again, once more the tulips and the roses blow.
Fitnet Khānim.
GAZEL
Ah! through grief for thee mine eyes blood, every night and day, weep;
Those who know my bitter sorrow’s secret pang for aye weep.
When they see me blood-besmeared by my bosom’s red wound,
Pitying my doleful plight, the garden’s flowerets gay weep.
When he viewed my bleeding heart, ruth had yon physician;
Quoth he: “Doth the cure for thee, Sick of love-dismay, weep.”
Yet to me doth yonder Torment of the Soul no grace show;
For my plight do all my friends, who me thus sick survey, weep.
E’en as gazeth on thy cheek, amidst his woes, Ilhāmī,
Though his face may smiling be, his heart doth blood alway weep.
Ilhāmī.
GAZEL
Midst the orchard of the world though empire may appear delight,
Still, if thou wouldst view it closely, empire is but ceaseless fight.
Vain let no one be who ruleth kingdoms in these woful days;
If in justice lie thy pleasure—then is empire truly right.
Reacheth e’en one lover union in the space of thousand years?
Let whoever sees it envy—empire is of faithless plight.
Think, O heart, alas! the revolutions of the rolling Sphere!
If at times ’tis joy, far oftener empire bringeth dire affright.
Do not envy, do not covet, then, the Kingship of the world;
Oh! take heed, Ilhāmī, empire bides not, swift indeed its flight.