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O happy, happy Wisa, who dost lie
At Rāmin's feet, and with bewitched eye
Gazest on him, as partridge doomed to die
Its gaze upon the hawk doth concentrate!
O happy, happy Wisa, who dost hold
Clasped in thy hand the jewelled cup of gold,
Filled to the brim with nectar rare and old,
Which like thy beauty doth intoxicate!
O happy Wisa, whose red lips confess
With smiles their love, ere Rāmin's lips they press,
Whom with desire's fulfilment Heaven doth bless,
And Mubad's fruitless passion doth frustrate! (en) |
