52 
Haste upon the morning gale. 
Tell her all my mournful tale : 
Tell her how my bosom burns. 
How it bleeds till she returns! 
Ah ! how happy once, and blest. 
Panting near thy spotless breast; 
Drinking poison from that eye. 
Breathing soft the mutual sigh ! 
Now complaining, now content. 
Free from every false restraint; 
Pleas’d we spend each happy hour. 
Under love’s auspicious power. 
Shall ambition, wealth, or pride. 
Lead me from thy path aside ? 
No — sweet sovereign of my breast. 
Love alone shall make us blest ! 
Khusroo, cease thy artless strain. 
Nor suppose the numbers vain ; 
If these pearls at random flung. 
Please the nymphs for whom they’re strung. 
The metaphor of stringing the pearls at the conclusion of these 
stanzas, is a poetical idea, common in the Persian language; and 
frequently to be met with in the beautiful odes of Hafiz. 
Having limited myself so much in the pleasing walk of oriental 
ornithology, I shall be very brief in its icthyology: the surround- 
ing ocean supplies Bombay with a variety of excellent fish; some 
of them are similar to those in Europe, others are peculiar to India. 
The pomfret is not unlike a small turbot, but of a more delicate 
