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
He who sets out to adorn his countenance
Makes plainer the expression of his face,
And thus it fell that when the Nightingale
Felt his breast severed by the thorn’s assault,
Far wandering from the glade of Gulistan,
He traversed many a field and meadow plain.
And as he thus for consolation sought,
He saw a poor man in a quiet nook,
Who sat in weakness and in misery,
His figure bowed in deep despondency.
He seemed down-trodden, blue, and broken-limbed,
As is the life of those whom love has crowned.
He sat in weeds of sorrow on the plain,
For he was clad in robes of mourning blue,
His head sank low upon the mossy sod,
As if his mind wandered beyond the world.
He breathed the fragrant love breath of the grove,
His cup was filled with wine of suffering.
He had a tongue which never uttered sound,
’Twas oft thrust out from very weariness.
And since he filled his vials with his tears,
They called him in the garden violet.
The wounded Nightingale accosted him,
Beholding one all destitute of strength,
But he was overcome with hopeless love,
His frame convulsed with suffering and dismay.
Here Bulbul found a comrade in distress,
And with a question tried to hearten him,
And said: “My friend, what has befallen thee?
How is it love has dealt so hard with thee?
I see, thou art a worthy slave of love,
From which thou art so weak and overwrought.
What is it in thy mind which makes thee sigh?
Pilgrim, why wearest thou this mourning blue?
Is it that thy beloved has done thee wrong?
Or has a rival stepped into thy place?
For grief has bent thee double by its load,
And all thy soul is out tune through grief.
Who is it that has flung thee to the dust?
Who is it gave thee to be rapine’s sport?
The feet of men have trod thee to the ground,
As a poor weakling in the gay parterre.
Was it the loved one pierced thee to the soul?
Or is it that a rival tortures thee?
Say, wretched one, what ails thee, for thy pain,
Binds thee at once in kinship with my heart.”
He noticed how the violet, weak in speech,
With stammering tongue at length replied to him,
“I, too, am wounded by the darts of love,
And thus my case is witness to thy wit,
’Tis love that bows my bosom to the dust,
’Tis grief that thus has flung me to the earth.
For oh, my soul has taken the fire of love,
I burn for satisfaction and relief.
The breath which from my lips forever comes
Has tinged my raiment with this mournful blue,
And longing for the Rose has done to death.
Absence from her has thus afflicted me;
’Tis love that makes me grovel in the dust.
And in this guise I traverse all the world.
I am tormented by the pangs of love,
And finally the dust becomes my home.
Love as I may the beauty of the Rose,
Alas, that beauty I may ne’er enjoy.
For she is ignorant of my distress,
And I may never paint it to her heart.
And no man knows the anguish of my mind.
I have no friend familiar on this plain,
And now I am so wan and courageless,
I cannot even speak of my distress.”
Now when the Nightingale this poor man saw,
He felt compassion for his misery,
And each one to the other freely spoke
Of all their woes, and many things besides.
Then suddenly the royal spy approached,
With darkling eyes and cunning looks askew,
And while these two together converse held,
And mourned over the ardor of their love,
The cunning snare was spread above the bird,
And corn was scattered for the prey’s decoy.
The Nightingale was seized with cruel hand,
And in a moment into durance cast.
And for the pain and anguish of the wretch
A cage was brought with many an iron bar,
And then he was imprisoned in the cage.
The cage must be his dungeon evermore,
And now the Nightingale at last was caught,
And banished evermore from peace and joy.
Like a poor anxious prisoner was he now,
For what more like a prison than a cage?
And night and day within that cage he wept,
O’erwrought by absence and the pang of love.
They brought him in his cage before the shah,
Before the shah he sang his well-a-day.
The Nightingale was sick from suffering sore.
Ah, see, what a deluding world can do!
XXXVIII
KING AUGUST APPEARS IN THE EAST AND DEVASTATES THE EARTH
O heart, thy tongue now kindle into fire,
Soften thy disposition with desire.
Build up a burning story out of truth,
And with hot breath go raging through the world.
Oh, let the utterance of the pen stream fire,
And let the world itself go off in fire.
Whoever sets ablaze the narrative
Shall lighten up the circle of the world.
In Eastern lands there sat enthroned in might
A mighty monarch potent and revered.
A sovereign who could set afire the earth,
He was a hero of a fiery heart.
His marrow was with happiness aflame,
And the world sighed beneath his conquering arm,
And he was wont with his prevailing wrath
To lay in devastation all the land.
He blazed in every confine of the earth,
And glowing ardor shone where’er he trod.
