From Istâmböl's Throne a Mighty Host to Îrân

From Istâmböl's throne a mighty host to Îrân guided I;
Sunken deep in blood of shame I made the Golden Heads to lie.

Glad the Slave, my resolution, lord of Egypt's realm became:
Thus I raised my royal banner e'en as the Nine Heavens high.

From the kingdom fair of 'Irâq to Hijâz these tidings sped,
When I played the harp of Heavenly Aid at feast of victory.

Through my sabre Transoxania drowned was in a sea of blood;
Emptied I of kuhl of Isfahan the adversary's eye.

Flowed adown a River Âmû from each foeman's every hair —
Rolled the sweat of terror's fever— if I happed him to espy.

Bishop-mated was the King of India by my Queenly troops,
When I played the Chess of empire on the Board of sov'reignly.

O Selimi, in thy name was struck the coinage of the world,
When in crucible of Love Divine, like gold, that melted I.