The goblet as affliction’s Khusrev’s bright Keyānī crown doth shine; And surely doth the wine-jar love’s King’s Khusrevānī hoard enshrine. Whene’er the feast recalls Jemshīd, down from its eyes the red blood rolls; The rosy-tinted wine its tears, the beakers its blood-weeping eyne. At parting’s banquet should the cup, the heart, with blood brim o’er were’t strange? A bowl that, to the fair we’ll drain, a goblet filled full high with wine. O Moon, if by thy door one day the foe should sudden me o’ertake-- A woe by Heaven decreed, a fate to which I must myself resign! The fume of beauty’s and of grace’s censer is thy cheek’s sweet mole, The smoke thereof thy musky locks that spreading fragrant curl and twine; Thy cheek rose-hued doth light its taper at the moon that shines most bright, Its candlestick at grace’s feast is yonder collar fair of thine. Of love and passion is the lustrous sheen of Bāqī’s verse the cause; As Life’s Stream brightly this doth shine; but that, th’ Eternal Life Divine. _Bāqī._ GAZEL When the sheets have yonder Torment to their bosom ta’en to rest, Think I, “Hides the night-adorning Moon within the cloudlet’s breast.” In the dawning, O thou turtle, mourn not with those senseless plaints; In the bosom of some stately cypress thou’rt a nightly guest. Why thou weepest from the heavens, never can I think, O dew; Every night some lovely rose’s bosom fair thou enterest. Hath the pearl seen in the story of thy teeth its tale of shame, Since the sea hath hid the album of the shell within its breast? Longing for thy cheeks, hath Bāqī all his bosom marked with scars, Like as though he’d cast of rose-leaves fresh a handful o’er his chest. _Bāqī._ ELEGY ON SULTAN SULEYMĀN I O thou! foot-bounden in the mesh of fame and glory’s snare! Till when shall last the lust of faithless earth’s pursuits and care? At that first moment, which of life’s fair springtide is the last, ’Tis need the tulip cheek the tint of autumn leaf should wear; ’Tis need that thy last home should be, e’en like the dregs’, the dust; ’Tis need the stone from hand of Fate should be joy’s beaker’s share. He is a man indeed whose heart is as a mirror clear; Man art thou? why then doth thy breast the tiger’s fierceness bear? In understanding’s eye how long shall heedless slumber bide? Will not war’s Lion-Monarch’s fate suffice to make thee ware? He, Prince of Fortune’s Cavaliers! he to whose charger bold, Whene’er he caracoled or pranced, cramped was earth’s tourney square! He, to the lustre of whose sword the Magyar bowed his head! He, the dread gleaming of whose brand the Frank can well declare! Like tender rose-leaf, gently laid he in the dust his face, And Earth, the Treasurer, him placed like jewel in his case.