Chapter XXXI: Introduction (4)

“O light of morn, that beautifies the world,
By force of truth and of sincerity,
Thy heart is lit by the pure light of truth,
And open to the world as day itself.
Let thy pure joy illuminate my heart,
Make thyself known to yonder moon of heaven;
’Tis she that sheds her rays upon this world,
When thou hast flashed thy beams upon her disk;
Oh, tear away this veil of gloom from me,
And call to me the mistress of my heart.
Say to her: ‘Sore is yonder poor man’s heart;
He journeys o’er the world with silent lips.
To this poor wanderer in the way of love
Must thou show pity and compassion due,
For want has torn the mantle from his back,
And love has laid him prostrate on the earth.
He sees before him nothing but the grave,
And never turns his glance aside from it.
Oh, do not tread the helpless in the dust,
Dam up the flood of wrath that threatens him!
When this poor man the needed morsel wants,
The beggar still can boast a wallet full.
He has nor wealth nor influence, my queen,
Yet lacks he not accomplishment, my queen;
And gold and silver failing, ’tis enough
To see thy tears and sympathetic glance.
Be gentle, then, to this accomplished man,
And give assistance to a bard inspired.
The prince who acts with kindness to the poor
Proves by his deeds his loving gentleness.’”
While in this wise the nightingale discoursed,
The sun stood beaming in the arch of heaven,
And as he marked it, from the moon he turned
And fixed his contemplation on the sun.

XXIII

THE DESPONDING NIGHTINGALE ADDRESSES THE WORLD-ADORNING SUN, WHILE HIS INMOST HEART GLOWS WITH ARDENT DESIRE

He said: “O lord of light in heaven above,
Thou art the lightener of the angel realm,
Thy lustre fills with radiance all the world,
And reaches to the garden of the Rose.
’Tis by thy diligence that all things are,
And are from elemental atoms formed.
Thou art the eye and lamp of all the world,
Light to men’s sight, and lustre to the stars.
Unless the moon derived her light from thee,
She were in darkness to the judgment day;
And but that thou dost gaze upon the morn,
The gloom of night would never leave the east.
Thou art indeed the morning gate of love,
Spreading thy light in footprints of the morn;
Oh, let my ardent passion shine on her,
And fall with suppliant words before her gate.
Go humbly to the place where she abides,
And fling thyself before her fairy feet.
Oh, speak to yonder moon about my love,
And say to her, Fair regent of the heavens,
For thy great beauty lies thy lover low,
And like a shadow trodden in the dust.
For him there is no daylight in the world,
So sorely absence keeps him prisoner.
The night of absence wounds him to the quick,
Oh, give him but a glimpse of thy fair face.
Oh, change the loneliness of one long night
For the delightsomeness of cheerful day.
Let him, who is with passion deep consumed,
Look with his longing eye upon his love.
This wretched one is prisoner of thine,
Have pity on the wandering devotee.
Suffering and despite is his only wealth,
And he is despicable all for thee.
He stands unnoticed in the world’s wide house,
Stretch out thy hand to welcome the despised;
The window-sill and threshold of thy house,
Shall then his Sacred Stone and Mecca be.
He watches through the night till morn arise,
And speaks aloud thy name in his distress.
Early and late he thinks alone of thee;
Early and late his heart is set on thee.
His prayers he utters in thine ear alone,
He turns to thee alone his anxious eye.
Thou art his creed, all others he forswears;
Thou art the sect and ritual that he loves.
The creed that he professes is thy love.
Offend not, then, the Mussulman’s belief.
Grant, queen, the prayer of thy fond devotee,
O Queen, propitious be to his desire.”
’Twas thus he spake aloud his inmost thought,
But vain was all his pleading and his pain.
And so he turned him from the sun and moon,
Like Abraham, and made appeal to God.

XXIV

THE NIGHTINGALE, IN HIS DISTRESS, TURNS FROM SUN AND MOON AND ADDRESSES A PRAYER TO GOD

He turned to the Creator with his prayer
Of pain, to Wisdom and Omniscience,
And cried: “O God, who art the Lord of all,
Who easest sorrow, and who hearest prayer,
Thou knowest the hidden secrets of the world,
For thou art Ruler both of heaven and earth.
Thou knowest well the plight in which I lie;
And that my burden ever greater grows;
No human mind can tell what I have borne,
How I am bowed beneath a load of shame;
How I have been the slave of luckless woe,
And have succumbed to the sharp stroke of grief.
I burn in passion’s longing and distress,
But thy grace reigns in blest tranquillity;
I cannot ope my heart to anyone,
For utterance crushes me, and wearies me;
For I am friendless in a stranger’s house,
Hopeless in absence from my well-beloved.
Nothing is constant to me, saving grief
And obloquy. Was ever such a lot?
And no one sorrows over my distress,
My eye alone distils these pearly tears;
No friend is partner of my obloquy,
My gloom of sighs involves myself alone.
No one has sympathy with my dread lot,
Nor heeds the wounds upon my bleeding breast.
If I should die, there would no mourners be,
Excepting this impassioned heart of mine.
I tread the valley of astonishment,
O God, when shall I reach the house of joy?
Oh, by this heart, that runs to thee for help,
By the deep sighs that burn me as they rise,
By the loud beatings of my whispering heart,
By the belovèd Rose in which I trust,
By all the beauty of some distant scene,
By all the rapture of heroic love,
By the high honor of my well-beloved,
By the lorn lot of him who loveth her,
By the black weeds that my devotion speak,
And by the tears that fill my eyes like blood,
By the misfortune and the wrath I feel,
By him who separates me from my love,
Yea, by the honeyed sweetness of her lips,
And by my own sincerity of soul,
By the unhappiness of him who loves,
And by his unstained rectitude of heart,
By that which to the lover causes woe,
And by the night-long pain in which he pines,
By all the light that glorifies the moon,
By all the radiance of this world of ours,
By daylight and the pomp of noonday suns,
By the thick darkness of the midnight hour,
By earth below, and by the heavens above,
And by the hustling crowd on judgment day,
By Adam’s early days of innocence,
By him who is the lord of purity,
By Seth, by Noah, and by Abraham,
By Gabriel, who brought the message down,
By Moses, who as prince and preacher spoke,
By Jesus and the light that Mary shed,
By all the love that great Mahomet won,
By his forbearance and his majesty,
By his young people and his dwelling-place,
By his great might that nothing could subdue:
By the prevailing virtue of God’s name
And by his nature’s unity divine,
Consume me not with separation’s flame,
Give me enjoyment’s happiness supreme;
Oh, softly warm her frozen heart for me,
And soften it with gentlest influence;
Pour out thy balm of pity in her heart,
That so my pain at last may be allayed.”