Although he was of fervent nature born,
All that he counselled was by wisdom marked.
He touched the mountain with the brew of life,
And gave to all the world her energy.
A king of flame who sat enthroned in light,
His name was that of sun and moon in one;
His happiness was heat on heat increased,
And the world swooned submissive to his sway.
And more and more his fervor he increased,
His rage and heat laid desolate the earth,
The world was kindled like a flame of fire,
His deadly hand threw conflagration round.
The people doffed the garments they had worn,
So much they feared the coming of his rage.
During his reign went no one out of doors,
And all the people kept themselves at home,
Until they wearied of this quietude,
And all were willing to endure his glow,
And all were willing in the shade to be,
Some in the garden, some by city wall.
Meanwhile the world flamed out in cruel plight,
And like a templed altar worshipped him.
The sparks of horror seethed with higher glow,
And the great banners of his power rose higher.
At last he styled him “Emperor of the World,”
His banners flaunted in the firmament,
The hues of heat were painted in the sky.
The dust was in his honor turned to flame,
His blaze subdued the universe in light,
His fury kindled like a furnace coal.
In time he sent his heat out far and wide,
The scent of scorched wild-fowl went o’er the land,
His fury choked the very sigh of love,
And in the watercourse he scorched the stone.
And by the influence of his raging fire
The circling birds were roasted as they flew,
And every grain was parched upon its sod.
The scent of musk, in conflagration quenched,
The world made nothing but a pit of ash,
And nothing green was left upon the plain.
And greater still grew up the tyrant’s power,
And the burnt streams were dried within their beds.
And more and more with grisly cruelty,
What time the people lay upon the rack,
The ladder of the heavens was all aglow,
And sent out sparks like to a furnace grate.
And the earth felt his ardor like a scourge,
And melted ashen-colored into dust.
And no one wore a shoe for very heat,
And the brain reeled beneath the overpowering blast,
And in the river that reflecteth heaven
The fish and cattle were but shrivelled forms.
In short, the world was made a weary waste,
Fire raged around on every side, and heat,
Brought by the bitter fury of the blast,
Took all the beauty from the realm of man.
XXXIX
KING AUGUST SENDS THE HOT WIND WITH FIRE TO THE ROSE GARDEN
Whoever sets afire this history
Has fed with fuel a refulgent lamp;
For August, sitting on his royal throne,
Is mighty in his exercise of power;
He gathered all the nobles of the land
To heaven, to meet him at the great Divan.
He was by fortune and by greatness warmed,
And through his power and lordship, filled with pride.
And thus he spake among his mighty lords:
“Speed as ye may o’er earth’s remotest line,
I now am lord of all the universe;
See in my hand it melt, how weak it is!
The ardor of my fury works in it,
And my heat flies from brow to sweating brow.
And lives there now on earth a single wight
Who has not felt the ardor of my breath?
And is there king of greatness and of might
Who has not felt the flaming of mine eyes?”
They answered: “Sire, the world is all aglow!
’Tis very true thy fury sways the world.
And yet in Rūm there is a little town
Such as the world has never seen before.
’Tis governed by a monarch of its own;
His throne with budding honor is adorned;
The town is called the Garden of the Rose,
The king is named the monarch of the spring.
There the green blade that tranquil lifts its head
Has never felt the fury of thy heat.”
Soon as these words the monarch August heard
His bosom with tempestuous heat was filled.
He said: “At once we undertake the task
Of devastating that forgotten realm.
And while its monarch joys with placid heart
Disaster shall rain down upon his head.
And yet ’tis necessary, first of all,
A messenger from me be sent to them,
To testify my grandeur in their sight
And bear the tidings that I send to them.
That when they learn of my design, through fear
Their courage may dissolve like ice in spring.
For he must say that I to conquer come
And captive take the people of the town.
The monarch must be yielded to my hand,
And all must live in terror of my power.”
There stands a courier at his behest,
Who, like a flea, now here, now there is found;
Like lightning sudden is he in his flight,
And rapid as the flame, or as the thought.
From his breath, warmed as by a fever’s heat,
He had been Samum named and known to all.
And he was with the East Wind closely bound,
His elder brother, as it seemed to be;
The first of them is the delight of Spring,
The second is King August’s servant true.
He waits to bear the message of the king,
Who said, “O lightning-speeding messenger,
Now hie thee swift to yonder rose garden,
And to the king who rules there stoutly speak
With thy warm breath and with thy violent speech.
Stir up fierce fire within that little realm,
For from thy mouth does fire like rain descend,
Thy tongue can scatter devastation round.
