Page:The Sacred Books and Early Literature of the East, Volume 08.djvu/43



From mosque an outcast, and to church a foe,

Allah! of what clay didst thou form me so?

Like skeptic monk, or ugly courtesan,

No hopes have I above, no joys below.

Men's lusts, like house-dogs, still the house distress

With clamor, barking for mere wantonness;

Foxes are they, and sleep the sleep of hares;

Crafty as wolves, as tigers pitiless.

Yon turf, fringing the margent of the stream,

As down upon a cherub's lip might seem,

Or growth from dust of buried tulip cheeks;

Tread not that turf with scorn, or light esteem!

Hearts with the light of love illumined well,

Whether in mosque or synagogue they dwell,

Have their names written in the book of love,

Unvexed by hopes of heaven or fears of hell.

One draught of wine outweighs the realm of Tus,

Throne of Kobad and crown of Kai Kawus;

Sweeter are sighs that lovers heave at morn,

Than all the groanings zealot breasts produce.

Though Muslims for my sins condemn and chide me,

Like heathens to my idol I confide me;

Yea, when I perish of a drunken bout,

I'll call on wine, whatever doom betide me.