The whole world and its rounded
Unbounded expanses;
And round us it dances
In drunken confusion,
Like floating illusion;
Around thee I’m reeling,
All round me is wheeling—­
And Heaven and Ocean,
In flashing commotion,
Round us both as thou singest,
Roll reeling and rushing—­
Thou Joy to me that wingest,
Thou Soul from me outgushing!”

FATIMA.

Photogravure from a Painting by G.C.  Saintpierre.

“O’er the strings thy fingers are straying,
O’er my heart stray the tones.”

[Illustration]

“On the following evening,” said Mirza-Schaffy, “I appeared at the appointed hour.  During the day I had written a love song which none of womankind could resist.  I had sung it over about twenty times to myself, in order to be sure of success.  Then I had been into the bath, and had had my head shaved so perfectly that it might have vied in whiteness with the lilies of the vale of Senghi.  The evening was calm and clear; from the garden-side where I stood, I could distinctly see my Zuleikha; she was alone with Fatima on the roof, and had her veil put a little back, as a sign of her favor.  I took courage, and pushed my cap down behind to show my white head, just fresh shaved, to the maiden’s eyes.  Thou canst comprehend what an impression that would make on a woman’s heart!  Alas! my head was much whiter then than it is now.  But that is more than ten years since!” he said sorrowfully, and would have continued in this digression if I had not interposed the words:—­

“Thy head is quite white enough now to fascinate the most maidenly heart; but thou hast not yet told me how thou sangest thy love song, and what impression it made upon Zuleikha.”

“I had folded the song,” said the Mirza, “round a double almond kernel, and thrown it on the roof, as a keepsake for the Beauty, before I began to sing it; and then I began with clear voice:—­

     “What is the eye of wild gazelle, the slender pine’s unfolding,
     Compared with thy delightful eyes, and thine ethereal molding? 
     What is the scent from Shiraz’ fields, wind-borne, that’s hither
               straying,
     Compared with richer scented breath from thy sweet mouth
               out-playing?

     What is Ghazel and Rubajat, as Hafiz ere was singing,
     Compared with one word’s mellow tone, from thy sweet mouth
               outwinging?

     What is the rosy-chaliced flower, where nightingales are quaffing,
     Compared with thy sweet rosy mouth, and thy lips’ rosy laughing? 
     What is the sun, and what the moon, and all heaven’s constellations? 
     Love-glancing far for thee they glow with trembling scintillations! 
     And what am I myself, my heart, my songful celebration,
     But slaves of royal loveliness, bright beauty’s inspiration!”

“Allah, how beautiful!” I cried.  “Mirza-Schaffy, thy words sound as sweet as the songs of the Peris, in the world of spirits!  What is Hafiz to thee?  What is a drop to the ocean?”