ABSTRACT
Hast heard, perchance, there was in days of good ‘Umer A minstrel talented, whose harpings moved the sphere? The nightingales all wept in transports at his voice, One pleasure made men’s hearts a hundredfold rejoice. His song enchanted every gathering where he went, Applause as thunder broke forth, to his heart’s content. Like voice of Isrāfīl, whose trump on judgment day, 1 Will wake the dead to life, his made the saddest gay. Dear friend to Isrāfīl he was, and mendicant; His notes made plumes to sprout on hide of elephant. 5