XXV

THE BEAUTEOUS ROSE HEARS THE VOICE OF THE NIGHTINGALE, AND WHILE SHE FEELS AN INWARD DELIGHT IN IT, SHE PUTS ON AN AIR OF RESERVE AND DISDAIN

And while the Nightingale his lay prolongs,
And offers up his orisons to God,
The Rose in slumber suddenly perceived
A wondrous strain of music in the air;
Upon her listening ear there stole a strain
Which gave the joy of passion to her heart.
And as she heard the amorous Nightingale
She asked: “What sound of music do I hear?
How does the spirit of life pervade the song!
Who is it that is uttering the lay?
Ah, what a songster, a musician, he!
A songster and a hierophant in one.
Has Venus come from heaven to visit us,
And pour such floods of melody on earth?”
And then that she might hear the truth aright,
She called Narcissus to investigate.
And soon as he appeared at her behest,
She said, “O thou, our circle’s watchful eye,
I heard but now a burst of music rare.
Who is it that can boast such gift of song?
The soul so fondly feeds upon that sound,
That it is rapt in utter ecstasy.
Go forth and seek and hither bring me word,
What craftsman is it that so sweetly sings?
Did he descend from heaven, like the dew?
Or did he spring, like tulip, from the mead?
Go, question make, and learn whence came the sound,
And what the singer’s name and place of birth.
Dear friend, inquiries strict and searching make,
And bring to me the answer that you find.”
Then said Narcissus: “’Tis with vast delight,
I go to learn what you have asked of me;
So soon as I his countenance behold
I shall his character at once discern.”
So at that very hour Narcissus went,
To fetch her information of the bird.
He found at last the outcast miserable,
That with the Cypress tree stood hand in hand,
And night and day his dolorous chanson poured,
And told his ardent passion to the world.
He questioned graciously the Cypress tree,
And learned the true condition of the bird.
He learned the Nightingale was amorous,
And deeply troubled with the pang of love.
And to the Rose returning, told her all--
His name, and in what mournful plight he lay.
He was a wretch, he said, of reason reft,
Consumed forever with the flame of love.
An exile, whom his passion had inspired
To rove in distant land from shore to shore.
He now had come at last upon his way
To lay his heart submissive at her feet.
A creature full of virtuous qualities,
And all accomplished in the tuneful art.
Soon as the Rose had heard this narrative,
Her heart was filled with secret joyfulness.
And as her beauty kindled with desire,
Her gracious charm was clouded o’er with wrath.
Then spoke she: “Wherefore hies the beggar here?
He stuns my ear with his unchecked lament.
When will this shameless arrogance have end,
Which clamors like a tocsin through the night?
What will his daring lead him next to do?
Perchance he wishes to abide with us.
What is the cause for all this loud lament?
Who is it with a sword thrust draws his blood?
What bird does this poor wanderer call himself?
I do not know the language that he speaks.
His rhapsody but stuns my ear with pain,
And yet the song he sings is kind to me.
What does the bird of evil fortune here?
There is no room with us for such a fowl.
Who is the shameless beggar that is come
To take at night a post so near the queen?
Since he arrived among us with his din
My head is giddy and my sense is gone.
He hinders me from slumber all the night,
Now tell me how this clamor to chastise.
Why does he call upon me day and night,
Reckons he not his passion’s hopelessness?
Surely this fool and beggar does not hope
In the rose garden to approach the Rose?
Love has not paled his cheek; unheated iron
Is not more dark than are those cheeks of his.
Bid him begone, and leave our flowery home,
Nor hope to cast his amorous eyes on me.
Bid him o’ercome this passionate desire,
No further sing in vain his tale of love.
The wanderer may not in his mood presume
To approach from far the empress of the world.”

