XIV.
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irst spoke The Shah;—"Salámán, Oh my Soul,Oh Taper of the Banquet of my House,Light of the Eyes of my Prosperity,And making bloom the Court of Hope with Rose;Years Rose-bud-like my own Blood I devour'dTill in my hand I carried thee, my Rose;Oh do not tear my Garment from my Hand,Nor wound thy Father with a Dagger Thorn.Years for thy sake the Crown has worn my Brow,And Years my Foot been growing to the ThroneOnly for Thee—Oh spurn them not with Thine;Oh turn thy Face from Dalliance unwise,Lay not thy Heart's hand on a Minion!For what thy Proper Pastime? Is it notTo mount and manage Rakhsh along the Field;Not, with no stouter weapon than a Love-lock,Idly reclining on a Silver Breast.Go, fly thine Arrow at the AntelopeAnd Lion—let not me my Lion seeSlain by the Arrow eyes of a Ghazál.Go, flash thy Steel among the Ranks of Men,And smite the Warriors' Necks; not, flying them,Lay down thine own beneath a Woman's Foot,Leave off such doing in the Name of God,Nor bring thy Father weeping to the Ground;Years have I held myself aloft, and allFor Thee—Oh Shame if thou prepare my Fall!" When before Shirúeh's FeetDrencht in Blood fell Kai Khusrau,He declared this Parable—"Wretch!—There was a Branch that, waxingWanton o'er the Root he drank from,At a Draught the Living WaterDrain'd wherewith Himself to crown!Died the Root—and with it diedThe Branch—and barren was brought down!"
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