Thus was it that one night the poet dreamed:—
He held a cup of wine whose fragrance seemed
Rosewater-like. Dakíkí from his stead
Appeared and, speaking of that wine-cup, said
Thus to Firdausí: “Quaff not save thou choose
The fashion of the days of Kai Káús,
For he that is the monarch of thy choice,
In whom crown, throne, and fortune all rejoice,
Mahmúd, the king of kings and conqueror,
Who giveth all a portion of his store,
Shall from today for fourscore years and five
Behold his travail wane, his treasury thrive,
Shall lead to Chín hereafter his array,
And every chief shall ope for him the way.
He will not need to speak an angry word,
All crowns will come to him with one accord.
If o'er this story thou hast somewhat striven
Now all that thou didst wish to thee is given.
I too told somewhat of this history,
And if thou findest it be kind to me.
I sang a thousand couplets of Gushtásp,
Before my day was done, and of Arjásp,
And if my work shall reach the king of kings
My soul will soar o'er sublunary things.”
So now the verses that he wrote I give,
For he is gathered to the dust; I live.