I: An Ode to Spring

From whence hath the spring again returned unto us,
Which hath made the country round a garden of flowers?

There are the anemone and sweet basil, the lily and thyme;
The jasmine and white rose, the narcissus and pomegranate blossom.

The wild flowers of spring are manifold, and of every hue;
But the dark-red tulip, above them all, predominateth.

The maidens place nosegays of flowers in their bosoms;
The youths, too, fasten bouquets of them in their turbans.

Come now, musician! apply the bow to thy violin:
Bring out the tone and the melody of every string!

And thou, cupbearer! bring us full and overflowing cups,
That I may become fraught with wine's inebriety!

The Afghan youths have again dyed red their hands,
Like as the falcon dyeth his talons in the blood of the quarry.

They have made rosy their bright swords with gore:
The tulip-bed hath blossomed, even in the heat of summer.

Ae-mal Khan and Dar-ya Khan--from death preserve them!
Were neither of them, at fault, when opportunity occurred.

They dyed red the valley of Khaibar, with the blood of the foe:
On Karrapah, too, they poured forth war's din and tumult.

From Karrapah, even unto Bajawrr, both plain and mountain,
Time after time, as from an earthquake, quaked and shook.

It is now the fifth year, since in this neighbourhood,
Every day heareth the clashing of glittering swords.

Since I arrived in this part, I have become a nonentity--
Either I am despicable, or this people are infamous grown.

I cry out unto them, "Troops, troops," until I am weary;
But deaf to all, they neither say "Die," nor "Thy sacrifice."

When the state of the Yusufzis became known unto me,
Lowaghar was then my better place, not Damghar.

The dogs of the Khattaks are far better than the Yusufzis,
Though, in disposition, the Khattaks are more worthless than dogs.

The whole of the other Afghans, from Kandahar unto Attak,
In honour's cause, both secretly and openly, are one.

See how many battles have been fought on all sides;
Yet still, amongst the Yusufzis, there is no sense of shame.

The first fight was at the higher back of Mount Tatarah,
Where forty thousand Mughals were scattered like chaff.

When their sisters and daughters fell into the bonds of the Afghans,
With horses and camels, elephants and baggage, string after string.

The second battle was with Mir Husain in the Doabah,
When his head was crushed, like that of a venemous snake.

After that again, was the affair at the fort of Nohs'hairah,
When from the Mughals I extracted my own inebriation.

And then came Jaswant Singh and Shujaaeat Khan,
Of whom, Ae-mal Khan plucked up the roots at Gandab.

The sixth was over Mukarram Khan and Shamsher Khan,
Both of whom, at Khapash, Ae-mal scattered to the winds.

These are the greatest triumphs that I hold in recollection;
But the lesser ones, in all directions, who shall compute?

Up to the present time, victory hath been always with us;
And for the future, upon God, is our dependence placed.

A year hath passed since Aurangzeb is encamped against us,
Disordered and perplexed in appearance, and wounded in heart.

It is now year after year, that his nobles fall in battle;
But his armies swept away, who shall number them!

The treasures of India have been spread out before us:
The red gold muhurs have been engulphed in the hills.

It would not have entered one's head in eighteen guesses,
That such events would e'er have happened in these parts.

Still Aurangzeb's malevolence hath not a whit diminished,
Though the curses of his father it before drew down.

For this reason, also, no one can place dependence on him:
He is malignant and perfidious; a breaker of his word.

For this state of things, no other termination can be seen,
Than that the Mughals be annihilated, or the Afghans undone.

If this, which is beheld, be the revolutions of destiny--
If in this be the will of the Almighty, the time is come.

Fate revolveth not in the same fashion at all times
Now 'tis propitious to the rose; now favourable to the thorn.

At a period so pregnant with honour and glory, as the present,
In what manner do these base and recreant Afghans act?

There is no deliverance in any thing, save the sword:
Afghans, who nourish any other idea than this, are lost, indeed.

The Afghans are far superior to the Mughals at the sword,
Were but the Afghans, in intellect, a little discreet.

If the different tribes would but support each other,
Kings would have to bow down in prostration before them.

But whether it be concord or strife, or folly or wisdom,
The affairs of every one are in the hands of the Almighty.

Let us see what the Afridis, Mohmands, and Shinwaris will do;
For the Mughals are now lying encamped at Nangrahar.

I alone, amongst the Afghans, grieve for our honour and renown;
Whilst the Yusufzis, at their ease, are tilling their fields.

They who now act so dishonourably, and so shamelessly,
Will, hereafter, the upshot of their own acts perceive.

In my poor judgment, death is more preferable than life,
When existence can no longer, with honour, be enjoyed.

In this world, he will not always remain with life;
But the memory of Khushhal will long, long endure!

It was the first of the Third Sister, in the year of Ghafu
That I, whilst at Barmawul, indited these lines.