Ode 604

ISMAIL* is dead, of men and cadis best:
His pen, like its great master, takes its rest.

Much wrote he of God's law, and lived it too—
Would I could say as much for me and you!

The middle of the week he went away—
The month of Rajab it was, and the eighth day.

In this uncertain dwelling ill at ease,
To a more ordered house he went for peace.

His home is now with God, and if you write
“The mercy of God,” interpreting aright

The mystic letters standing side by side,
You then shall read the year when Ismail died.