Speak, Nightingale, thy accents utter clear,

And from thy secret haunt reveal thyself;

Thou knowest full well the meaning that lies hid

Within the rose-bed of the inmost mind.

Long hast thou tarried, silent as a bud;

Breathe out the meditation of the Rose,

Let thy voice warble in the voice of love

A song instinct with love’s own melody.

So sweet that Sohre, when thy lay is heard,

The lute shall fling in anger to the ground.

And thus the Nightingale in Gulistan

Began, with song, her legendary tale.

Once, in the ancient days that long are past,

Over a country pleasant above all,

There lived a shah, the reigning king of Kum,

And he was gracious, mild, and liberal.

Good fortune followed every step he took;

And he was fair in manner as in face.

In every action was he moderate;

And all his deeds were welcome to the folk.

Pure was his mind, his lineage starred by fame;

He drew all hearts by ruth and tenderness;

He was a monarch of a high descent;

They named him Springtime, for his look was spring.

The earth he cheered, as if with vernal showers,

His presence was a breath of paradise;

Far famed for grandeur and for graciousness,

For strictest justice bore he wide renown.

His sovereign word flew wider than the wind,

And poured its torrents like a foaming stream,

Refreshing by its very righteousness,

Like balmy eastern breezes, earth and time.

For when he spoke, men heard no other sound,

But his. So sang the happy Nightingale.

And no man from the scabbard drew his sword;

Even the sword-lily vanished from the heath;

And never pointed weapon made a wound,

Except the thorns that pierce the bulbul’s breast.

And not a crown was ravished against right;

And the east wind the tulip’s circlet spared.

Though earth were mantled with a host of green,

A leafy company that none may count,

’Twere easier far to number forest leaves

Than count the flowers that in his palace grew.

Like to a guard-troop, helmeted with gold,

Narcissus flowers were ranged in countless bands;

With lips and beakers blushing ruby red,

The lovely flowers as cup-bearers attend;

The lilies stand full-armed like sentinels,

Mail clad in steely green, with flashing sword.

There many cypresses toss high their heads,

And verdant banners thickly cover them.

From the high walls a shower of thorns is shot,

As lances hurtle, and lay lions low.

Ambassadors in crowds, from east and west,

Bring crowns to him, and eager tribute yield--

Jewels that blaze like planets of the sky,

And gems the prize of fortune’s brightest hour.

Within his grove he has a stately rose.

The grace of God is watching over it;

And he is happy in a daughter fair,

Who, like the rose-bush, beautifies the world.

Her name is Rose, though she is still a bud--

A bud in beauty’s garden fresh as morn:

Round were these buds, like ruddy lips that called

For kisses with a passionate desire;

Such was the beauty that belonged to them,

That all the world enamored gazed on them.

X

DESCRIPTION OF THE ROSE’S BEAUTY IN EVERY MEMBER

Graceful indeed are all the Rose’s tints,

Above, beneath, they move with equal charm,

And all their life expresses beauty’s self;

And each is dowered with equal loveliness.

Her restless-streaming and dishevelled locks

Were long life to the heart of those who loved.

And she was beauty’s sum and monogram,

By whom to earth descended human bliss;

And many a heart within those meshes lay,

And pined as mine did, from a thousand wounds.

Her figure was like boughs from paradise,

The lotus at the sight obeisance made;

Her figure kills all other trees, and puts

The cypress and the plane-tree out of mind.

Never did cypress wave with such a grace;

For soulful was that figure of the Rose.

The constellations’ signet crystalline

Shines out like Alexander’s looking-glass.

Venus in Sagittarius is she,

Where sun and moon together cross the sky.

And so her countenance a tablet is

On which the Lord has written--“A child of light,”

And in her eyebrows, rising o’er her eyes,

We see the double moon that comes in Mars.

Joined like the double arches of a bridge

Are those twin bows of beauty and delight.

Without that portico of loveliness,

The house of beauty would to ruin fall.

And those two arches lead into the house,

Where beauty’s self is fostered as a child.

How skilfully the magic bow is strung,

The double bow with but a single span!

And every glance that from this bow is shot

Flies to the mark and makes the red blood flow.

That eye--enchantment’s self is resting there,

And sorcery’s fountain springs beneath that brow.

Whoever looks upon those lustrous eyes

Must cry “Now God be with you, lady fair.”

For like Narcissus flowers the eyes adorn

The happy beauty garden of the face.

Twin stars of flame are they, which archers shoot,

Like arrows, from the strong and bended bow.

Two Turks, who in the court of Shinar’s plain

Fall drowsy, after drinking, to the floor.

The glance that subjugates the heart of all

Is like a dagger by the acid worn,

Which keener grows with every wound it deals;

For every arrowed glance the heart’s blood draws.

The sidelong glances are as skirmishers--

A band of lancers rushing into fight.

Each waving ringlet is a teazing bolt,

That gives unrest, not comfort, to the soul.

Her nose is like a shadow’s streak of cloud,

In which the signature of beauty lives;

It is a jasmine, budding and unblown,

Set in the beauty garden of the face.

A finger, which, by power of sorcery,

Has cut the circle of the moon in twain.

Her cheeks, what are they but two roses fresh,

Which with the great archangel converse hold?

Two ruddy pages in which boys have read

Their earliest lesson in the lore of love?

Nay, they are likest to the rising sun,

From which the earth illumination draws.

The little mole upon the lady’s cheek

Is but a foil to set her beauty off;

’Tis but a sign of noble ancestry,

A seed of beauty on a field of flowers.

There never fails on every countenance

Some line or feature that commands the whole;

No mole can such pre-eminence assert;

It is her eyes that captivate our gaze.

The ears with pearls that not a blemish own

Reflected on the sea their beauty show;

They are two roses upon which the dew

Of dazzling pearls is radiantly set.

The lips which quite eclipse the world’s delights

Are like the holiness which Mary showed,

They are like rubies which attract men’s souls

And touch their spirit e’en without a word.

