Waft, gentle gale, oh waft to Samarcand,
When next thou visitest that blissful land,
The plaint of Khorasania plunged in woe:
Beart to Turania's King our piteous scroll,
Whose opening brathes forth all the anguished soul,
And close denotes what all the tortur'd know.
The mosque no more admits the pious race;
Constrain'd, they yield to beasts the holy place,
A stable now, where dome nor porch is found:
Nor can the savage for proclaim his reign,
For Khorasania's criers all are slain,
And all her pulpits levelled with the ground.