L: How many lions hath fortune made a spectacle…

How many lions hath fortune made a spectacle of,
Into whose dens, both dogs and cats, now fearless enter!

When destiny, in its own dire pitilessness, cometh,
It casteth down stones, upon the furnace of glass.

Destiny maketh that head a plaything for dogs,
Within whose domain, the lion dared not place his foot.

In the conflict with fate, they fled far away,
Whom the world feared to enter into contest with.

The teeth, by which those iron-like pulse were masticated,
God knoweth what acids have rendered them thus blunt.

By the tears of what unfortunate, was that fire quenched,
That, enwrapped in its flames, distant hills and dales?

Like unto a scorpion, insignificant and contemptible dieth
That man, whose envenomed sting, maketh others weep and wail.

The skilled in language must have arranged the rhymes of Hamid;
Otherwise, no one would have entered them upon any page.