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Nor Usman’s treasure-chest you own, Nor Ali’s empty bowl,
With spirits of such great forbears, What kinship has your soul?
The honoured of their times, they lived, For theirs was true iman,
You live disgraced, as having left the paths of Al-Quran.
You roll the eye of mutual wrath, Their eye was ever kind;
You err, for errors look, while they were generously blind.
Aspiring for the Pleiades, How simple it all seems!
But let there first be hearts like theirs, To justify such dreams.
They reigned upon the Chinese throne, They wore the Persian crown:
Where is that honour that they knew—Words are your whole renown.
They fought for honour, self-respect, Yours the self-slayer’s knife,
You shun the ties of brotherhood, They cherished more than life.
You can but weave the web of words, They did their deeds of might:
You pine after a bud: they basked In gardens flower-bright.
The world remembers still the tales which hymn their bravery,
And in their storied book of life shines their sincerity.
Upon your nation’s sky you rose like stars of brilliant hue,
The lure of India’s idols made even Brahmans out of you;
Drawn by the wander-lust, you went a-roving ‘from your nests:
Slothful in good, your youth next learnt to doubt their faith’s behests;
‘Enlightenment’ ensnared you all, and all your ‘fetters’ fell,
The land of Kaaba you forsook, In idol-land to dwell!
If longing Qais roams no more, but seeks the town again,
Leaving the lonely desert wastes to share tile life 0f men,
Qais is mad: what if he dwells in town or wilderness?
Yet from him Layla must not veil her face in bashfulness!
Complain ye not of heart unkind nor speak of tyranny!
When Love no bondage knows, then why should Beauty not be free?
Each stack and barn it sets on fire, This lightning-like New Age,
Nor bowling wild nor garden gay escapes its flaming rage;
This new fire feeds on fuel old,—The nations of the past,
And they too burn to whom was sent God’s Messenger, the last.
But if the faith of Abraham there, once again, is born,
Where leaps this flame, flowers will bloom, and laugh its blaze to scorn.
Yet, let the gardener not be sad to see the garden’s plight,
For soon its branches will be gay with buds, like stars of light;
The withered leaves and weeds will pass, and all its sweepings old;
For there, again, will martyr-blood in roses red unfold.
But look! a hint of russet hue, Brightening the eastern skies,
The glow on yon horizon’s brow, Heralds a new sunrise.
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