It may not be—the faint, the trembling pulse,
So like the flutterings of a wounded bird,
The painful throes which those pale lips convulse,
The sighs, like rose leaves in the night breeze stirred,
Tell me thy doom—and I—I see my fate—
Queen of my soul, thou leavest me desolate.
Oh! could the treasures of the world restore
Thy fading health, beloved one,—Shah Jehan
Countless as yon bright river's sands would pour
The pearls, and gems, and gold of Hindoostan,
And yield his empire o'er the world to be
Master of one poor straw-thatched hut—with thee.
But since, nor gems, nor pearls, nor gold can save
My peerless beauty, nor my fervent prayer
Avail to snatch thee from an envious grave,
Since Heaven relents not to my deep despair,
And we—(be still, be still my throbbing heart!)
We, my life's dearest solace, we must part.
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