Our life’s our quiver. When our years are vainly spent In chasing phantoms, grief will one day have its vent. Let God’s protection mercifully on us rest, All fancies and all phantoms stand at once confest. God’s servants are His shadows here below on earth; To this world dead, but living in a second birth. To their skirts cling; from them thy soul’s nutrition seek. So may’st thou ’scape the perils of this scene’s last week. 105 The holy text of: “How He stretcheth forth the shade!”[94] Of saints gives notice. Them his glory doth pervade. Without their guidance venture not to thread this maze; Like Ab’ram answer: “Fading things do not me please!”[95] In days of trouble, consolation’s sun seek out. The skirts of “Tebrīz’ Sun” will wipe out care, no doubt.[96] Know’st not the road to that good man, and grief survene? Inquire of his and my friend, great Husāmu-’d-Dīn.[97] While on thy way, should envy seize thee by the throat, Know, Satan’s sin was envy; malice made him gloat. 110 He envied Adam’s rise to such sublime estate. He wars with all who’re good, through envy and through hate. No mountain-pass as this life’s progress is so steep; Let envy not increase thy load; thou canst but creep. The flesh a hot-bed is of envy and of strife. These soil the soul; for envy’s bane of mortal life. Should envy seek thy soul to kill, invoke the Lord, The God of mercy thee can save, with His true Word. “Make clean My house, ye two,” did Ab’ram’s God once say.[98] His house our frame; a house of glory, though of clay. 115 Should envy fill thy breast ’gainst one that envies not, Foul stains ensue; thy heart’s impure; all good’s forgot. Prostrate thyself, then, at the feet of holy men; Cast dust upon thy head, God’s pardon to attain. The Vazīr of our Jewish king was envy’s self; His nose and ears he sacrificed, as ’twere but pelf, In hopes the sting of envy ’d find an easy way, To pour the selfsame wounds he ’d open lay. His nose, from envy, in the air, who carries high, His ears and nose to envy ’d give without a sigh. 120 The nose the organ is by which we trace a scent; The scent then guides to where the odour finds its vent. Who has no sense of smell is truly _minus_ nose, Its odour we should trace to where religion blows. To scent religion’s fragrance, not returning thanks, Ingratitude is. Nose to lose merit such pranks. Be grateful, thou; and venerate all grateful men; Abase thyself; a champion be of theirs. Amen. Be not a cut-throat, like that Vazīr, of men’s faith; Seek not to turn believing souls from what God saith. 125 That Vazīr seemed a pastor of the truth, in sham; As one who bitter aloes mixed in sweet plum jam.