XXVI

THE PRUDENT NARCISSUS REMONSTRATES WITH THE GARRULOUS NIGHTINGALE

As the world’s bride these words of anger spake,
Narcissus went the Bulbul to rebuke,
And said: “What means this elegy of woe?
How is it thou hast fallen on lot so black?
What wit, what manners, canst thou boast to have
Who weepest in this paradise of heaven?
Thou, in the lap of misery born and bred,
Has added shamelessness to suffering.
Thy utterances have wakened up the flowers,
And robbed of sleep the eyelids of our queen.
How is it fitting that a beggar-man,
Should join a princess in delight of love?
Our Princess Rose is from her chamber come,
And filled with mighty anger at thy words.
She says: ‘The varlet must bethink himself,
And ne’er again so boldly speak my name.
He has his secret to the world proclaimed,
And made my name a byword among men.
My name, through him, all babbling tongues shall speak,
Who makes me figure as his night-long prize:
Now let him check the clamor of his song,
Or I will meet him with avenging wrath.
Let him consort with those who share his lot,
Else will my anger fall upon his head.
My name no longer on his lips be found,
And from his memory let my image fade.
For now he is arousing naught but wrath,
And evil will befall him at the last.’”
’Twas thus Narcissus freely spoke to him
And with a sigh the Nightingale replied;
And, while he dared no longer sing aloud,
His silent sighs were rising in his heart.
He sickened under separation’s pang,
He stood aghast, amazed, and faint in heart;
And now Narcissus backward took his way,
And left him lying like a lifeless clod.
His heart was raging with a furious heat,
Wrapt in the flaming whirlpool of its pangs.
The pain of separation made him dumb;
And all unconscious to the ground he fell;
Long time he lay as he were drunk with wine,
As if his love were quenched in longings vain.
At last his senses came again to him,
As he looked forth, his eyes were drowned in tears.
He then resolves he will renew his lay,
If only he be equal to the task.
So all the day in solitude he sighs,
And patiently endures his hapless plight.
Yet keeps he silent and no longer sings,
And no man knows the suffering he endured.

XXVII

THE EAST WIND MEETS THE WANDERING NIGHTINGALE AND BRINGS HIM TIDINGS FROM THE TENDER ROSE

One balmy morning when the night had fled
And made surrender to the light of day,
When buds had oped their eyelids once again,
And nodded in the wind o’er all the earth,
The Nightingale in utter misery sat,
A wretched outcast in a cheerless world.
His song had but increased his pang of woe,
And now his silence tortured him the more.
And suddenly the East Wind comes to him,
The East Wind, nourisher of nature’s life;
As his eyes fell upon the Nightingale,
Within his mind a pang of pity smote,
And hand in hand with him the Cypress moved.
He found no balm to heal the bird of woe.
The bird, deep stabbed by separation’s blade,
For his friend’s fate he could not find escape.
Nor would he trample on the pining wretch,
Whose life seemed feeble as a fleeting shade.
Then came he near and gracious greeted him,
The bird made answer with a burst of sighs.
“Welcome, good sir,” the East Wind said to him,
“What breeze has brought thee to a haven here?
Why is it that thou pinest thus in song?
Does absence from thy loved one cause thy woe?
How wasted and how lean thy countenance!
Thou art forespent by all thy sufferings;
Thine eyes are swimming in the tears of grief,
Thy heart is bleeding from its passion’s pain.
What can have thus disturbed thy being’s depth?
Thank God, that thou art now before a friend!
Thou in the Rose’s palace dwellest now,
Why art thou not as happy as the Rose?
Since thou art not defrauded of thy hope,
Good fortune surely must have smiled on thee.
Here thou art dwelling in a lonesome realm,
Why shouldst thou manifest such grief and woe?
What pleasure canst thou find in dolorous song,
Oh, say, poor wretch, what pleasure canst thou find?”
The lean-faced bird made answer with a sigh,
And said: “O friend, companion of my grief,
Though in the rose garden I now abide,
I am no less a singer of laments.
For still the door that leads to her I love
Is shut upon me, as thou well canst see.
Still like a pilgrim I am stranger here,
And still my Mecca’s light is closed to me.
The knife of grief is fixed within my breast,
And absence from my love has laid me low;
Absence has robbed me of the food of life,
Absence has cast a gloom o’er my delight.
Still in a friend I see nor trust nor stay,
And a friend’s presence still new torture gives.
Though outwardly I am in good estate,
Still am I distant from my dear delight.
I cannot yet enjoy my best beloved,
And patient resolution fails in me.
I see no sunlight in whose rays to trust;
But myriad griefs and sorrows meet my gaze.
O’er my distress all human pity sleeps
And my great heap of anguish mounts to heaven.
And no one pleads my cause before my love,
That she should show compassion on my plight.
Thus by my ardent passion worn away,
By night and day I linger in distress.
Oh, if that graceful creature knew of me,
She would show less of cruelty to me.
Then Pity’s face would stand before her eyes,
She would not sacrifice my life to pain.
Oh, help me, thou who art my only hope,
Take by the hand and guide the fallen one;
Tell her how fares this miserable wight
And make me pledged to show thee gratitude.
Oh, give her knowledge of my pining pangs,
And of the many sufferings I endure,
Let fires of ardent longing warm thy tongue,
So that her heart be filled with ruth for me.”