And if I should make known those lips’ delight,

What shall I say in reference to the mouth?

’Tis true that God created worlds from naught.

But I am uncreative, vain my words.

The tongue is like a singing nightingale

Which nests above a murmuring waterfall;

It is a bird whose words are brilliant

As are the rubies in a jewel case.

A wise interpreter whose words are true,

Revealing all the secrets of the heart,

The teeth are nothing but the dewy pearls,

Which glitter on the rosebuds of the grove.

They are the precious stones that form a link

Between two rows of ruddy carbuncle;

They are the jewels in a jewel case,

Which in concealment have their radiance hid.

Their sugared sweetness every sweet excels;

And even honey doubly sweet outvie.

The chin is like a beauty apple hung,

With ever-changing charms it wins the eye;

The apple is the fairest fruit of all.

The Rose’s chin is more desirable,

And as the quince that hangs unplucked, she says,

“I am the fruit of beauty; pluck me not.”

The dimple on the chin is like a well;

And he who falls therein must captive bide.

The chin is like to beauty’s tambourine,

On which the dangling locks their soft blows ply;

And when their sporting pattering they begin

It is the march of beauty that they sound.

Her neck is like a taper camphor white

And darkened with the film of falling locks.

Without is light, within a burning fire,

A flame of pride and yet of fickleness.

Most it resembles some white cloud of heaven,

A silver column set in beauty’s hall.

And we may well divine her arms are like

The handles of some vase in silver wrought.

By the trumpeter of these fair arms

A thousand heads have fallen in blood and wrath;

Hers are the whitest arms in all the land,

White as the hand of Moses once became,

Her arm rests in a sleeve it fills with light;

Like to a crystal, which itself is clear.

The hand is matchless both in charming shape

And in the light which beauty gives to it.

The Lord has given this hand the bracelet fair

Of fascination that surrounds the wrist.

Under that hand, by its desired caress,

The country and the people rest subdued.

Nor does the henna dye those fingers red,

But naturally the tips are coralline.

For each fair finger is a silver pen

Which writes the winning verses of the heart.

The hand is like the moon; the fist, the sun.

The fingers are the pleasant beams they cast.

And as the almighty Scribe their outline formed,

So wrote he beauty in each finger nail.

For like a rose-leaf is each finger nail,

A rose-leaf that adorns the Rose’s stem;

And as each nail is like the moon at full,

Each fragment cut from them a crescent seems.

Her bosom is a tablet crystal clear,

A waterfall that gleams in Paradise.

’Tis the most glorious and the purest light

That ever broke in waves from height of heaven.

The feet are silver pillars, pedestals

Supporting beauty’s palace, firm and fair.

They soar like arrows to heaven’s highest throne;

They stand twin graces ever side by side,

And like an anchor is the steady foot,

Holding in heaven the white moon’s argosy.

XI

THE SHAH PROVIDES A TEACHER FOR HIS DAUGHTER ROSE

As in daytime does the moon appear,

In beauty tender, yet but half revealed,

So did the father see his daughter’s face

Grow fair, and thanked his God by day and night.

He watched her beauty with an anxious eye,

And prayed it might to full perfection come.

And brought a teacher, who might lead his child

Along the path where knowledge could be plucked.

He wrote upon a book of pages old

As flame the precious lore which she should scan.

Into her hand he placed the precious book;

It was a new adventure for the Rose.

And from the ancient tutor she began

To read the lines of learning’s alphabet.

Page after page the volume was explored,

But all was dull and comfortless to her.

She learned the history of Gulistan,

She learned by heart the annals of Bostan,

It soon had mastered all Vaharistan,

She read the booke of history in Divan,

Yet full of grace, her mind by no means dull,

She had no skill in writing prose or verse.

XII

MORNING AND EVENING IN THE ROSE GARDEN

Upon a morning when the glittering ray

Flooded the meadow green where bloomed the Rose,

And when the sun upon the world’s high throne

Showed the Rose the radiance of his orb,

The sun saw joyfully that his daughter dear

Was in her freshest beauty full bedecked.

He knew that she was worthy happiness,

That she was worthy of her princely lot.

Another was sovereign of a realm that brought

Quiet and happiness throughout the world,

His castle was a fortress green in hue,

Green was the hue of its foundation stones;

Inside was decked with high magnificence,

There tulip beds and cypress boughs abounded.

The master who had raised this lofty pile

Had given to it the name of Rosary;

By those who knew the beauteous city well

It very often bore another name.

And every grove and gelder-rose and mead

Had each its proper and especial title.

And in this city did the ruling king

Give to the Rose the highest post of state,

And that the city might be full of grace

He gave to it the Rose to be its flower;

And going with great joy into the grove,

She sat upon the throne in honor there;

And straightway all the world was filled with glee,

And all the world by balmy winds was swept,

The fragrance of whose odors filled the world.

And by their charm lapped it in ecstasy;

In calm felicity the hours went by,

And stream and soil in blessed peace reposed.

XIII

THE ATTENDANTS OF THE PURE ROSE, AND A DESCRIPTION OF HER NOBLE COURT

SERVICE

Of rose gardens the Bulbul is the muse,

And thus begins her clear and thrilling song:

The Rose of simple mind and tender mood,

With frank heart, and with disposition kind,

Has chosen for the servants of her house

A band of trusty followers true of heart.

The first was guardian of the sherbet cup;

Comrade of laughter, tears, and genial hours;

Each morning she the rose-water prepared,

The crimson-tinted wine that scents the glade.

’Twas the delight and joy of the Divan,

And shared the name and honors of the dew.

Another was the cheerful cup-bearer.

Ruby his belt, and his cup a carbuncle;

With rosy cheeks he was conspicuous,

For loveliness of lip the painter’s choice.

His inmost bosom was the home of love,

And tinged blood-red with passionate desire.