Take care thou speak not gently to the king,
Take care that not too furiously thou speak.
Say to him: “Thou to ruin doomed, keep still,
For soon my fury burns thee up with fire.
For what permission has been given to thee
To reign in peace amid this rose garden
Without a fear for my o’ermastering might,
Without a thought upon the season’s rage?
Wilt thou not listen to the word which tells
Of the resplendent lightning of my rage?
Take to thy mind and in thy brain revolve
How thou mayst save thy country from my drought.
Surrender like a slave thy throne and crown,
And stand outside the threshold of my gate.
Give up thy realm, withdraw thy hand from it,
And thus win peace and pardon for the land.
But if thou art rebellious to my will,
And dost not yield to me thy land and throne,
Be sure of this, that on thy luckless head
Swift ruin shall descend without reprieve.”
When Samum took this message from the king
Swift as a storm he hurried on his way,
He blighted every meadow land he crossed,
And found his journey’s end in Gulistan.
XL
SAMUM ARRIVES AT THE TOWN OF ROSE GARDEN AND GIVES TO THE MONARCH OF
SPRING THE MESSAGE OF FIERCE KING AUGUST
Headlong he rushed into the rose garden,
And furiously he set it full afire;
The tulip drew her tongue that burned like fire,
And panted feverish in the rose garden.
The tulip glittered like a spark of fire,
Narcissus, like a lantern, shot her ray,
Then danger threatened the inhabitants,
And the Rose blushed more beauteous still for shame.
The king himself was in the direst need,
And with a glance of fire his voice he raised.
He pondered well what had befallen the state,
And saw the true proportions of the case.
And as he took full knowledge of his plight,
The parching heat consumed him to the heart.
Then full of royal courage bold and high,
He braced his soul and searched for counsel fit
And said: “What conflagration visits us?
Who is this tyrant August, and what deed
Of mine has roused his fury that he seems
So headstrong and so burning in his rage?
The rancor of his flames I will repress,
My sword shall quench his ire as water flame.
He is to me no object of alarm,
Nor twenty thousand furnaces like him,
He shall not venture further on this sod,
My sword shall slay him as heat is slain by stream.
Go, say to him, and bid him be ashamed,
And mitigate this devastating heat,
And draw away his flames from out the land,
And cease this wild campaign about our walls,
Or he himself in his own flames shall soon
Be brought to ashes by command of mine.”
With such an answer Samum made return
Unto the monarch of the summer time;
He gave him tidings from the Shah of Spring,
Speaking the answer faithful word for word,
And August, when the message he had heard,
Burst out into a rage of frenzied heat.
And storming, he at once gave his command,
“Let all my kingdom gather under arms,
And hot and fast be preparation made.
The rose garden in ruin must be laid.”
XLI
KING AUGUST SENDS HIS SON AS FIELD MARSHAL TO THE CITY OF ROSE GARDEN,
AND THE KING OF SPRING, UNABLE TO OPPOSE HIM, RETIRES TO THE HEIGHTS
There was a messenger by nature high,
From head to foot he shone with dazzling light.
His nature was illumination’s soul,
His traffic was the ministry of fire,
He scattered light throughout the universe,
And to the zenith reared his lofty brow.
’Twas fire that wrought the jewelry of light,
His name was nothing but the morning sun.
As lord and as field marshal forth he went
And spurred his courser into Gulistan.
King Spring was startled by the news he heard,
That thus his foe had hither made his way.
He gathered all his nobles for advice,
And stirred up all his force for feats of arms.
He roused them all for war, the residents
Of rose garden he summoned to the strife.
The lily drew her broadsword from the sheath,
The thorns in hand their pricking arrows held.
Even the cypress now prepared for war,
Stood ready with her needles like a lance.
The tulips spread their petals like a bow,
And even the dew prepared its pebble-stones.
The violets bent them to a hostile bow,
The daisies shot their arrows into air,
The stream put on its glittering coat of mail,
And stood enclothed in panoply of steel.
Like janizaries all the plants around,
Held in their hand their pikes and partisans.
And every bud a threatening bludgeon bore,
And put themselves as shields before the Rose.
They stood in ordered ranks as warriors ranged
For war and conflict in the cause of right.
Now when the sun into rose garden came
A fiery volley straightway he discharged,
And with his heat began to devastate,
Like to some torch-bearer of Eastern kings.
And lo! the dwellers in the rose garden
Dwindled, consumed like tapers in a mosque.
The lily wilted like a sinking flame,
And quickly dropped the broadsword from her hand.