XXVIII

THE SOUL-NURTURING EAST WIND TAKES KNOWLEDGE OF THE NIGHTINGALE AND SEES TRACES OF PITY IN THE BEAUTEOUS ROSE

Then said the East Wind that gives courage new:
“Torment thyself no more, unhappy one,
Thy sadness and thy mourning pierce my heart;
And I am messenger from yonder queen;
I will refuse thee nothing in my power,
And I will work for thee with all my might.
I will thy sufferings relate to her,
And bear her message how it fares with thee.
The lofty dame must take some note of thee;
I will support thy cause as I have strength.
Perchance my word will influence her mind
And cause her to compassionate thy lot.
Take courage!” So he spake and forth he went,
Repairing to the palace of the Rose.
Right eagerly he hastened to the Rose
And threw himself before her on the ground.
And said: “O lofty sun of loveliness,
O moon, O heaven o’erflowing with delights,
May God thy gracious beauty still increase,
And give fulfilment to thy every wish!
May he thy honor never bring to blight,
And with full many a year thy life prolong!
A stranger poor, no traitor, but true man,
A suitor in the passion of his mind,
Is come to thee as if he were thy slave,
For he has fallen deep in love with thee;
The breath of love which burns him to the heart
For him life’s goblet sweet with poison taints.
He is thy very slave in heart and soul,
Devoted to thee through all pain and want;
In thy disdain he finds his sustenance,
And in the pain thou givest his delight.
He mourns night long complaining to the world,
How he is tortured by his love for thee,
Helpless by day, enfeebled, and unnerved,
He passes drunk with grief, through town and plain;
The hand of love represses now his song,
The bolt of sorrow now has laid him low.
From song to song he speeds along in love,
Weak as the new moon in the light of day,
He loves thy pity and thy graciousness,
Still freshly hurrying on the path of love.
Oh, that thou wouldst, bright sun of loveliness,
Show to him all the glories of thy grace!
Since only smile of thine can make him rich,
And cause the beggar-man to reign a king.
Does the tall cedar droop from weariness,
From shadowing the soil beneath it spread?
And must the sun with lessened radiance beam,
From shining in the beggar’s lowly hut?
Does loftiness its dignity forego
When Solomon converses with a fool?
The watery stream that vivifies the world
Is ever in its current downward turned.
Think pitifully on his valiant life,
Whose spirit ever was to goodness given.
Now is the poor down stricken to the earth,
Oh, let him find his rescuer in thee!”
The Rose replied, when she had heard his speech,
“Go to this beggar-man, this tempest tost
And tell him, since he loves so ardently,
And swears himself so ardently my slave,
My grace he must a little longer wait
And patient in his constancy abide.
Suffer he must till healing be in train,
For love to any man is smart enough.
Love is by absence ofttimes perfected;
And ofttimes by fruition brought to naught.
He who would end the sufferance of love
Must first the rule of selfishness forswear.
The lover has no will to please himself;
His will he yields in all to the beloved.
And if the well-beloved for absence wish,
How can he in fruition’s flame be warmed?
And if she wishes to remain far off,
How is this possible if he be near?
When he who loves puts pleasure before all,
His beauteous flame desires him to depart.
Can anyone whose love is pure and high
For any time abide at peace in it
While he is thinking only of himself
And hurts his well-beloved through selfishness,
So that if he but graze her sandal’s tip
She in hot anger turns away from him?
For wounds are but the ornaments of love,
And all the rest is passion dissolute.”
Hearing these words, the morning wind in haste
Departed to the Nightingale, who mourned.
For when he heard the message of the Rose
His self-control and understanding fled.
Straight he began to cry aloud for grief,
And beat the bushes of the rose garden.
Sad song and sighing in his bosom raged,
As passion in the glades of Gulistan.
The day and night were all the same to him,
For in love’s frenzy lay he night and day.

XXIX

DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING AND OF THE COLLOQUY OF THE LOVELY ROSE WITH HER NOBLES AND CHIEF MEN

Upon a morning when the rising sun
His jewelled cup had taken in his hand,
And heaven’s arch shone with passionate desire,
And dawn was like the glow of ruddy wine,
And morning, sipping at the golden cup,
Like to some wild disordered reveller seemed,
The Rose, who saw the temper of the day,
That morning was a bright and lovely thing,
And all the landscape round with passion burned,
And morning’s glory seemed with dalliance gay,
Felt a desire within her flowery grove
For high enjoyment in a merry feast.
Therefore she order gave that on the lawn
A throne of verdure should be raised for her,
And that the sweet and placid morning dew
Should fill the Tulip’s goblet with her wine.
The dwellers in the grove acceptance gave
And hastened to obey the queen’s command.
And in accordance with her high behest,
The flame of revelry was kindled round.
The Rose herself presided o’er the rout,
And at her feet the faithful Cypress stood,
And all the guests regaled themselves on dew,
And Tulip lackeys filled each crystal bowl.
And as Narcissus took the goblet up
A wave of ardent longing swept the throng.
The Hyacinth unbound her waving hair,
The Musk breathed out her tribute to the feast.
The lilies laughed and out they thrust their tongues,
Waking the feast with silvery melody.
Dumb with astonishment at such a scene,
The wry-necked violets stood and blinked their eyes.
The mad Brook hurried by the surging crowd,
With shouts re-echoing the noisy rout,
And gushing forth with impulse of desire
The joy that in his bosom overflowed.
The Wind blew blandly like a breath from God,
And never stopped upon its restless course.
His touch was like caresses of desire,
His murmur an enchantment of delight,
So at full flood the tide voluptuous flowed,
The revel’s din was echoed through the world.
They drank full beakers of delight that day,
And hugging tipplers crowded all the glade.
The flowers drank all that nectar amorous,
And with rent garments lay inebriate.
The tulips seized the wineglass every one,
Voluptuous ecstasy their bosoms filled.
The Cypress, by the fumes of wind inflamed,
Begin to dance and sport in dalliance gay,
Not even the wind could tell which way he ran,
For now his murmuring tongue with drink was dumb.
Two draughts the violet at the beaker took,
Then bowed his head in drowsy slumber lost--
The rose garden was all in ruin laid,
And on their swords the lilies threw themselves.
The Nightingale, as fitted lover true,
A stranger feeble, a tormented one,
Is wholly sunk in amorous desire;
And drunken with the very wine of love,
As from the thicket he beheld the feast,
Like wine his tears of bitter anguish flowed.
Tears were his wine, his eyes the goblet bright,
His sorrow’s song the reed-pipe of the dance,
And all the while he gave himself to grief,
Turning aside from such strange festival.
Then he began to sigh and make lament
And utter all his sorrows to the world.
His very form was fashioned like a lute,
From which is stricken note by note the strain.
His bosom throbbed like some sweet sorrow lute,
His voice was like some lute’s desponding lay,
He fluted his love anguish in the crowd,
As if his heart gave voice to its desire.
He sighed and sobbed with his loud “Lack-a-day,”
And burned like incense in some shrine of love.
And while the Rose in pleasure’s throng was gay,
Poor Bulbul pined in his misfortune’s gloom.
The Rose drank deep amid her favorites,
Poor Bulbul languished in his song of pain;
And so went by full many days that brought
Joy to the Rose and sorrow to the bird.

