ZAHIR.

XLVIII.

O Tyrannous One, when from my heart was drawn The fatal arrow, like a scarlet flood My life gushed forth; but yet the one word Hope Was written in my blood.

Why should the Cosmos turn its wheel of worlds If not to search for thee eternally?

Why should the tireless Sun arise each morn If not to look for thee?

Alas my fate! before you came to me Already had I felt the touch of Death, Nor was I spared before thy worshipped feet To offer up my breath.

For long, throughout the world, I sought for thee, Through weary years and ages of unrest; At last I found thee hidden in my arms Within my breast!

ZAUQ.

FRAGMENTS.

Each morn I see the Sun in majesty Come back to shine thy rival as before, But O what ages has it taken thee To come to me--if thou wilt come--once more!

ARZU.

Through Love did I the joy of life attain, And walking in the way that He hath led I found the remedy to heal all pain; Why therefore is my pain unremedied?

GHALIB.

O burnish well the mirror of thy heart And make it fair, If thou desire the image of thy Love To shine reflected there.

HATIM.

No fault is thine, Beloved, I do not blame thee, Nor do I blame my rivals for their part, I know my trouble causeless, yet I hearken To my unreasonable, doubting heart.

MAZHAR.

What thou hast done, never an enemy Would practise on a bitterly-hated foe; And yet, my friend, I took thee for a friend, and did not know.

MAZHAR.

Mayhap my sorrowful heart Did not deserve thou shouldst bestow on me Thy priceless love, but neither did it merit Thy cruel tyranny.

MAZHAR.

She lightly laughed--And so is Mazhar dead?

Alas, poor helpless one! I knew not I What was his trouble.--Then again she said --I did not think him ill enough to die.

MAZHAR.

If I behold her, I am mad, And if I see her not, I die; O Love, to tender hearts like mine Thou art a great calamity.

MAZHAR.

I ask for Allah's pardon, if I dare To weigh and criticise what He hath done; But when He made thy beauty shining fair, What need was there for Him to make the Sun?

MIR DARD.

In spring, O Bulbul, go not in thy grief To seek the garden, wandering apart; But wait--one day within thy very heart It shall arise, in bud and bloom and leaf.

MIR SOZ.

Some friend of mine, may be, After my lonely death may let her see How foolish were her idle doubts of me; But no! how can I think the rolling Wheel of Fate Should turn to favour one so long unfortunate?