If yonder mouth be not the soul, O heart-enslaver gay, Then wherefore is it like the soul, hid from our eyes away? Since in the casket of our mind thy ruby’s picture lies, The mine is now no fitting home for gem of lustrous ray. Thy tresses fall across thy cheek in many a twisting curl, “To dance to Hijāz have the Shāmīs tucked their skirts,” we’d say. Let both the youthful pine and cypress view thy motions fair; The gardener now to rear the willow need no more assay. The dark and cloudy brained of men thine eyebrows black depict, While those of keen, discerning wit thy glistening teeth portray. Before thy cheek the rose and jasmine bowèd in _sujūd_, The cypress to thy figure in _qiyām_ did homage pay. The heart’s throne is the seat of that great monarch, love for thee; The soul, the secret court, where doth thy ruby’s picture stay. The radiance of thy beauty bright hath filled earth like the sun, The hall, “BE! and it is,” resounds with love of thee for aye. The cries of those on plain of earth have risen to the skies, The shouts of those who dwell above have found to earth their way. Nor can the nightingale with songs as sweet as Bāqī’s sing, Nor happy as thy star can beam the garden’s bright array. The mead, the world, blooms through thy beauty’s rose, like Irem’s bower; On every side are nightingales of sweet, melodious lay. Now let us pray at Allah’s court: “May this for aye endure, The might and glory of this prospered King’s resplendent sway; Until the lamp, the world-illuming sun, at break of dawn, A silver candelabrum on the circling skies display, Oh! may the Ruler of the world with skirt of aid and grace Protect the taper of his life from blast of doom, we pray!” Glory’s the comrade; Fortune, the cup-bearer at our feast; The beaker is the Sphere; the bowl, the Steel of gold-inlay! _Bāqī._ GAZEL ’Tis love’s wild sea, my sighs’ fierce wind doth lash those waves my tears uprear; My head, the barque of sad despite; mine eyebrows twain, the anchors here. Mine unkempt hair, the den of yonder tiger dread, the fair one’s love; My head, dismay and sorrow’s realm’s deserted mountain region drear. At whatsoever feast I drain the cup thy rubies’ mem’ry to, Amidst all those who grace that feast, except the dregs, I’ve no friend near. Thou know’st, O Light of my poor eyes, with _tūtyā_ mixed are gems full bright, What then if weep on thy path’s dust mine eyes that scatter pearls most clear! The Sphere, old hag, with witchcraft’s spell hath parted me from my fond love, O Bāqī, see, by God, how vile a trick yon jade hath played me here! _Bāqī._ GAZEL