Praise of the Prophet

In separation pine the souls of all :
Tor pity, Prophet sent by God, we call.
Art thou not he who pities all, and how
Canst thou be distant from the wretched now ?
O dew-sprent Tulip, thou hast drunk thy fill :
Awake, Narcissus ! wilt thou slumber still ?
Show from the screen of bliss thy head ; display
That brow that bids the dawn of life be gay.
Turn thou our night of woe to sun-bright morn.
And let thy face our glorious day adorn.
Loose from thy head thy long black hair, to meet
Like shadows falling at thy cypress’ feet.
Soft skins of Taif for thy sandals take.
And of our heart-strings fitting latchets make.
Sages before thee like a carpet lie,
And fain would kiss thy foot that passes by.
Leave for the sacred court thy far retreat,
And tread on lips which yearn to touch those feet.
Raise up the fathers ; from their misery free,
And comfort those who give their hearts to thee.
Though o’er our heads the waves of sin roll high ;
Though by thy path with thirsty lips we lie ;
Thou art a cloud of gentle mercy : turn
Thy pitying look on lips that thirst and burn.
O blest are they who turn to thee with eyes
Dimmed with thy pathway’s dust and strengthened rise.
We sought the mosque thanksgivings to renew ;
Our souls like moths about thy splendour flew.
Each heart a lattice open to the day,
We sported in thy garden and were gay.
On sacred thresholds of thy courts we wept
Tears from the clouds of eyes that never slept.
We swept the dust that on the pavement lay,
And cleared the thistles with our hands away.
Of that, a salve to purge our sight we made ;
Of these, a plaster on our hearts we laid.
Near to the pulpit in thy mosque we drew.
And laid beneath it cheeks like gold in hue ;
Moved from the arch to offer prayer, and wept
With tears of blood where’er thy foot has stepped.
Erect we stood at every pillar’s base,
And ’mid the upright prayed for blissful place.
Our souls yearned for thee : warmed with sweet desire,
We fed each flambeau from our holy fire.
Our souls, thank God, are in that holy spot,
Though with their dust our bodies strew it not.
Helpless are we ; our own wild aims we seek :
O aid the helpless and forgive the weak.
Do thou with loving hand our steps sustain,
Or all our labour, all our strength is vain.
Date drives us wandering from the path astray :
To God our guide, to God for light we pray.
May His great mercy keep our lives secure,
And in the path of faith our steps assure.
When comes that day that wakes the dead at last,
Let not our honour to the flames be cast.
Still may He grant, though we have wandered thus,
Free leave to thee to intercede for us.
Tis thine with downward head, as suits the mace,
To urge the ball through intercession’s space.
And through thy aid may Jami’s work be found —
Though some may scorn it — with completion crowned.