XXX

THE FAR-WANDERING NIGHTINGALE FINDS NO HEALING FOR HIS PAIN, AND AT LAST WRITES A LETTER TO MAKE KNOWN HIS PLIGHT

For a long time bewailed the Nightingale
His agony in many a tender trill,
And yet the Rose came never into view,
And never saw one sparkle of the truth.
He never saw her in his view appear,
She never mentioned with her voice his name.
The bird continued in his constancy,
And her approach was ever far away.
She had no true acquaintance with his grief,
Though patience still was torture to his breast.
Then said to him at last the fool of love,
“Why is it that I do not write to her?
I cannot speak to others my lament,
I will to her myself my plight explain;
I will the sufferings which o’erflow my heart
And all my agony recount to her.
My eyelashes shall serve me for a pen
And from mine eyes I will my ink distil;
The tears which drip like blood beneath my lids
Are ink enough to write my love letter.”
With pain he took the pen into his hand
And wrote his letter with a bleeding heart.
Praise formed the exordium of this love-letter,
Praise both of God and of the prophets blest.
Then said he: “O beloved of my heart,
Thou uncompassionate of those who love,
Is there no end to thy prevailing charm?
Is there no end to my surpassing pain?
Is thy hard-heartedness persistent still?
And is thy love enchantment without bound?
Is it indeed the custom of the fair
That their great beauty should be pitiless?
Oh, leave thine hardness, prayers of love regard,
Look on the desolation of my heart.
If lovely things were ever obdurate,
Still might they with their hardness feel desire;
Let not this soul in ardent passion faint,
And this cleft bosom perish in its fire.
From keen desire by night and day I mourn,
My bosom and my eyes are wrought with grief.
The sword of agony has pierced me through
And altered quite the habit of my mind,
For patience I no longer have the strength,
Nor can I longer separation bear.
Oh, pity me, mine own, for I am weak,
I am o’erwrought and without strength to-day.
The sword of separation cleaves my breast
And tints me with the tulip’s ruddied eye.
My tears are like the Oxus of mine eyes,
Pale as the lime the color of my cheeks.
Have pity on me in my feebleness--
My strength and force have ebbed away from me.
Have pity on me. Patience dies in me,
The sword of absence penetrates my soul.
No longer patience can endure the strain,
And on thy head my blood will be avenged.
Reject me not, O Rose, but pity me,
Is not the Rose the Nightingale’s delight?
The beauty of the Rose’s charm appeared
Long since through coming of the Nightingale.
Oh, look not angry on thy paramour;
What is he but the mirror of thy charms?
For still through Medshnun’s rapture wild and strange
Was Leila’s flawless beauty long renowned.
And if no moth had ever been consumed
The taper ne’er had known the adoring wing,
And the more love the pining lover feels,
So much the more his love should pine for him.
And when the lover still persists in love,
The one beloved should never turn away.
Oh, thou hard-hearted one, be not incensed,
But hear the prayer of one who dies for thee,
For through thy hardness and thy self-content
Thou hast to nothing brought thy worshipper.
Let it be granted I am not thy peer;
No grace would be in pity if I were.
O queen, with thy compassion make me glad,
And free me from the fetters of despair.”
And when the Nightingale his letter closed,
His next reflection was on sending it.
“How shall I light upon a messenger
To bring this letter to my best beloved?”
At last he found a fitting messenger
To take his love epistle to the queen.

