Through this joy beneath thy shade the world doth its desires behold; With thy praises eloquent the tongues of all, both young and old. Thou to Faith and Empire then didst render services untold Hurling down to earth the foeman’s house in one assault right bold! O Vezīr! Jem-high! think not that flattery my words enfold; Though a poet, not with false or vaunting boasts I’ve thee extolled. Midst the fight for Egypt’s conquest firm in stirrup was thy hold, Under thy Egyptian charger trod’st thou foemen like the mould. From the handle of thy sword, like water, down the red blood rolled; Thou the foe mad’st turn his face, mill-like, in terror uncontrolled. “Bravo! Champion of the Epoch! rending ranks in serried fight! O’er the ‘Arsh hang now thy sabre, sparkling like the Pleiads bright!” Those who sing thy glories, like to Wāsif, wildered aye must be; Sayeth Wāsif: “None on earth like Huseyn Pacha I shall see.” If there be who has in vision seen a peerless one like thee, As a dream all void of meaning, let him it relate to me. Cannon-ball like, ’gainst the foe thou threw’st thyself from terror free; Like the winter blast thou mad’st the foeman shake in front of thee. Claim to manliness forsaking, even as the blind was he, Sword in hand despairing stood he, like to one who naught can see; Quick his throat thou seizedst, like the dragon direful in his glee, ’Neath thy sabre’s wave thou drown’dst the misbeliever, like the sea! “Bravo! Champion of the Epoch! rending ranks in serried fight! O’er the ‘Arsh hang now thy sabre, sparkling like the Pleiads bright!” _Wāsif._ SHARQĪ O Rosebud of joy’s flowery lea! O graceful one with step so free! If thou wilt yield thee not to me, On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. Behold my breast, by guile unprest, Is’t not mid thousand treasures best? Until thou tak’st me to thy breast, On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. O Rose-leaf fresh! concealed from sight With thee till morn a livelong night If I may not enjoy delight, On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. Yearning for union fills my soul, Patience and peace have no control; O wanton one! my longing’s goal! On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. Seek, Wāsif, her who hearts doth snare Yon maid with bosom silver-fair; Until thou thither dost repair, On earth the glass of mirth and glee To me’s forbid, apart from thee. _Wāsif._ SHARQĪ To whom that wine-red ruby’s shown Is captive by those locks o’erthrown; ’Tis meet like nightingale I moan: A lovely Scio Rose is blown.