He drank the wine that fed his passion’s fire,

And never failed the wine cup to his hand.

He was the chief at each Rose festival,

And the guests called him by the Tulip’s name.

Another was the garden’s eye, and seemed

The very lamp and eyelight to the grove.

So full of contemplation was his face,

So full of meditation’s sober glance.

The radiance of his eye was in its orb,

And wise men saw that it was crystal clear.

This was the prophet of the sinless glance,

Who stood the president of the Divan.

Five golden coins he found, and in his hand

He bore them on the petals of his cup:

He handed round the goblet night and day,

And late and early was he drunk with wine;

So long as wine was flowing, at his board

He would not close his eye till dawn of day.

The eye-glance of the close in sooth was he,

And in the rose-bed is Narcissus called;

And since he holds his goblet in his hand

The gold Cup is he among flowerets named.

Sword-Bearer was another waiting-man;

The guardian of the spacious Rosary;

He bore his naked sword behind the Rose,

And night and day he closely guarded her.

A fencer of incomparable skill

Was he, in short, the prefect of the burg.

A valiant Cerberus and dragon he,

Whose sword and dagger never left his hand.

He was in very truth a trusty slave,

And wide and free his reputation spread.

In the rose garden his acquaintances

Had styled him the Free Lily of the glade.

And there was still another, free as he,

Whose form had grown as lofty as his mind;

Towering he stood, with high and graceful head,

He was the very emir of the grove.

Tall as a column did he seem to rise,

And as an arrow straight his course he took;

And so in Gulistan by day and night

He watched as porter at the entrance gate.

By night and day his faithful watch he kept,

Upright to stand was what he most desired;

He recked not that his day-long post was hard,

While on one foot he stood before the gate;

He was a man of stature eminent

A mighty man, and Cypress was his name.

There was another, like a messenger

Becapped, who pilfered crowns for livelihood;

No parallel of his this world has seen;

He ever seemed to outstrip all rivalry.

Soon as he burst from out the western post,

He reached within a twinkling to the east.

He was so light, that while his course he took,

No cloud of dust arose beneath his feet.

A youngster was he, boisterous in play,

And East Wind was his title in the world.

Another was of purest character,

And simple in his mind, and frank in mien;

His inmost bosom was a well unstained,

And fair as were his cheeks, that all admired.

And yielding was his tender heart to love;

His artless nature moves another’s smile.

And, while his heart was thus so pure and clear,

He was the mirror-holder to the Rose;

And winning was he from his babbling flow;

And men had given to him the name of Brook.

Another was a thief, as full of tricks

Of knavery as a dusky Indian.

Well could he snare his victim in a gin;

He was a robber full of pranks and tricks.

He could the thread spin out with marvellous skill

And hang suspended by a single hair.

His subtility was endless, and more crooks

Were in it than in woman’s curling locks.

His heart was full of trickeries and feints,

And as a flower his name was Hyacinth.

And each of these are ranged around the Rose

As escorts at the throne of king and queen.

And in the rose garden from time to time

The Rose refreshment seeks in cups of wine.

The Rose alone of all the flowers around

Was decked with satisfying grace, and hence

Fit opportunity she gained, in which

She might for brighter happiness prepare.

XIV

HOW IN THE MORNING THE MIRROR-HOLDER OF THE TENDER-CHEEKED ROSE HOLDS

THE MIRROR, AND HOW THE ROSE IS PROUD OF HER BEAUTY

It was in the bright morning of the day,

And lo, her face was in the mirror shown;

And in the radiance gleamed her lovely face,

For it was mirrored in the placid brook.

And in a thousand ways the Rose was ware

That all the world believed how fair she was.

She raised herself above her cloak of night,

And freshly in the streaming sunlight waked;

To lay her fair attire in fullest view

She set herself upon a ruby throne;

Radiant indeed her beauty there appeared;

’Twas red on red in brilliancy shone.

She sat like monarch ’mid his people throned;

All other kings were dust upon the road.

But that her beauty may be manifest,

Needs must she cast her image on the glass.

And lo! the Brook before her ran his course,

And laid the glittering mirror at her feet.

And when she saw herself reflected there,

So lovely, she was rapt in wonderment.

And when she saw herself so fresh and bright

And lovely, she was touched with vanity;

And blushing red in her own charms delight,

“Ah, God,” she cried, “there is no god but God!

What beauty hast thou given to me, O Lord,

What excellence among the flowers is mine!

What gracious eyebrows arch above mine eyes!

Like to a canopy they set them off.

How diamond-like and gray those orbs appear!

Their gaze might stir the pulses of the dead.

How lustrous are those amber locks! Their light

Must strike amazement to the minds of man.

And oh, how dazzling are these cheeks of mine!

For after these the moon itself is dim.

And what a beauty mark that little mole,

Which more becoming makes the tender cheek!

Who now will value eyes that fiercely scowl,

And the fell glances that like swords they wave?

But here are eyelashes that twinkle fast,

Like friends that stand together ranged in war.

And then that mouth, whose breath is sweet enough

To bring the mantling life-blush to the dead.”

The bolt of self-love pierced her to the heart,

And she was pride-struck by her loveliness,

“And oh,” she said, “is houri in the world,

Or peri, so delightsome to behold?

Was ever one with beauty so bedecked,

As I am in the universe beheld?

Such beauteous charm as God has given to me,

To none in this life has he given e’en this.

And can my beauty now be paralleled,

And is not this my face without compare?

The world admits that ne’er in time before

Has such a prize of beauty been revealed;

I am the beauty that has never like,

The only fair with whom not one can vie.”

Thus she extolled herself to honor’s height,

And made the claim of beauty absolute,

Then called the Eastern Wind, her messenger,

And said, “O faithful bearer of my words,

Assist me in my dire perplexity,

And lighten up for me the night of doubt.

