Iltani has sent me a tiny rose,
Tinier than her little ear
Which is so small, so small
That I fear my great love can never,
Never all be poured into it!
Iltani has sent me a rose,
A little, little rose,
Yet so great has she made it seem to me
By the magic of her graciousness,
That it shuts out heaven and earth,
It shuts out everything to me
But the face of Iltani,
The lovely, lovely face of Iltani,
Which by the magic of her graciousness,
She has imprinted on the heart of the rose she sent me.

Iltani to Sikku my friend: A terrible thing. A terrible thing. Baal Belânu has gone mad. The Demon Ti'u has entered into him with madness. He has sent me another poem calling me Queen and fish of fire. What may a man not do who thinks of such a thing as a fish of fire? What may he not do to her he calls fire-fish? My knees are loosed with fear. Great is my fear, O Sikku. By the life of the gods write to me with comfortable words, Sikku. In the name of the goddess Irnini send me a message of advice quickly. Damka my nurse has brought your letter.

Iltani to Sikku, my friend: May Bêl and Nabu bless my friend and grant her health and joy: I am well and my mother also is well. Because it is the fourth month there are many flowers in Babylon. I went this morning with my mother to the temple of Marduk. Many others went also. The litter was stopped some time at the gate of Ishtar through so many people. A young man looked much at me. He had a beautiful beard. It was the colour of wild grapes. It was curled tighter than the wool of my black Persian lamb. But the curls were like rods, not like rings. I smiled to see such a beautiful beard.

Not direct do I dare speak,
Not direct do I dare speak
To the most beautiful Lady in Babylon,
Not direct to the wondrous Lady Iltani
Do I, all unworthy, venture to speak.
These are but the thoughts of my heart
Upon first beholding her,
Which I set forth
That she may look upon them
Or not look upon them
As seemeth best to her.

In the Street of Procession it was,
Near the gate of Ishtar
On this seventh morning
Seven times blessed
Of the fourth month
That I first beheld her.
Not foreknowing, I lifted up mine eyes

SEEING .

And now, just God, I humbly pray
That thou wilt take the slime away,
That keeps my sov'raign's eyes from seeing
The things that will be our undoing.

HEARING .

Then let him hear, good God, the sounds
As well of men as of his hounds.

TASTE .

Give him a taste, and truly too,
Of what his subjects undergo.

FEELING AND SMELLING .

Give him a feeling of their woes,
And then no doubt his royal nose

SEEING .

From such a face, whose excellence
May captivate my sovereign's sense,
And make him, Phaebus like, his throne
Resign to some young Phaeton,
Whose skilless and unstaved hand
May prove the ruin of the land,
Unless great Jove, down from the sky
Beholding earth's calamity,
Strike with his hand that cannot err,
The proud usurping charioter,
And cure, tho' Phaebus grieve, our wo:
From such a face as can work so,
Wheresoever thou hast a being,
Bless my sov'reign and his seeing.

Swadl'd is the baby, and almost two years,
His swadling time, did neither cry nor stir,
But star'd, smil'd, did lye still, void of all fears,
And sleep'd, tho' barked at by every cur,
Yea, had not wak'd, if Lesly, that hoarse nurse,
Had not him hardly rock't, old wives him curse.

Bold Scots, at Barnnockburn ye kill'd your king,
Then did in parliament approve the fact;
And would ye Charles to such a non-plus bring
To authorize rebellion by an act?
Well, what ye crave, who knows but granted may be?
But if he do't, cause swadle him for a baby.

Then what rage possess'd the savage tatars;
From his eyes the Khan roll'd clouds of darkness —
In three legions he his troops divided —
In three legions, lo! they storm'd the mountain;
Twenty christians fell beneath the tatar —
All the twenty fell their posts maintaining,
And beneath the walls their bodies weltered.
Then the tatars storm'd the walls — loud shouting,
As if thunder-storms were shaking heaven:
So they rush'd upon the christians' ramparts,
From the walls they hurl'd their brave defenders,

I will tell a tale of fame and glory,
Tale of mighty strife and fiercest battle:
Listen now — collect your scatter'd senses;
Listen now — and hear the wond'rous story.
In the land where Olmütz rises proudly,
Towers a mountain — not a high nor bold one —
But the unaspiring hill, Hostaynow,
With its wond'rous image of God's mother.
Long our land a quiet peace enjoying,
Prosper'd in the calm of wealth and comfort,
But a storm was gathering in the orient,
All about the Tatar monarch's daughter;
For her pearls and gold and treasures, christians,