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Translated by L. S. Costello
HAIL to the city from whose bowers— | |
| The glowing paradise of flowers!— | |
| Soft zephyrs waft the rose’s breath, | |
| By moonlit night and blushing morn, | |
| Even to the ruby, hid beneath | 5 |
| The golden hills of Badakhshân! | |
| Whose gale with perfume-laden wing, | |
| O’er Arab deserts hovering, | |
| A tint as radiant can bestow | |
| As beams that in the emerald glow. | 10 |
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| Upon thy mountains fresh and green | |
| The velvet turf is scarcely seen, | |
| So close the jasmines twine around, | |
| And strew, with star-like flowers, the ground. | |
| The ruddy glow of sunset lies | 15 |
| Within thy rich pomegranate’s eyes; | |
| And flashing midst the tulip-beds, | |
| A blaze of glory round them sheds. | |
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| Night dwells amidst thy spicy groves: | |
| Thy saffron fields the star of morning loves; | 20 |
| Thy violets have tales of eyes as fair; | |
| Thy hyacinths of waving, dusky hair; | |
| Thy glittering sunflowers make the year all spring; | |
| Thy bees their stores are ever gathering; | |
| And from the rose’s branches, all day long, | 25 |
| Pours the melodious nightingale her song; | |
| Amidst the leaves her bark-like nest is tost, | |
| In melody, and love, and beauty lost. | |
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| The rich narcissus, quaffing dewy wine, | |
| Clings to thy breast, where buds unnumbered twine: | 30 |
| No eye can see the bound where end thy bowers, | |
| No tongue can number half thy gem-like flowers. | |
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| Such freshness lingers in thy air of balm, | |
| That even the tulip’s burning heart confesses | |
| The life its sigh bestows at evening’s calm, | 35 |
| When the glad cypress shakes her graceful tresses. | |
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| The waves of each rejoicing river | |
| Murmur melody forever, | |
| And to the sound, in wild amaze, | |
| On their glad crests the dancing bubble plays. | 40 |
| While lotus flowers, just opened, there | |
| Look with bright eyes towards heaven in prayer. | |
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| So clear thy waters that, reflected bright, | |
| The dusky Ethiop’s skin is pearly white. | |
| So cool, that as the sun his fingers laves, | 45 |
| They shiver on the surface of thy waves. | |
| The immortal lily, pure as angels’ plumes, | |
| All day, all night, the grove with light illumes; | |
| The grove, where garlands, by the roses made, | |
| Like clustering Pleiads, glimmer through the shade, | 50 |
| And hide am’dst their leaves the timid dove, | |
| Whose ringéd neck proclaims the slave of love. | |
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| Tell me what land can boast such treasures? | |
| Is aught so fair, is aught so dear? | |
| Hail! Paradise of endless pleasures! | 55 |
| Hail! beautiful, beloved Kashmeer! | |
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