Traverse the realms of Syria and Kum,

And glancing over all the plains you cross,

(Either in Occident or Orient,

Where evening darkles, or where morning glows),

See if in any spot you chance to reach

Aught fairer you can find in face than me;

If anywhere there’s beauty like to mine,

And whether there’s perfection reaching mine.

Make thou my beauty known to all the world,

That he who listens may with passion burn.

Let people of the time be made aware,

All beauty has been consecrate to me;

That mortals have not had it as their dower

In shape so faultless as belongs to me;

The fair must learn to estimate their charms

Aright, and know how few they do possess,

And that I only may true beauty claim;

The rest are slaves, while I alone am queen.”

The herald East-Wind, as he heard her word,

Kissed low the ground before the monarch’s feet.

“Thou art indeed the only beautiful,

My Queen, the beautiful, the Queen of Light.

Who will refuse to say that this is true,

Excepting him whose sight is lost to him?

Who to thy beauty’s question answers ‘No’?

All estimate thy grace as bright and pure,

And own the whole wide world is filled with light

From thy great beauty, as from dawn of day.

I’ll make my circuit through the farthest nook,

From the bright Orient to the cloudy West.”

He spoke, and started straightway on his course,

Blew a loud blast, and travelled with the wind;

Like to the flocks of birds he shaped his course,

And saw the beautiful in every place;

He quickly travelled o’er the land of Kum,

And soon on Persia’s confines found himself.

Soon to the realms of India did he cross,

Next to Manchuria, and to China’s plain.

And here on beauty’s track he found himself,

And heard of one called Beauty’s King Supreme.

Into his presence eagerly he went,

And, blowing softly, saw him face to face;

So o’er the whole wide world he passed, and saw

Naught far or near in beauty like his friend.

By day and night he traversed hill and dale.

Now hear what at the last befell to him.

XV

THE EAST WIND FINDS THE NIGHTINGALE, AND THEY DISCUSS THE BEAUTY OF THE

ROSE

Thus the betrothed of that lorn lover sang,

In verses such as these his song of pain:

“There was a wanderer, the slave of want,

Who had full many a wrong endured of love,

His bosom had its pain, his heart its rage;

He was a dervish, cowled like any monk.

By day he gave full voice to his complaint,

And in the night-time watched the skies of heaven.

His sole existence nowadays was love,

For love alone had claimed him for its slave.

And in his day of trial was his dust

In love compacted, and in love absorbed:

With love his very essence was compounded,

In love the letter of his life was writ.

And now without an object in his life,

He was in love’s consuming fire inflamed.

At times he sang aloud a song of love,

While sighs of bitter sorrow tore his breast.

He sang Ghasele, winsome youth and fair,

Who drew the souls of many a neophyte

By his pure mind and by his brilliant charms;

A noble stripling gay, and soft of heart.

His voice brought cheerfulness to every heart,

His music banished sorrow far away,

And when his flute-like tones swelled out amain,

In every soul he kindled passion’s fire.

His breathing tones sent gladness through the land,

And those who heard him plainly understood.

In short, he was a tender juvenal,

In all things ready for some enterprise.

Though beggared now, forlorn, and sick for love,

He was a noble in descent and birth,

Who to the winds his lands and lineage threw,

And gave himself to melancholy thoughts.

His coronet and throne capricious spurned,

And to the power of love surrendered all.

For he indeed for very love was crazed,

And as a doting maniac roved the world.

His talk was nothing but the voice of love,

And he was named the Wandering Nightingale.

With rapid foot the East Wind sped his way

Like a bird messenger o’er all the world;

And lo! there reached his ear a strain of love,

In tones of lamentation dolorous.

Arrested by the song, the East Wind stood,

Long listening with delight to that refrain;

For such a _chanson_ made his heart to swell,

And seemed like summer fragrance in the air.

Forward he hasted to behold the wight,

Who was so love-struck, and so woe-begone;

And said: “Thou art indeed plunged deep in love,

And from love’s goblet drunken with desire.

Thy voice infuses passion in the soul,

Why is it that thou kindlest thus our blood?

Whence didst thy song its powerful spell obtain,

That thus it sets on fire the human breast?

Who art thou, by what name mayst thou be called?

And from what master didst thou learn thy lay?

Whence came to thee this chosen lot of thine?

What inspiration is it makes thy soul?

What means the ecstasy that rules thy strain,

And gives thy voice its overmastering charm?

Thou whom such gifts transcendent glorify,

How is it thou art fallen thus so low?

Why do thy brows this mournful cowl disgrace,

And thou, why art thou seated in the dust?

Love in thy very countenance is writ,

And love’s wound plainly has transfixed thy heart.

Art thou in love? How has thy passion fared?

Now is the time to tell, so tell me true.”

Now as these words the Bulbul listened to,

She roused in Gulgul joy and love’s delight.

“Thou seest here,” said he, “a mendicant,

With tearful eyes, that plead to pity’s soul.

’Tis love has lessoned me in sorrow’s school,

But never have I learned what is my name.

Thou askest me the place from which I come,

Love is my origin and native land.

My foot turns backward still to beckoning love;

’Tis love inspires and gives me genius;

For I am one whose mind is crazed by love;

And in the world I wander lost for love.

Heedless I hurry by, nor care for rest,

Yet travel cannot give the balm I crave.

And often to my love I give full rein,

Until I am not master of my mind;

And at the will of love, am driven adrift,

And therefore ever wait I love’s behest;

In short, this love pang quite o’ermasters me,

And takes away from me the power of choice.

Now I am brainless, footless, purposeless,

Tossed like a plaything at the whim of Fate.

I am constrained by love, and driven along

Hither and thither like an autumn leaf.

I have no other impulse in my soul,

Where love and love alone predominates.

The shame of love is more than honor’s meed

To me, and more than fortune’s smile.

The very gloom of love is sweet to me,

For what were worldly bliss without this flame?

The hand of pleasure has made smooth and clear

The mirror of my heart with Love’s own glass.

Love is no shame, for love is happiness;

True shame in worldly happiness is found.”

Soon as the East Wind heard these words of love

He murmured loudly, thrilled with deep delight.

Thus spoke he: “O thou, all afflicted one,

Who from the love pang of thy secret wounds

Groanest and sighest, like a man in love,

Tell me where is the lady of thy love?

Toward whom does thy soul’s intuition turn?

Who is the Leila that enchains thee thus?

Who is it that has burdened thee with grief?

Where is the Schirin that thus plagues Ferhadan?

Who is the Afra of thine ardent flame?

Say to what king thou wouldst devote thy blood?

For whom is it thou sufferest loss of rest?

And whose compassion dost thou supplicate?

What light in all the world has fame enough

To keep thee moth-like hovering in its flame?

And of what rose art thou the nightingale,

That thou shouldst be the slave of music’s sound?”

Thus spoke the warbler: “Gracious are thy words,

And therefore will I make my chanson plain.

From the first moment that I was conceived,

Love with my inmost essence was entwined,

And in my mother’s womb it came to me

That love should be my only intellect.

And that great painter Nature made for me

The only form of beauty to be love.

And since my life was in my spirit locked,

Only by love can I my soul unlock.

And without hindrance or reserve, so far,

I have outpoured, unchecked, my song of love.

Yet know I not for whom I burn, for whom

By night and day I suffer in this flame.

However may this flame continuous glow,

I know not yet how it was kindled first.

So runs my life; a solitary wight

I live in ignorance of her I love,

Of her who lit in me this flaming torch;

To whom I ever lift this suppliant hand.

Restless, ah me, these weary sighs I heave,

Yet do not know the queen for whom I sigh.

This bitter plight is all the life I know,

Of all things else I am in ignorance.

Now tell me, what thy current’s course may be,

Whence comest thou, and whither dost thou wend?

What message is it thou art sent upon,

And who it is thou seekest in this land?

What is the object of thy wandering search,

And who thou art, and what thy name may be?

What was the first beginning of thy life,

And in what country was thine origin?

Thou bringest fragrance of the truth sincere,

And needst must be a creature trustworthy;

Thy breath gives life to every human soul,

And in thy fragrance is a human soul.

The breath of health is certainly thy dower,

Before it even the dead might come to life.”

The East Wind to these golden words gave ear,

Then answered: “Stranger, amiable and good,

I, in return for all that thou hast told,

Will tell my story with the strictest faith.

I also, like Abdallah strenuous,

Am in the same perplexity with thee.

I think a child who is with beauty dowered

As fickle and unstable as the wind;

It is desire that sends me wandering,

And yields to me the essence of my life.

Like to a vortex runs my eddying course;

And without head or foot I drift away.

Nor can I stop a while and take repose;

Desire is all the power to act I know.

My origin is pleasure and desire,

Which in the howling desert gave me life.

And for my outward lot, my happy friend,

I in a grove of roses have my home.

And am a servant to the sovereign Rose,

And wait upon her pleasure constantly,

My breath refreshment brings to all the flowers,

And cheers the rose parterre with cheerful light.”

Then said the Nightingale: “O happy friend,

Thy breath brings health and purity to me!

But what is that you call a rose garden?

And prithee tell me who this princess is?”

Then said the Wind which fosters life in things:

“Gladly I tell, and thou shalt joyful hear.

There stands a place within the realms of Kum.

’Tis called the rose parterre, the Rose’s realm;

There, in a climate genial, this burg

Is equally renowned with paradise,

Of paradise with Eden’s beauties blent;

And flowers, fresh flowers are ever blooming there.

The waters gleam like springs of paradise;

The dust is fragrant as the purest musk;

The watered plain is like the mirror stream

That flashes over Eden’s happy realm;

The dust is naught but amber all unpriced;

This home of healing is a paradise.

Within ’tis filled with all things beautiful,

And siren strains incomparable resound.

Well may it bear the name of paradise,

For every glade with glowing houris shines.

The Rose is queen and ruler of the town,

Which holds the lordship over all the world.

Unique for beauty is the reigning Rose,

And her charm beautifies all other worlds.

She is the princess of things beautiful,

The moon of beauty in the arch of heaven.

All spheres celestial lie below her feet

When she sits throned on cushions of delight.

Be she by me both praised and idolized,

Whose sight might lap you into ecstasy!

The bloom of love gives radiance to her eyes;

Enchantment fills the meshes of her hair.

Her brows are beauteous as the crescent moon;

Her mole is like a glittering star of eve;

The eye, when angry, like a dragon gleams;

It draws the dagger against all who love.

No courage can endure the terror spread

By the arched brows that overstand her eyes.

The flash, so soon as it is felt by man,

Confounds his senses, and defeats his wit.

Those eyes can rob the very soul of life;

The whisper of the mouth alone restore it.

He who their beauty looks upon, declares

’Tis God who sends a blessing on this face;

In short, she only does the ideal show,

As being the only beauty in the world.

And I have wandered in a hundred realms,

And never have I found the match of her.

For beauty is in her so eminent

That she is the perfection of the world.

She is the padishah, the queen of light,

And as a slave to such a queen I bow;

I swiftly speed her errand when she bids,

And flash along my journey like the wind.”

When Bulbul had these words attentive heard,

Straight to the earth he groaning fell for grief;

For in his heart the love-fire had been lit

And blazed like tapers in a holy place;

Endurance now was overcome by love;

He flung himself with cries into the dust.

His breast was filled with passionate desire,

And in the pain itself he found delight.

The dew of ardent passion filled his eye,

And pangs of love his inmost bosom tore;

He cried aloud with anguish, sighed, and groaned,

His eyes were wet with tears unworthy love.

Then said he to the East Wind anxiously:

“Why should this sudden flame consume my life?

What is the arrow that unfeeling fate

To my bared bosom has this instant shot?

What is the goblet whose enticing draught

Has robbed me of my senses while I drank?

