Now, man of eloquence and shrewd! again
Take up the story in thy proper strain.
Dakíkí to this point had brought his lay
When fortune put a period to his day,
And, having dealt with him right grievously,
Bare off his spirit from this Hostelry,
So that these fleeting words of his are all
That now remain as his memorial.
He stayed not to complete the tale, he penned
It not from its beginning to its end.
Now give attention to Firdausí's part,
Whose words are chaste and pleasing to the heart.
What time within my hands this story fell
My hook was angling for the fish as well.*

I scanned the verses and esteemed them weak;
In many couplets there was much to seek,
But here have I transcribed them that the king
May know how inartistic verses ring.
Both jewellers have each a gem to sell;
Now let the Sháh give ear to what they tell.
If thou canst speak but in Dakíkí's vein
Speak not at all and spare thy nature pain,
And, mindful of the bondage and the toil,
Ne'er dig in mines whence thou wilt win no spoil.
Unless thou art as fluent as a stream
Lay not thy hand upon this royal theme;
'Tis better that all food should be abjured
Than that thou shouldest spread a tasteless board.
A book fulfilled with legends met my view,
Its words possessed of character and true,
Its stories very ancient and in prose;
The wits had never thought of rhyming those,
No one had thought of linking line to line—
A fact that struck this gladsome heart of mine.
Two thousand years had passed the story o'er,
Two thousand years and haply countless more,

And I began his praises to rehearse,
Who showed the way to turn it into verse.
Although he only rhymed the veriest mite—
One thousand couplets full of feast and fight—
He was my pioneer and he alone,
In that he set the Sháhs upon the throne.
From nobles honour and emolument
Had he; his trouble was his own ill bent.
To sing the praises of the kings was his,
And crown the princes with his eulogies,
But still he uttered but a feeble strain,
And eld through him could ne'er grow young again.
I took the story for a lucky-sign;
For many a year the travail was all mine,
Yet found I no great patron of mine own
To shed a lustre on the royal throne—
A matter of much discontent to me,
But silence was the only remedy.
I had before mine eyes a garth of trees,
A dwelling-place for such as live at ease,
But not a portal opened on that same,
Save only what was royal but in name.
Fit for my garden must the portal be;
One that was narrow would not do for me.
For twenty years I kept my work till I
Should find one worthy of my treasury,
Until Mahmúd, the master of the earth,
Endowed with Grace and bounty, he whose worth
Both Moon and Saturn praise (Abú'l Kásim!
The crown of king of kings is fresh through him),
Till he, the world-lord, came and sat him here
Upon the throne of justice. Find his peer.
His name hath crowned my work, his Grace divine
Like ivory made this darkened heart of mine.
He passeth all the Sháhs that went before,
And counteth not as ill the breath of yore.
Dínárs to him are dust, and him dismay
Betideth not in festival and fray,
For he from one that seeketh doth withhold
Not sword in war-time nor at feast-time gold.
May his throne flourish ever and still be
The rapture of the spirits of the free!