Up from indolent sleep the eyes of the flowers to awake,
Over their faces each dawn the cloudlets of spring water shake.
Denizens all of the mead now with new life are so filled,
That were its foot not secured, into dancing the cypress would break.
Roses’ fair cheeks to describe, all of their beauty to tell,
Lines on the clear river’s page rain-drops and light ripples make.
Silvery rings, thou would’st say, they hung in the bright water’s ear,
When the fresh rain-drops of spring fall on the stretch of the lake.
Since the ring-dove, who aloft sits on the cypress, its praise
Sings, were it strange if he be sad and love-sick for its sake?
. . . . . . . . . .
Prince of the Climate of Speech, noble Nishānji Pasha,
To the mark of whose kindness the shaft of thought can its way never make.
When poets into their hands the chaplet, thy verses, have ta’en,
“I pardon implore of the Lord” for litany ever they take.
Mesīhī.
MUREBBA’
Hark the bulbul’s lay so joyous: “Now have come the days of spring.”
Merry shows and crowds on every mead they spread, a maze of spring;
There the almond-tree its silvern blossoms scatters, sprays of spring:
Drink, be gay, for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring.
Once again with varied flow’rets decked themselves have mead and plain;
Tents for pleasure have the blossoms raised in every rosy lane.
Who can tell, when spring hath ended, who and what may whole remain?
Drink, be gay, for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring.
All the alleys of the parterre filled with Ahmed’s Light appear,
Verdant herbs his Comrades, tulips like his Family bright appear;
O ye People of Muhammed! times now of delight appear:
Drink, be gay, for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring.
Sparkling dew-drops stud the lily’s leaf like sabre broad and keen;
Bent on merry gypsy-party, crowd they all the flow’ry green;
List to me, if thou desirest, these beholding, joy to glean:
Drink, be gay, for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring.
Rose and tulip, like to lovely maidens’ cheeks, all beauteous show,
While the dew-drops, like the jewels in their ears, resplendent glow;
Do not think, thyself beguiling, things will aye continue so:
Drink, be gay, for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring.
Rose, anemone, and tulip—these, the garden’s fairest flowers—
’Midst the parterre is their blood shed ’neath the lightning-darts and showers.
Art thou wise?—then with thy comrades dear enjoy the fleeting hours:
Drink, be gay, for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring.
Past the moments when with sickness were the ailing herbs opprest,
When the garden’s care, the rose-bud, hid its sad head in its breast;
Come is now the time when hill and rock with tulips dense are drest:
Drink, be gay, for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring.