Thus passed he three score years and three, and had
No equal in that age. With New Year came
The scribe—the wise archmage, his minister—
And said to him: “The treasury of the king
Of mighty men is void, and I have come
For thy command. Those that enjoyed this wealth
Expect us not to levy any tax.”
The monarch answered: “Take no further pains,
For I have passed beyond the need thereof.
Resign the world to its Creator—Him
Who manifested forth His works. The heavens
Will pass away, but God abideth ever
To guide both thee and me to what is good.”
He slept that night, and early in the morn
A countless crowd resorted to his court.
They brought together all that were required,
And young prince Yazdagird approached the Sháh,
Who gave him in the presence of the lords
The crown and bracelets, torque and ivory throne.
Intending to devote himself to God
He cast away the crown, he left his seat,
And hasted to resign the world's affairs.
At night-fall he was eager for repose,
And, when the sun displayed its head above
The deep, fear filled his archimage's heart,
Who thought: “The Sháh ariseth not from sleep
Unless he hath withdrawn him from the lords.”

Then Yazdagird drew near his sire and spied
What forze the breath upon his lips—Bahrám
With faded cheeks lay dead on gold brocade!
The day of gloom is as it was of yore,
Sear not thy heart with greed and lust of more.
At death the cores of stones and iron quail,
And here thy strivings are of no avail.
Thou shouldst be inoffensive and humane;
Why seek addition with its biting bane?
Woe for that great Sháh and his equity!
Oh! never derogate his memory.
Of fifty monarchs of seed royal sown,
Who girt their loins upon the Íránian throne,
Bahrám Gúr had no like in eminence,
In justice, puissance, and excellence.
Thou wouldst have called king Rustam but vizír
To him though Rustam sent his arrows sheer
Through mounts of iron, yet was there no delay
When Sháh Bahrám Gúr's term had passed away.
What profit had he from his valour's day?
For forty days the Sháh bewailed his sire,
The host wore raiment black and blue, and when
The charnel closed o'er that famed warrior Sháh
“He bore off bounty,” thou hadst said, “with him.”
Sun, moon, and Venus, Saturn, crown, and throne,
A Sháh, like this one, ne'er will look upon.
Woe for that royal mien, that height, and Grace!
Woe for that lofty star, that hand, and mace!
He decked the throne and crown, from Rúm and Chín
Took toll and tax, yet passed as he had been
Some starving mendicant! When all was done
What profited his halls aloft the sun?
He and the pauper fare the selfsame path,
And each of grief and pain a scantling hath.
The dear delights of earth, the sovereign sway,
What boot they? Soon thy rule will pass away.
Blest is the pious mendicant and wise,
Whose ears oft feel the world's rough pleasantries,
For, when he passeth, he will leave behind
A good name and a good conclusion find.
His portion is in heaven, and in God's sight
He will have honour, not be in my plight,
In miserable case, calamitous,
With all that I possess sent Hell-ward thus
Beyond recall! No hope in heaven I see,
My hand is void, both worlds have ruined me!
Now, if I can collect my thoughts again,
The rule of Yazdagird shall be my strain.