CONCLUSION IN THANKFULNESS FOR COMPLETION, AND THE DATE OF FINISHING, AND PRAYER TO GOD THE MOST HIGH FOR FAVOUR IN THE WORLD TO COME.

Praise be to God that now, against Time's will,
This heart-alluring tale is ended still.
My heart, in making verse, that trouble knew,
With care of finding rhymes full weary grew,
Throws from its hand the scales of thought away,
And has from stringing rhymes an idle day,—
Has found a firm support in leisure's wall,
Into the road of ease from work to fall,—
My heavy head has lifted from my knee:
Of secret load my mind is light for me.
My rider-pen, that inky-fingered one,
From Abyssinia that to Roum has gone,
Has of his coming left in Roum a trace,
And tells the present news of future grace,
Alights from off his horse in search of rest,
Lies at full length upon a couch with zest.
His head no longer by scribe's hand is bent,
Nor with reproach his hand on pen-knife leant.
The inkstand is of Tartar musk a tray,
And with the pen's aid musk around will lay.
There is upon its mouth of wax a seal,
'Twere better thus the tray's mouth to conceal.
The leaves that are no longer scattered wide,
Feet drawn within their skirt, are side by side.
Rose-like, two hundred leaves one skin within
Until the heavens may tear off their skin.
Like roses, may they be in good demand,
And may their binding firm for ever stand!
Behold a book, writ with the pen of truth
In name of sweetheart and her well-loved youth.
I like a sugar-eating parrot came,
And coupled Joseph's with Zuleikha's name.
How fair in God's name is this fresh spring grove,
That Iram's garden will to envy* move!
Each tale in it is as a garden fair;
A sign of fair ones in each garden there.
A thousand roses blooming from it peep;
Narcissuses two hundred, soft in sleep.
Mysterious groves where branches interfold;
Their words are singers who in song are bold.
Its lines of musk upon a camphor sheet,
Like light and shade of trees upon the feet.
Each letter in it that you looped may count
Of hidden sense a wave-exciting fount.
On all sides rills their course from fountains trace,
With running streams of water, full of grace.
Happy the trav'ler who, with fortune's aid,
Upon their banks a resting-place has made!
Their waters' look will free his heart of pain,
And cleanse the dust off from his mind again.
Forth from his soul faith's mystery will stand,
And from his breast pluck out of prayer the hand.
From waves of sea of grace at Allah's hand,
For thirsty lip he will a drop demand.
Fresh roses to his breast he gathers, yet
Him never will the gardener forget.
The author's pen of this so precious thing,
Did with the year it to an ending bring.
The couplets of it, too, I took to count,
A thousand four times told was their amount.
And when there shall have passed one new year more,
Eight hundred ninety-nine the year will score.
On love's road, God, for men their way who trace,
And at love's halting-ground their burdens place,
Of mystery's chamber may this new bride be
From every failing skirt and bosom free!

* * * * * * *

[Here follow thirteen couplets of blessing on the Sultan Hussein Mirza Baihasa, his Vazírs, and others. The book thus concludes:]

With blessing now that thou thy song hast sung,
Jámi, in absolution loose thy tongue,
In black deeds, like thy pen, do not engage;
Now purify with bleeding eyes thy page.
Turn from this desert back thy courser-pen,
With this aim traverse thy black book again.
With punishment of silence curb thy tongue;
Silence prefer to all that thou hast sung.