“But thou hast not yet given me an answer to my question, O Mirza!”

“Thou speakest wisely.  The seed of my words has taken root in thy heart.  Write; I will sing!”

And now he sang to me a number of wonderful songs, part of which here follow in an English dress.

     MIRZA-SCHAFFY’S OPINION OF THE SHAH OF PERSIA

     A learned scribe once came to me from far: 
     “Mirza!” said he, “what think’st thou of the Shah? 
     Was wisdom really born in him with years? 
     And are his eyes as spacious as his ears?”

     “He’s just as wise as all who round them bind
     Capuche and gown:  he knows what an amount
     Of stupid fear keeps all his people blind,
     And how to turn it to his own account.”

     MIZA-SCHAFFY PRAISES THE CHARMS OF ZULEIKHA

     Looking at thy tender little feet
     Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden,
     How they so much beauty can be bearing!

     Looking at thy lovely little hands
     Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden,
     How they so to wound me can be daring!

     Looking at thy rosy luring lips
     Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden,
     How they of a kiss e’er can be sparing!

     Looking at thy meaningful bright eyes
     Makes me always wonder, sweetest maiden,
     How for greater love they can be caring

     Than I feel.  Oh, look at me, and love! 
     Warmer than my heart, thou sweetest maiden,
     Heart in thy love never will be sharing.

     Listen to this rapture-reaching song! 
     Fairer than my mouth, thou sweetest maiden,
     Mouth thy praise will never be declaring!

AN EXCURSION INTO ARMENIA

From the ‘Thousand and One Days in the East’

Now follow me into that blessed land wherein tradition places Paradise, and wherein I also placed it, until I found that it lay in thine eyes, thou, mine Edlitam!

Follow me to the banks of the Senghi and Araxes, rich in bloom, sacred in tradition; where I sought for rest after long wandering in the mazes of a strange land, until I knew that rest is nowhere to be found but in one’s own bosom; follow me into the gardens where Noah once planted the vine for his own enjoyment and heart’s delight, and for the gladness of all subsequent races of toiling men; follow me through the steep mountain-paths overhung with glaciers, to the arid table-lands of Ararat, where, clad in a garment red as blood, on his steed of nimble thigh, the wild Kurd springs along, with flashing glance and sunburnt face, in his broad girdle the sharp dagger and long pistols of Damascus, and in his practiced hand the slender, death-slinging lance of Bagdad—­where the nomad pitches his black tent, and with wife and child cowers round the fire that scares away the beasts of the wilderness—­where caravans of camels