How shall I reason of the dazzling light

That flutters round my spirit like a moth?

What is this lightning flash, whose sudden blaze

Kindles a world of terror in my soul?

What blast is this that carries me away

And strikes my very being as it flies?

What stranger guest is this who comes to me

And takes away my reason by his word?

Peace like a bird escapes from out my hand,

And all my soul in utter ashes lies.

The old distress has taken the strength of new,

And yonder beauty overwhelms my heart.”

XVI

THE WITTY EAST WIND COUNSELS THE WANDERING NIGHTINGALE

The East Wind calmly on the vagrant gazed,

Whose heart and soul were lit with raging flame,

And said, “Now tell to me, thou shameless one,

Where are thy courtesy and manners fled?

Whence can a beggar claim such dignity,

That he in love could ask a princess bride?

What spurs and flogs thee on to such extremes?

Beware, or thou will lose at last thy wits.

Compare her loftiness with thy estate;

What can a beggar want of royalty?

The Rose is winsome in a thousand ways,

The Nightingale is but a singer clear;

Although a thousand times thy love thou sing,

Hope not the Rose’s fragrant charm to win.

Whence dost thou gain such fitting dower of worth,

As makes thee fit to mate the balmy Rose?

Abandon passion, with its torments sore,

And shun this emptiness of wild desire.

For even should’st thou live a thousand years,

Ne’er wilt thou reach the level of the Rose.

And though thou cry Gulgul a thousand times,

Thou never wilt arouse the lady’s heart.

Refrain, then, further to torment thyself,

Nor strike on iron cold thine idle blows.”

Now when the Nightingale had heard these words,

He burst into a passionate lament;

And said: “Although I but a dervish be,

Yet still the wounds that pain my heart are fresh.

A beggar am I in my outward guise,

But I am none the less love’s padishah.

Love makes me independent in the world,

Such beggary as mine is worth a crown.

I love the Rose, and shall forever love,

And a fakir may sometimes love a shah;

Sense is indeed the guide of sober life,

But sense is never fostered by true love;

The lover in his acts is privileged,

As is the drunkard and the beggar-man.

He who would moderation value first,

Can never taste the luxury of love.

The lover who is shamefaced and reserved

Can never see the beauty which is coy.

Until the lover scorns the public blame

He gains no trust nor kindness from his love.

Though I have no enjoyment of the Rose,

’Tis joy enough for me to speak of her.

Though no return reward my passion’s pain,

Yet love itself is fair enough for me,

And he who knows the harmony of love

Will think enjoyment less than absence is.

Who lives in full fruition of his love

Is always fearing it will fly away;

He who contentedly has watched its flight

Is happy hoping it will soon return.

Absence to me is love and dignity,

Although fruition be denied my heart.

I live in agony’s o’erflowing stream

And love’s fruition willingly renounce.”

The East Wind saw that it was vain to try

The ardor of this beggar wight to quench,

For counsel did not profit him a jot.

His love kept burning like an aloe-flower,

And all his words were emphasized by sighs,

And his heat withered him like foliage parched.

And so he left him, and pursued his way

Into the precints of the rose garden;

There at the ruler’s feet he kissed the ground,

And said to her, “O righteous queen of light,

Let it be written with exactest care,

That above all the Rose is beautiful,

Though I through many realms have travelled

I have not found a beauty like to thine.”

XVII

HOW THE LAMENTING NIGHTINGALE COMES TO THE GARDEN OF THE ROSE

Beset with pain and sorrow of the heart

And overmastered by a longing keen,

The Nightingale began to utter loud

His love forlorn in notes of bitterness;

An ardent longing throbbed within his throat,

And he was stabbed by keen misfortune’s thorn.

Struck by love’s pang, like tree that feels the axe,

He fell at last inanimate to earth;

Fainting from wounds of love and pulseless limbs,

There lay he down as if by absence slain.

From songs despondent thus his love desponds,

And pining grown as thin as is a hair.

At last the truth was wrought into his soul

That inactivity but adds to ill.

So up he rose, and in fit garments clad,

Set out upon his way to see his love.

Love seemed to spread out pinions for his flight,

O’er field and hillock bearing him along.

By the discreet direction of his friend

He travelled day and night in ardent love.

He reached the post town of United Hearts;

Thence straight he travelled to the rose garden.

And now at last arrived at Gulistan,

There breathed on him the fragrance of his love.

And on the outside of the garden fence

There came a friend who waited sedulous,

A traveller, who without an hour’s delay

Was hurrying from this garden to the sea.

The stainless Brook, whose spirit shone in light,

The pilgrim wandering to see the world.

Straight from the garden of the Rose he came,

His bosom clad in spotless fluttering folds,

And when the Nightingale beheld him come,

With eager greeting he drew near to him.

The Brook a low obeisance made to him,

And scanned the new-comer with eager eye.

He saw it was a beggar stood before him,

A beggar sick and all distraught with woe.

’Twas love had brought him to that low estate

And he was branded on the brow by love,

Then said the Brook, “O thou by love distraught,

And bowed to earth by love and suffering,

Why wearest thou this lorn and lifeless air?

Does now no heart’s blood warm thy inmost veins?

Who branded this love-token on thy face?

Who is it laid on thee the name of love?

Where is the Mecca of thy heart’s desire,

Which claims thee and demands thee for itself?

And what has made thee drunken by its draught?

What cedar with its shadow blighted thee?”

The Nightingale replied: “O kindly one,

See what I am, and do not question me.

I am enamored of a pictured face;

And there are many thousands such as I;

I am a beggar, and my love a queen.

I am all destitute, but she is rich;

She is with beauty radiant as the sun,

And I am duskier than a sunbeam’s mote.

In beauty’s garden does she bloom a Rose,

And I am naught but the poor Nightingale.

I by no name am known, but she speaks out,

And by her very graces names herself.”

