He is the son of Mullā Darvīsh of Fatḥpūr, and his uncle, Mullā Ṣāliḥ, is now the teacher appointed to the monastery at Fatḥpūr. iflī in his thirteenth year was reading the Sharḥ-i-Shamsiyyah.* He has a most generous nature and an admirable taste in poetry. He is in the service of the eldest prince,* and obtained the poetic name of iflī from him. The following few couplets are from a laudatory ode which he composed in honour of the prince:—

“O King,* in whose just reign strife itself has become the
guardian of the world against the robbers of confusion,
The hope of thy favour is such that the very sins of sinners
protect them from the fire of hell.
²⁶⁸ Thou art he, to the war-horse of whose resolution in the day
of battle
Victory is the standard-bearer and success the fellow.
Last night the bird of glory brought the record of thy
success,
That bird the fame of whose pinions comes from the utter-
most parts of space beyond our ken.
The scribe of thy dignity has written passages of which we
hope for a translation and for which we earnestly desire a
translator.”

He also wrote the following verses:—

“If the beauty of the Idol were to display itself in the
monastery

Devotees who drag about their prayer carpets would ex-
change their rosaries for the idolator's thread.
Nobody counts the cash of both worlds offered by the buyer
In that place where the merchandise consists of wounded
hearts.”

“I am he who has grown to love the lancet of grief.
Ointment is shamed by the wound in my breast.”

“From our manner of dealing with Islām in the day of
retribution
It is likely that infidelity will seize us by the skirt.”

“The song of love's feast this night inflamed the plectrum,
Her glances were the singers and her eyebrow the rebeck-
players this night.”

“O heart, let my lips for once be wreathed with smiles!
For to-night will be seen the splendour of love's tears of
blood.”

“I fear no reproof, for the reproaches of the jealous watcher
Are as applause to the followers of love's religion.”

“Ah! See how thy glance imperils our true faith, ²⁶⁹
Trust in thy promises is a sure way to disappointment.”*

“Brahman, despair not of the efficacy of thy prostrations to
thy idol,
For the mark on thy forehead is the mirror of thy fate.”*

“How should my pain be assuaged by lint and ointment,
The bird of whose wounded heart breathes forth flame?”

The following few couplets are from a tarjī‘-band* by iflī:—

“My tears, rejoice, for this night
My heart's blood surges up in my eyes.
O reunion, plead for me, for my desire for her
Has devastated the abode of reason.
Speak not to me of delight,
For the lancet has become the companion of my wound,
It is useless to say to anybody,
‘Scatter diamond-dust in your wound but do not cry out.’”

It is marvellous that a lad of iflī's years should understand and speak Persian; much more so that he should be able to com­pose poetry in the language. It may be hoped that he will outstrip many of these old men who have wasted their lives.