And in this wise for many and many a day, The Rose and Nightingale held festival, Until the furious cruelty of fate Turned all their love to abject misery. The Rose became the prey of every wind, The Nightingale fell headlong in the dust, The course of fate ordained for them to drink The cup of desolation to the dregs. Those upon whom companion’s smile is turned, Are never infinitely destitute, And this too treacherous world betrays us all, With craft and the sharp edge of trickery. And when the dish gives honey to our lips, A deadly poison lurks within the bowl. And if we trust one moment to a cup It kills us till the blood in torrents flows. When did two days award an equal calm But that distress did not the next ensue? When was it that the highest bliss was given, But that at last there followed misery? The treasure is a snake, the gold but dross, Their grace a fading leaf, their balm is blight, And pain is but the sequel of delight, Their life to nothing but a vapor turns. Darius, Alexander, where are they, Who once were conquerors of every land? For both of them at last exchanged for grief, For grief of death, the glory of their life. Where is the sovereign Solomon, whose throne From peak to peak of Caucasus was set, He whose high throne was sport to every wind, To waft it as it wished to every pole? At last the wind bore off the lofty throne, And Solomon to-day is but a name. Where is Schamshid, through whose profound design The world was moulded into living form? But even his genius vanished in the wind, And suddenly he mouldered into dust. Where now is he, the Lord of all the world, The lord of lords, illustrious Feridun? He also to the spoiler yields his power, Flung to the ground to mingle with the dust. Still in this house there lingers only one, The everlasting, everliving God. This world has but two portals, which indeed Are separated from each other far, For by one door man enters to the house, And by the other he an exit makes. Who in this house forever gladly stays, From which the very Prophet took his flight? And since he never lingered in this house, How canst thou think eternal there thy lot? What is the world, O Fasli, but an inn Where caravans halt only for night? Put not thy trust, then, in its permanence, For ambush ever lies in wait for it. Distrust it, then, for it can ne’er endure, Despise it, for it has no help for thee. LIX DECLARATION OF THE HIDDEN MEANING WHICH FOR THE MYSTIC LIES IN THIS TRUE HISTORY AND MOURNFUL NARRATIVE