The doctor, now, a potion mixed for him. His health declines; he every day grows slim. 175 The coin that passes much from hand to hand Soon loses currency, has no demand. So he, when beauty no more graced his cheek, Began to lack worth with the handmaid sleek. All love that’s built on outer skin-deep charms, Is not true love. At length shame ’tis that warms. Would it were shame alone that pricks him now! He’d not been victimised and brought thus low. His eyes pour forth two streams of bitter tears; His altered features the worst foe he fears. 180 The peacock’s enemy his plumage call. The monarch bleeds whose splendours neighbours gall. The musk-deer for the musk-pod still is slain; His blood for that alone the ground will stain. The marten for its fur is trapped, surprised, And strangled. Kings its pelt have prized. The elephant, sagacious creature, dies, For iv’ry pierced with weapons as he flies. “He who slays me for what I leave behind, Reflects not: ‘Blood that’s spilt demands its kind.’ 185 To-day ’tis I; to-morrow ’twill be thou; Who’ll be most loser? ’Tis not I, all know. The shadow of a wall, ’tis true, is wide; The sun revolves; the shadow’s turn’d aside. The world’s a mountain; all our works, a voice; Our voice goes forth; its echo has no choice.” Reflecting thus, the goldsmith breath’d his last; The handmaid’s love and grief behind her cast. A dead mate’s love can never more be shown; A dead mate’s voice will never more be known; 190 Love for the living, in the heart and eyes, Will ever spring; the dead no more can rise. One Living is there, death that never knows; Love Him! The life from Him alone still flows. Love Him, whom saints and prophets all have loved; Through whom alone we all have lived and moved. Say not thou canst not to His throne approach; He’s gracious. His rich grace bears no reproach! The goldsmith’s death through lethal drugs, be sure, Was not from hope, or fear, or baser lure. 195 The doctor kill’d him, not to please our prince; Him some divine suggestion did convince. The story of the child by angel slain[67] Cannot be fully grasped by minds too plain. A saint that acts on Heaven’s high behest, Can never do amiss; ’tis always best. He who can pardon, he may also doom; He’s God’s vicegerent; acts in Heaven’s room. As Ishmaël beneath his father’s knife,[68] Do thou for such a prince lay down thy life; 200 Thus may thy soul, in future blessed abode, Muhammed-like, in peace be with thy God. His lovers joyful are, most, when they slay Their worldly joys with their own hands, as play.