Classic Poem

Many a Lord hath been shovelled away
Leaving no trace on his lands to-day;
The proud old carcases under the stones —
The grave hath eaten their last little bones;
But the name of Nushirvan, from year to year,
Lives for his largesses, happy and dear;
O King! do good! fetch profit from breath!
Before they say: " 'Tis thine hour of death! "