ভূমিকা

Shiavault - a Vault of Shia Islamic Books Ashura Poems in English Explained and Annotated (volume 1) Ethel M. Pope : Tragedy of Moharram Gold moonbeam shed their misty light O'er a saddened world; To sound of deepest funeral dirge. Islam's banner is unfurled, With slow and measured step, ?tis borne, Aloft amid the throng, The emblem of a mighty hand E'er raised to right a wrong, In by-gone days its silken folds, Waved proudly in Iran; From Continent to Continent, The Arab symbol ran.

Its path was marked by victory, The triumph of the right; Till darkest Africa's heathen hands, Were bathed in purest light. That day of happiness is gone; No more in ecstasy borne, The banner heads a sobbing throng; Whose duty is to mourn.

The loss of him beloved by all A hero without stain, Whose noble sacrifice has made The world ring with his name With open hand he gave his all; His little children dear Brothers, friends - helpless women too, Cling to him in fear, Unflinchingly, nor moved nor wept, Secure in his just cause, He nobly fought and nobly died, To save Islam's great laws.

All the memory of martyrdom A new the passions rise; A bitter, sobbing, wailing cry, Goes up unto the skies; With each new year the latent grief, Pent up, breaks out again, And Heaven returns the impassioned cry, Husain, Husain, Husain!* * Khurshed, ed., Imam Husain, 2nd ed., pp. 153-154 49 Justice A. D.

Russel : The Martyr of Karbala From age to age, on Virtue's age, Shall live the deathless story, His loss remain the Martyr's gain, His shame the Martyr's glory; Till truth shall lie, and Honor die, And time itself be hoary. ?Arise Husain, arise, Chief of the Prophet's seed; Fling broad thy banner to the skies, And come with utmost speed, Or ere the throne of the All-Wise Usurped be by foul Yazid?.

He's donned his armour bright, His father's sword girt on; The sword of Ali, as the might Of the Destroyer's own: And he is off ere morning light Across the desert wide and lone, ?Now, Kufa, keep thy word! To the good cause be true; Yazid has sent a giant horde To march thy province through; The hirelings of his father's hoard, Who grace or mercy never knew.? They bore his god-like head aloft, His mouth struck with their whips.

?O mouth, that I have seen so oft, A-teem with angel quips, In baby-kisses, warm and soft, Pressed to the Prophet's lips!?