XXXI

THE NIGHTINGALE DESPATCHES THROUGH THE JASMINE THE LETTER WRITTEN OUT OF THE FULLNESS OF HIS HEART

In those times dwelt in Gulistan a youth,
Lovely and silver-bright and kind in mien.
He was a letter-carrier fast and safe,
And stood as messenger before the queen.
This youthful letter-carrier, silver-bright,
Whose manners were as radiant as his face,
Skilful and sure in bearing a despatch,
Held ever in his hand a written roll.
The jasmine’s starry radiance was his,
The ardor and the stature of a tree,
His elegance adorned the garden glade,
And Sandbach is the name they gave to him.
The Nightingale his orders gave to him
And poured his secret in a faithful breast,
And said to him, “O generous friend of mine,
May the Most High have mercy on thy soul!
Why shouldst thou not bring tidings to the queen
Of all her slave has dreamt about her charms?
If thou this letter wilt convey for me,
All that I have in future shall be thine,
Since yonder distant loveliness through thee
May show itself propitious to my prayer.”
The Sandbach the commission undertook,
And said: “’Tis well; cheer up. I only hope
Thy letter that is written by thy hand
May carry no misfortune to the queen.”
He took the folded missive in his hand,
And his foot followed on his hand’s despatch.
Low bowed he when he reached the Rose’s seat,
And gave the love-letter into her hand.
The Rose received from him the _billet-doux_,
And read the running letters of its page.
And when she understood the note’s intent,
And how the wistful bird in torture pined,
Then said she: “Tell me how the poor man fares.
Does he still mourn, and for compassion cry?
Does separation still his bosom tear?
Does his heart bleed, as bleeds the tulip’s heart?
Give my heart’s greeting to the wretched one,
And wish him healing of his misery.
May he no longer mourn if fate permit,
And be his heart no more consumed in woe.
I will henceforth be faithful unto him,
And bend myself to succor his distress;
Since he has separated been from me,
Consumed within the furnace of his pain,
I will henceforth with greater tenderness
Assuage the fiery ardor of the wight.
And for a proof I feel in honor bound
To send an answer to these words of love.”
Then straight she took into her hands a pen,
And wrote an answer to the Nightingale.

XXXII

THE DAINTY ROSE SENDS THROUGH THE TALL JASMINE SANDBACH AN ANSWER TO THE LETTER OF THE DISTRACTED NIGHTINGALE

The letter thus began, “Now praise to God,
A thousand greetings to his prophets be!”
Then she continued: “O thou wanderer wild,
O sick at heart that knowest no medicine,
’Tis love that has encumbered all thy life
And bound thee up in this distraction’s coil.
How is it that the misery of thy love
And separation has so altered thee?
How should my absence so affect thy heart,
And what concern is my heart’s love to thee?
Does separation’s knife thy spirit wound,
And has concupiscence thy heart inflamed?
And are thy eyes still wet with bitter tears,
And sorrow, does it desolate thy soul?
What ails thee, friend? Art thou not well in health?
Or art thou always languishing in pain?
Art thou of me so fiercely amorous
That thou thus hastenest to enjoy my love?
I see, poor wretch, that misery drives thee so,
That I from sympathy must faithful be.
’Tis time that I obedient to thy need
Should be, and thou shouldst take me for a friend.
That I should yield my beauty to thy hand
So long as thou art worthy of the gift.
Thou hast so long been separation’s slave,
Thou now should be fruition’s honored king.
Long hast thou drunk dark separation’s draught.
Now pledge me in enjoyment’s nectary cup.
He who is bold upon the path of love
Deserves to see his loved one face to face.
Be happy, then, thy pain is ended now,
The day of full fruition has arrived.”
While thus the pen went over the lettered page,
She closed the brief epistle with a kiss,
Then gave it to the messenger, and so
Let him who wept and sorrowed now rejoice.
Into his hand the letter Sandbach took,
The letter that should cheer the Nightingale,
And said: “I bring to thee good news of joy,
No more the wretch may sighing pass his hours,
Now has happiness awoke from sleep
And on the joyless now has joy bestowed.”
With eagerness he gave to him the note.
“The Lord is very merciful,” he said,
“For after absence oft fruition comes.
Cease, then, the clamor of thy lack-a-day.”
Soon as the Nightingale the tidings heard
He was beside himself from keen desire.
He kissed the letter, read it with his eyes,
Then opened it and closed it up again.
He said: “The letter is an amulet,
A written patent from the grace of God,
A letter of reprieve in God’s own name,
Of liberation from despair and grief.”
And as the Nightingale the letter read
The cry of ardent passion burst from him,
A flood of inspiration seized his soul--
He worshipped every cipher one by one,
He thanked the Lord with loud hilarity,
And with a burst of gladness praised the pen
The soul of all those letters gave to him,
Fresh life supplanting now the death of love.
His keen desire inspired his throbbing throat,
And he could nothing sing but of the Rose.

XXXIII

DESCRIPTION OF THE NIGHT AND OF THE REPROOF WHICH THE TREACHEROUS HYACINTH GAVE IN ANSWER TO THE POOR NIGHTINGALE

It was a night in which the rose garden
Was clear illumined as with light of day,
When tints of darkness interblent with light
Went wandering over beds of hyacinths.
The moon stood high upon the dome of heaven,
And round her was the company of stars.
Upon this night the Nightingale discoursed
In dulcet notes the ardor of his soul.
He sang at first in his delight and joy
His song in every tone the poets knew.
Upon this night a hyacinth came by,
A vixen full of tricks and treachery.
In her dark night attire she forward sped,
To wander through the glades of Gulistan.
Then suddenly she heard a tuneful note;
Like Anka’s echo came the storm of song.
Forward she came and saw the pilgrim poor,
Who moaned as if he consolation claimed.
Close to the minstrel she ensconced herself,
And looking up to Bulbul, greeted him.
And said to him, “Pray tell to me thy name.
Why is it that thou clamorest so loud?”

