WILLIAM RUNTING.

  I.

  She who is the object of my love
  Has just declared she will not grant me
  Another kiss, but at the price of my existence: 
  Ah! why have I not a thousand lives,
  That I might sacrifice them all on these conditions.

    The flame which she has enkindled in my heart
  Is so bright, that it dazzles the universe: 
  It is a torch enclosed within crystal. 
  This heart is a Christian temple,
  Wherein Beauty has established her sanctuary;
  And the sighs which escape from it
  Are like the loud ringing bells.[5]

    Ah! too fascinating object! how dangerous
  Are thy looks!—­they wound indifferently
  The hearts of young and old:  they are
  More to be dreaded than the fatal arrows of the mighty Toos.[6]
  Delight us with a glimpse of thy lovely form;
  Charm our senses by the elegance of thy attitudes;
  Our hearts are transported by thy glances. 
  The proud peacock, covered with confusion,
  Dares not display before thee the rich
  And pompous variety of his plumage. 
  Thy ebon ringlets are chains, which hold
  Monarchs in captivity, and make
  Them slaves to the power of thy charms.

    The dust on which thou treadest becomes an ornament,
  Worthy of the imperial diadem of Caus.[7]
  Haughty kings now prostrate themselves
  Before Khacan,[8] since he has obtained
  A favourable look from the object of his love.

  II.

  That blessing which the fountain of life
  Bestowed in former ages on Khezr[9]
  Thy lips can communicate in a manner
  Infinitely more efficacious. 
  Nature, confounded at the aspect of thy lovely mouth,
  Conceals her rubies within a rock;—­
  Our hearts, ensnared by those eyes which express
  All the softness of amorous intoxication,
  Are held captive in the dimples of thy chin.

    Love has excited in my soul a fire
  Which cannot be extinguished;—­
  My bosom is become red with flames,
  Like a parterre of roses;—­
  This heart is no longer mine: 
  It hangs suspended on the ringlets of thy hair—­
  And thou, cruel fair! thou piercest it
  With a glance of thy cold disdain. 
  Ah! inquire not into the wretched.  Khacan’s fate: 
  Thy waving locks have deprived him of reason;
  But how many thousand lovers, before him,
  Have fallen victims to the magic of thy beauty.

  III.

  My soul, captivated by thy charms,
  Wastes itself away in chains, and bends beneath
  The weight of oppression.  Thou hast said
  “Love will bring thee to the tomb—­arise,
  And leave his dominions” But, alas! 
  I wish to expire at thy feet, rather than to abandon
  Altogether my hopes of possessing thee. 
  I swear, by the two bows that send forth
  Irresistible arrows from thine eyes,
  That my days have lost their lustre: 
  They are dark as the jet of thy waving ringlets;
  And the sweetness of thy lips far exceeds,
  In the opinion of Khacan, all that
  The richest sugar-cane has ever yielded.