So spoke the Nightingale, and down he fell,

With dolorous cries of grief and notes of woe.

Then he began a song of love forlorn,

With trills and runs of a many a circling tone.

“And love,” he said, “intoxicates my sense,

Through ardent longing for that ruby mouth.

The lightning flash of love that struck my heart,

Laid ruin in the chambers of my breast.

The heart’s endurance can no longer stand,

It has been worn away by pangs of love.

For love to ashes has reduced my life;

Love only leaves to me the power of song;

And love has filled my inmost heart with fire,

’Tis love that draws the sweat-drops of the heart,

For love has banished me from house and home;

My soul in sickness languishes through love.

And love has wearied out my tuneful throat;

The secrets of my soul hath love betrayed.

The torch of love has fallen upon my heart,

My soul is set on fire by force of love;

For love has taken my heart to be its friend;

But like a halter is this love to me.

I am become a laughing-stock through Love,

And love has set my name among the fools.”

Now as these accents by his friend were heard,

His heart with tender sympathy was touched.

His heart with generous indignation burned,

And to the pain of fierce desire he woke.

He said: “Poor wretch, inebriate of love,

Afflict thyself no more, for God is kind.

For happier fortune has he destined thee,

For it was he who gave thy love her charm;

Thy breath of music penetrates my soul,

And I will straight conduct thee to the Rose.

Gaze once upon her beauty e’er thou die;

And in her joys thine ardent passion breathe.”

The Nightingale was gladdened by these words

And joy that moment lighted up his mind,

“O sir,” he said, “is this but sleep and dream?

The fragrance of fruition hits my sense.

Thou who has given me bliss, be happy thou,

And fortunate in either universe.

Thou who dost help me to my dearest wish,

May all thy purpose lead to happiness.

The best loved news dost thou convey to me;

For guerdon, thou may’st take my very soul.

I give to thee my soul, I give my life,

O bring me to the jewel of my love.”

He answered: “Patience and not haste be ours;

And often in delay is safety found.

Thou, dervish, must restrain thyself a while,

For overhaste is slower in despatch.

I bring thee to the bower of loveliness,

To Cypress, who is porter of the gate.

I hope by such expedient that the Rose

May entertain thee as a man of truth.”

So spoke to him the friend of purity

And showed him where the Rose’s meadow lay;

The Nightingale his footsteps followed fast

Until they reached the garden of the Rose.

XVIII

HOW THE NIGHTINGALE ENTERED THE ROSE GARDEN THROUGH THE KINDLY OFFICES

OF THE CYPRESS

He saw a lofty building fair bedight

Like the green castle of the firmament,

A castle emerald-bright in radiance.

It twinkled like a marshalled host in arms;

Pure was the water, earth was sweet as musk.

An air of sanctity and plenty reigned.

Whoever came to this from Edentown

Might think his resting-place was paradise.

How could it fail to be a paradise

For him who hoped to find his love therein?

When the sad Nightingale beheld the place

Breathless and lost in wonder did he stand.

Above him was the arch of azure sky,

And at his feet the lovely river ran.

Then said the river: “Take good heed, and see

Thou give some respite to thy burning heart;

Meanwhile I stand me here, and as a man

I introduce thee to the portal’s guard.”

This said, he greeting to the Cypress sent.

Right quick the Cypress was his word to heed.

Low in the dust his countenance he laid

And with his tears bedewed the thirsty ground.

He said: “O Cypress, loftiest of mien,

Thou sittest at the footstool of the great,

I have a courteous word to speak to thee.

Open thy lips to me, I beg of thee;

For if thou lend me for a while thine ear,

I know my prayer at once will be fulfilled.

Here with a stranger destitute I come,

To show how the road lay to this place.

He is a man both kind and dutiful,

Of purest disposition and intent;

A dervish, and a man of loving heart.

But he is lorn and sick from pangs of love,

In outward guise he seems like a fakir,

But in the realm of science he is prince.

A genial friend, a comrade tender-hearted,

Of blameless mind and sympathetic soul,

A poet full of spiritual light

Is he, and in imagination young.”

XIX

HOW THE WANDERING NIGHTINGALE ALONE IN THE NIGHT ABIDES WITH HIS SIGHS

AND WEEPING TILL MORNING

’Twas night, when in the azure sky above

The stars as sleeping closed their sparkling eyes,

When friends and foes alike in slumber lay,

Yet, at the music of the Nightingale,

Awoke, for Bulbul then all sleepless sate

And uttered to the world his dolorous chant,

While thinking on the beauty of the Rose.

For vivid passion wakened in his heart,

And with his sad and melancholy voice

He ’gan to mourn above his well-beloved.

And thinking on his melancholy plight,

And on his desolation all forlorn,

He thus began his sad and mournful lay:

“O queen who dwellest in a careless realm,

O thou who art the moon of beauty’s heaven,

Half of all beauty’s bloom belongs to thee;

Thou the Rose-bloom of beauty’s paradise,

Oh, listen to the message that I bring,

As I begin to utter my lament.

For love of thee I sicken to my death;

And all my understanding fails in me;

Some secret pang my patience has destroyed,

I am distraught in this fair world of thine,

My fettered heart is struggling in a snare,

And all my soul is manacled in woe.

And through the dolor of my dazzled sight,

I am as faint as is the new-born moon.

Some power, as in the chase, my spirit hunts;

E’en now the gleaming knife is at my heart.

For, oh! the beauty of thy cheek has cast

Fire in the dreary dwelling of my mind;

And all the perilous lustre of thine eye,

Like a sharp sword, is levelled against me.

My suffering has cleft my heart in twain,

And in dire desolation ruined me.

I melt to nothing in the grief of love,

And plunge deep buried in a flood of woe;

For I am overcome with passion’s wound,

My inmost being heaves in pain and blood;

I am consumed, and absence tortures me.

And like a mote I hover in desire.