He said, “I call upon the one I love.
Through love I did forget how loud I cried.”
Quoth she, “To whom has love devoted thee?
Who is it that thy heart and spirit love?”
Quoth he, “I am the bondsman of my love,
For one in love is thrall and pupil too.”
Quoth she, “What bond and emblem bearest thou?
Whence dost thou come? What is thy native land?”
Quoth he, “Love hath no ensign and no home,
No special dwelling-place in any realm.”
Quoth she, “Explain to me this pain of thine,
Tell me the secrets of thy loving heart.”
Quoth he, “I have no other guide but love.”
And here he stopped and spake no other word.
Quoth she, “What is the character of love?
And does it bring the lover aught of gain?”
Quoth he, “Love brings its slave to nothingness,
It forfeits every gain, but wins delight.”
Quoth she, “And what is, then, the end of love?
Does he who loves find rest his home at last?”
Quoth he, “The goal of love is suffering’s lot,
The heart through love finds all its end in pain.”
Quoth she, “The wise man never longs for pain,
More perfect he who shuns disquietude.”
Quoth he, “Who suffers not is not a man,
For manhood must be based on suffering,
And he who suddenly in pain is plunged
Befits him then to suffer patiently.”
Quoth she, “In pain, then, thou dost take delight,
Then cease thy sighs and study self-control.”
Quoth he, “And hadst thou medicine for thy pain?”
Quoth he, “I need none till my heart be broke.”
Quoth she, “And over whom dost thou lament?”
Quoth he, “My only one, my darling queen.”
Quoth she, “But tell me what her name may be?”
Quoth he, “Alas, I have forgot her name.”
Quoth she, “Bethink thee, till it come again.”
Quoth he, “Do lovers have the power of thought?”
Quoth she, “What makes thy speech so riddling dark?”
Quoth he, “My love’s hair has entangled me.”
Quoth she, “Give up this passion for thy queen.”
Quoth he, “But that were to give up my soul.”
Quoth she, “Thy mistress is not true to thee.”
Quoth he, “Enough to me is her disdain.”
Quoth she, “Fruition of her cannot be.”
Quoth he, “Without her I am bound to die.”
Quoth she, “Begone and leave this rose garden.”
Quoth he, “To leave this spot is leaving life.”
Quoth she, “No pity is outpoured for thee.”
Quoth he, “Yet pity still be praised by me.”
Quoth she, “And dost thou hope for bliss at last?”
Quoth he, “Does not the sun shed light over all?”
Quoth she, “Thou liest beneath the sword of pain.”
Quoth he, “So be it. I have naught to say.”
Quoth she, “This separation costs thy blood.”
Quoth he, “My blood, yes, and my soul as well.”
She saw that this poor wretched stripling still
An answer made to every jibe of hers.
The hyacinth with jealous passion glowered,
Her face grew black through bitterness and wrath.
Quoth she: “’Tis palpable to me at last,
This oaf is amorous of the Rose herself,
And can it be that in the rose garden
So dissolute a rover should appear?
What is his business here in Gulistan?
What is he doing in our garden realm?
He must at once be banished from the place,
So that he tread no more our glorious glade.
It is a burning shame, in truth, that one
So beggarly should at our threshold lie.”
And so excited was the hyacinth
That long she pondered trick and guile and ruse.
Well versed was she in crooked ways of guile,
And took delight in devious intrigue.
And now she tried some method to devise
By which to purge the bowers of Gulistan.

XXXIV

THE INSIDIOUS HYACINTH, HER MIND DARKENED WITH ENVY, CONTRIVES THAT THE NIGHTINGALE IS EXPELLED FROM THE ROSE GARDEN

Just when the sun of full fruition dawned,
An obstacle that instant rose to sight.
Oft the possessor of a faithful friend
Is rescued from the clutches of despair,
The Rose is circled round with many a thorn,
And where the treasure lies do serpents coil.
And where a friend appears to cheer the heart
A foeman also rises to oppose,
A cruel foe had thus appointed been
To take his stand as guardian of the Rose.
The royal watchman of her Majesty,
Her careful master at her beck and call,
Tyrannical, in nature envious,
Evil in mind, rejoicing to give pain.
Whose nod was dreadful as the cast of spears,
Whose eyelashes were terrible as darts.
He ever stood with dagger at his belt
And in his hand the deadly partisan;
Like Mars on guard within some prison-house,
Armed was he on each limb with knife and spear,
And he who merely offered him his hand
Was ripped and mangled to the very quick.
His every deed was full of rancorous wrath,
And in the rose-garden his name was Thorn.
The hyacinth fell in with him that day
In her attempt to oust the Nightingale.
And by the thorn she thought to bring him bane,
And kept this secret in her darkling breast,
That from the pleasant shades of Gulistan
Bulbul might banished be for evermore.
The hyacinth, in many an intrigue versed,
Thus full of rage approached the deadly thorn,
And said: “O thou, what dost thou rage for now?
Hast thou no sense of honor and no pride?
For in this rose garden a rover stands,
A lover of the Rose, a noisy wight,
A wanton fool, inspired by jealous whim,
Who desecrates the Rose’s queenly name.
But he is shameless, without reverence,
And talks the whole night long of naught but love.
Can it be possible, that such as he
Is taken up with passion for the Rose?
That he by sighing and by songs of love
Should take the fair name of our queen away?
That he should choose her name to be the theme
Of common babble in the market-place?
The Rose through him will now be scandal’s theme,
And round the world will men revile the Rose.
This vagabond hath thus behaved himself
And many a lying vow has breathed to her.
I fear that by his reckless impudence
Her noble name at last may suffer loss.
Soon as the thorn these treacherous tidings heard
Each hair upon his head became a sword,
And the assassin thorn spake full of wrath:
“God blame thee for a worthless loon! And why
Didst thou not long ere this the vagabond
In fetters bind, a prisoner on the spot,
And put the chain of serfdom round his neck,
And lock him fast within the prison hold?”
She answered: “Though I have not fettered him,
Yet have I reasoned with him many times.
My council yet was bootless to the churl,
He answered every word with repartee.”
The thorn replied: “Point out the wretch to me,
The sot and the seducer of the town.
His gore shall tinge my poniard scarlet bright,
For I shall plunge it in his dastard blood.”
So saying, from his seat out sprang the thorn
And drew his dagger in a burst of rage.
The very moment he the Bulbul found
He dealt him many a wound with flashing blade,
And said to him: “Audacious beggar, thou
Who knowest neither modesty nor ruth,
What brought thee to the harem of our Queen?
Think of her rank and of thy base estate,
Thou who each night dost shout thy lack-a-day
Dost thou not feel some shame? Away with thee,
Away with all this hubbub and this cry.
Is this a prison, or a lady’s bower?
How comes it that without a blush of shame
Thou callest o’er and o’er again her name?
Show thyself here no longer, beggar vile,
Go hide that sottish countenance of thine.
Or else without or hinderance or delay
I with my dagger will thy bosom cleave.”
With that the thorn transfixed the Nightingale,
Giving him pangs of sufferings manifold.
And now the Nightingale with cries of pain
And thousand lamentations leaves the grove.
He left the grove, the rose garden of love,
And sang his sorrow to the break of morn.

