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Not all the love that Aali bore her,
Not the dear infant on her heart,
Could save her from the icy dart
Of Death, whom grief, reproach and prayer
Alike have striven to move in vain.
Since the first hour of his dark reign,
The loveliest and the best to spare.
From all that joy in life could waken
Was the blest wife and mother taken —
And she, of every pleasure reft,
The wretched, hopeless captive left.
And yet — how strange ! the orphan child
Turned first to that despairing face,
And with a baby's matchless grace
Stretched forth its little arms and smiled.

Since then for Fatmeh hath she not
Felt all a mother's heart could feel,
And in that love nigh half forgot
Herself a slave, an exile still ?