My love pain burns me like a heated iron,

My eye is like a beaker filled with wine;

Oh, help me, for endurance can no more;

Oh, spare me further buffets of disdain.

My strength is all unequal to this load,

And all my feebleness is free from guilt.

O slender Rose, and wilt thou that thy bird

Should still descant of absence and neglect

With thorn-pierced bosom ever hid from thee?

Now beauty in the lightest slumber lies,

And deeper sorrow checks my prayers to thee.

O Rose, beware thou of the gale of sighs,

For, like the morning wind, it mars the Rose.

On this distracted heart some pity take,

Be merciful and heal me of my pain.”

So sang the silver-throated nightingale,

So sang he, with his soul aflame in love.

But there was naught that noted or allayed

His pain, and tears were still his sole relief.

No one gave heed to his sad cantilene,

And no one knew the meaning of his woe.

To him the world in utter darkness lay,

He was encompassed by a trackless maze,

On one side were the shadows of the night,

And on the other was the force of fate.

The world in dreariness and sorrow lay,

The very stars were dimmed in slumber deep,

And darkness would not yield before the light,

And not a sign of morn was on the hills.

And long and lonesome were those darkling hours

Of agony, while refuge there was none.

XX

THE SLEEPLESS NIGHTINGALE IS TORMENTED IN THE DARK NIGHT, AND MOURNS

ALOUD

While he was thus oppressed with many a woe,

Thus he addressed his _chanson_ to the night:

“What means, O night, this dark and murkiness,

Which so torments with terror every soul?

Is it from absence from the loved one come,

That now the moon withholds her welcome beam?

Is all the radiance of the sunlight quenched?

And all the circling Pleiads put to flight?

Has my lament extinguished Saturn’s ray,

So that his rings no longer flash their beams?

Has Jupiter his happy seat forsaken

Because of the unhappiness of earth?

Is it that Mars has fallen by the sword,

That therefore all the heavens are clothed in black?

Why does the sun refuse to show his face?

Is he, the fount of light, to darkness turned?

Has Anahid, in hopeless apathy,

Flung to the ground her lute of poesy?

Is Mercury, heaven’s letter-writer, grown

Black as the ink that dries upon his pen?

Why does the world this face of darkness wear?

Is it that my lament has brought it gloom?

Why is it morning fails to show itself?

Surely my _chanson_ has not held it back.

Why is the night so slow in its advance?

Is it that day brings absence from my love?

Surely the day of resurrection dawns,

When all the stars fall down upon the earth!

Who has thus closed the window of the moon?

And broken the golden lampstand of the sun?

Is it the operation of my sighs

That tinges all the earth with dismal hues?

And has the dart of light forsaken heaven?

And does the sky wear mourning for my woe?

The constellated eagle stops his flight.

Or has he flitted to the realms of gloom?

Has Vega fallen, with a broken heart,

Down from her pinnacle of happiness?”

When he had uttered loud this lone complaint,

He with his spirit thus soliloquized:

“Why is it that the ruler of the world

Has set me in this valley of distress?

For neither to my mother nor my sire

Have I been aught but minister of pain.

Oh, better were it I had ne’er been born,

And all my blood had flowed away like milk!

So that, before I closed my eyes in sleep,

Death’s sword had doomed me to forgetfulness.

Or while I yet in cradle bands reposed,

My life had early passed away from me.

Oh, that the mother’s milk that wet my lips

Had turned to poison in that very hour!

Oh, that an arrow swift had struck my heart,

And parted at a stroke the thread of life!

Oh, that some poison-fanged and treacherous snake

Had bitten me to death upon my bed!

Oh, that some vulture fierce had carried me

To its lone eyrie in the heights of Kaf!

And when the soft hand of a mother dear

Arrayed her infant in the richest robes,

Oh, that some sturdy robber of the road,

For love of all my gold and finery,

Had without pity drawn his rapier keen

And from my shoulders struck my head to earth!

Why does the world refrain from setting me,

As its great foe, ’mid perils and mishaps?

Why is it this calamity of woe

Has failed to cleave my bosom unawares?”

As thus he sang aloud his dolorous lay,

The moon came out upon the clearing sky,

And when he looked on heaven’s expanded field,

Thus he addressed the goddess of the night.

XXI

THE NIGHTINGALE IN HIS AMOROUS PAIN ANXIOUSLY ADDRESSES THE RADIANT MOON

He sang in agony, “O radiant moon,

That fillest all the welkin with thy light,

Dost thou in some bright sun thy mansion find,

Whence thou derivest thine enraptured beam?

And hast thou thence a borrowed splendor gained,

With which to fill the world thou gazest on?

The darkness that is dense and hideous

Turns at thy coming into splendor clear.

Leave me not comfortless this whole night long,

But guide me to my darling’s wakeful bower.

To me, a wanderer on the rough highway,

Be guide and leader on a path direct.

And, when thou movest in thine orbit blest,

Let thy light flow like some enchanting lay.

Thou art indeed the glowing sun of night,

Flinging o’er heaven the light flecks of thy face.

Oh, cast thy radiance on this friend of thine,

Who wanders with no sunshine in his life.

Be to the poor, who consolation need,

The balm for every wound ’neath which they faint.

One glance of thine has power to dissipate

The fevered pangs of sufferance in the poor.

Needy and friendless and of all forlorn,

Fit object he of thy consoling aid.

And since his sorrows are beyond compare,

And with no changing breath he bears thee love,

And since his love to thee is reckoned crime,

Do thou absolve him of his guiltiness.

For if thou turn thee from a beggar’s path,

Before the people thou shalt blush with shame.

When men rebuke him, and blot out his name,

Or make his name forgotten by his kind,

If thou at last become averse to him,

There is no hope of pity for his soul.”

While the poor lover thus his mourning made,

The welkin sparkled with the glance of day.

XXII

THE LOVESICK NIGHTINGALE ACCOSTS THE RISEN MORNING IN A CLEAR AND

FITTING MANNER

“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