With arbours replete ’tis a diamond hall. 
Broad and vast is paradise-peak—­
The lowest foundation is not weak. 
One over the other the stories are pil’d: 
The loftiest story Ad is styl’d. 
From above or below if you cast your eyes,
You can see the Gennets in order rise. 
You ask, for whom are those mansions gay;
For the prophets of God, for his lov’d, I say.

Seven walls are plac’d, which to open are meant,
Far betwixt them is the extent;
Betwixt two walls the whole doth stand,
Walls uncrumbling, mighty and grand. 
Within are bowers, cedar-woods dusk,
Houries and odours of amber and musk;
Eight are the gates for the eight estates,
Jewel-beset, gold-beaming gates;
Upon the first inscrib’d you see: 
For those who repent this gate is free. 
On the second:  for those who up-offer pray’r;
On the third:  for the sons of charity fair. 
On the fourth this solemn inscription stands: 
For those who fulfil the Lord’s commands. 
In painted letters the fifth doth say: 
For those who for pilgrimage gold up-lay. 
The sixth fair portal thus proclaims: 
For ye who inhibit from sin your frames;
The seventh:  for God’s own warrior train,
Who bleed for his cause, nor flinch from pain. 
’Tis written in white the eighth above: 
For those who instruct for Allah’s love {10}. 
For ye who serve God with heart and eye,
Control your passions when swelling high,
Your parents cherish and all your race,
For ye are the halls of joy and grace;
For the prophets of God are they decreed,
Who His law in the sacred volumes read.

O LORD!  I NOTHING CRAVE BUT THEE.

From the Tartar.

O thou, from whom all love doth flow,
Whom all the world doth reverence so,
Thou constitut’st each care I know;
   O Lord!  I nothing crave but Thee.

O keep me from each sinful way;
Thou breathedst life within my clay,
I’ll therefore serve Thee, night and day;
   O Lord!  I nothing crave but Thee.

I ope my eyes and see Thy face,
On Thee my musings all I place,
I’ve left my parents, friends and race;
   O Lord!  I nothing crave but Thee.

Take Thou my soul, my every thing,
My blood from out its vessels wring,
Thy slave am I, and Thou my King;
   O Lord!  I nothing crave but Thee.

I speak—­my tongue on Thee doth roam;
I list—­the winds Thy title boom;
For in my soul has God His home;
   O Lord!  I nothing crave but Thee.

The world the shallow worldling craves,
And greatness need ambitious knaves,
The lover of his maiden raves;
   O Lord!  I nothing crave but Thee.

The student needs his bookish lore,
The bigot shrines, to pray before,
His pulpit needs the orator;
   O Lord!  I nothing crave but Thee.

Though all the learning ’neath the skies,
And th’ houries all of paradise,
The Lord should place before my eyes,
   O Lord!  I’d nothing crave but Thee.