XXXV

THE RUTHLESS THORN GIVES ADVICE TO THE SOFT-CHEEKED ROSE

The thorn, his thoughts on hate and vengeance fixed,
Soon as he had outraged the Nightingale
Went straightway hurriedly to see the Rose,
And gave her counsel in a long address.
And said to her, “How did it happen, Rose,
That such an oaf could make his love to thee,
And that the very lowest of the low
By his addresses could affront thy name?
Thou art the pearl, the princess. Can it be
A nameless beggar should draw nigh to thee?
That night and day by his persistent song
He causes all the grove to prate of thee?
Is it that thou his daring would approve
And smilest on his ardor and desires,
And givest ear to such a rogue as this
And listenest to the words he says to thee,
So that the beggar in thy favor proud
Shameless inflates himself and boasts his crime?
He is a man of boundless arrogance,
And of audacity untamable.
Do not encourage him, my gracious queen.
The beggar knows the truth about himself.
I, with my sword, have pierced his breast with wounds
And gladly stretched him bleeding on the ground.
And that I did not out of fear for thee,
But out of reverence for this pleasant grove.”
Soon as the Rose these words of fury heard,
Pained to the heart, her rage o’ermastered her.
She said: “What has this beggar done to thee,
That thou shouldst thus transfix his soul with pain?
He is a harmless wretch in dire distress,
In sorrow and perplexity involved.
He came with all his melodies of love
Two days ago a guest in this fair grove.
Shame that thou thus hast wronged and injured him!
Sure no one has this guest repulsed with scorn.
Does it befit the soul magnanimous
To outrage and bring scorn upon a guest?
Tell me what harm he ever did to thee,
This pilgrim foreigner and hermit pure,
That thou hast undertaken thus to cleave
His bosom with that cruel blade of thine?
Was it because he sang with flowing heart?
A song of sorrow gives our souls delight.
He was the minstrel of our happy lawn,
And won the flowers to raise their chalice higher.
Not lawlessly my fetters he endured.
Then what disgrace for me can be in this?
For beauty and accomplishment complete
Have always made their orisons to love.
And beauty’s self is perfected through love,
And beauty without love endures eclipse.
When love entwines itself round beauty’s form
It gives no stigma to the thing it holds.
And nothing can the crown of beauty mar,
Though thousand thousands babble out her name.
Was Joseph in Egyptian lands disgraced,
When he was object of the people’s love?
Go, leave the poor man in tranquillity,
Harass him not, be pitiful to him.
Thou must not him with cruelty oppress,
But treat him after this with kindliness.”
When the thorn heard the Rose’s reprimand,
Like needles on his head uprose his hair.
What he had heard was not what he desired,
And trouble overspread his countenance.
And now the royal audience was o’er,
He went to visit Spring, the garden’s king.

XXXVI

THE HARD-HEARTED THORN SLANDERS THE LOVESICK NIGHTINGALE BEFORE THE MONARCH OF THE SPRING

He hurried to the palace of the shah,
And standing on his feet before the throne,
He said: “My sovereign to the end of time,
May thy prosperity unbroken be!
There lingers in the rose garden a rogue
By day and night, a rogue incurable
Who by the Rose infatuated lives,
And drunken with love’s goblet is distraught.
Nor night nor day he ceases his complaint
As he relates the beauties of the Rose,
Nor night nor day can I o’ermaster him.
The beggar still with fire poetic burns,
He has nor shame nor self-respect in life,
And finds alone in drunkenness delight.
The Rose herself is fettered by his lay,
And sympathizes with this amorous sot.
Now the affair has reached the final stage,
And he has gained the notice of the Rose.”
Soon as the monarch had heard the thorn’s address,
Perturbed, he thus addressed the listening slave:
“Where is this beggar, pale and passionate?
Let him be seized and in a cell confined.”
And so he sent his hunter to the grove,
A hunter of inexorable heart.
And said to him, “Go seek the beggar-man
And put him without pity into chains.”
Soon as the firman of the king went out
They quickly scoured the glades of Gulistan,
And sought amid the rose-garden parterres
For traces of the tuneful Nightingale.

XXXVII

THE WOUNDED NIGHTINGALE SEES THE VIOLETS, HIS COMPANIONS IN ADVERSITY; THEY APPROACH EACH OTHER, AND THE NIGHTINGALE IS SHUT UP IN A CAGE