The crimson tulips burnt to dusky black,
And dropped their blazoned targes from their hand.
In a rude mass the verdant bowers collapsed,
And the whole city into ashes turned.
Who can withstand the ravages of the fire?
Who can wage war against its deadly line?
When to Shah Spring this news at last was brought
His splendor and his power faded away.
Although he struggled to maintain the strife,
He saw that he was fated to defeat,
And straightway he betook himself to flight,
Forsook the field of battle for retreat.
Retreat is cowardly, yet there are times
When stoutest valor counsels a retreat.
When stronger foes o’ermaster those who fight
Retreat is better than to rashly stand.
Such was the thought that swayed the monarch Spring,
And so he took the Rose and fled with her.
He mounted quickly to an alpine crag,
Which bordered on a chain of savage hills,
And all his followers he took with him,
And all the mountain side was peopled o’er,
And so he rested on the towering peak,
And lived henceforth in safety and in peace.
And from that alp there sloped a verdant plain
Where happiness and fruitfulness abode.
XLII
THE MONARCH SPRING FLEES ALSO FROM THE PEAK OF THE MOUNTAIN AND
DISAPPEARS, AND THE MONARCH AUGUST, IN HIS FURY, BURNS UP THE CITY OF
ROSE GARDEN
Meanwhile the sun, field marshal of the fray,
Had to surrender brought the rose garden.
Then comes the monarch August with great joy,
To take his seat on the vacated throne.
The garden dwellers mourned in anxious care,
For still the flame of fury burnt its way,
And all the noblest houses were consumed,
For the fierce glow of fire had drunk their blood.
Its fury hastily the tulips parched,
And burnt to blindness the narcissus’ eyes,
The Rose parterre is wrapt in dazzling flame,
And fire amid the thickets reigns supreme.
And soon as he had blasted every bower,
He sallied forth to find the monarch Spring.
And said to each, “Where is the monarch Spring?
And whither has retired the Princess Rose?”
They told him they had fled to mountain heights,
Where cool fresh alps looked down upon the scene.
And when the King of Summer learnt of this,
He sent his army in pursuit of him,
He said: “Despatch and lay the monster waste,
Let the fire burn it like a living heart.
Seize and bring hither monarch Spring to me,
And drag the Rose into the mire for me.”
As soon as he this firman had pronounced,
The sun his way directed to the alps.
And with his army devastation wrought,
As if he would the world in ruin lay,
And when the monarch Spring appeared in sight,
The tyrant would him fain assassinate.
In a short time he held the king at bay,
Seized on the Rose, and straight forsook the land.
Where’er he went was nothing left behind.
Nothing appeared where once his path had been.
No trace was left of monarch Spring’s domain,
The Rose was nowhere seen upon the mead.
Both from the mountain side had disappeared,
And no one knew to what point they had fled.
The sun triumphant had a victory
Complete o’er every remnant of the foe.
He said, “The monarch Spring is banished quite,
And not a foot-track can be found of him,
And no one seems to know where he is gone,
And where to seek the glory of the Rose.”
And when the monarch August pondered this,
No longer was a care left in his breast,
And in one day he made the rose garden
Naught other but a revel place of fire.
And yet he blent advantages with waste,
Pouring a thousand graces on the spot.
What was unripe he mellowed and made sweet,
To what was crude maturity he brought.
Into the landscape sent tranquillity,
And mingled a bland sweetness with his rage.
At last he quite forsook his camping ground,
And made his homeward journey to the East.
He glided lightly forth on ether’s wing,
And reached at last his station permanent.
And as he left the placid meadow land,
He heard the news of more important things.
XLIII
AUTUMN COMES FROM THE NORTH WITH THE INTENTION OF ADMINISTERING THE CITY
OF ROSE GARDEN
There was a king, distributor of gold,
Well skilled the world to deck in brilliant hues,
Upon the world he shed magnificence,
A glorious king munificent of gold.
High in the North his palace home was set,
There ever throned in clemency he sat.
This king was of a disposition cold,
And moderation was his ruling trait.
His sole employment was to scatter gold,
To give mankind the pleasure of its glow.
In other excellencies he was rich,
But there was none that scattered gold like him.
He was a painter, too, of rarest skill,
Unique in art and generosity.
Before the glory of his varied tints
Pale all the masterpieces of the world.
He tints the leafy curtain of the earth,
And Mani’s self might wonder at the work.
He is a painter great, of faultless touch,
A colorist of an unerring skill,
He gives a soul to every quivering leaf,
Until it shows a hundred tints of fire.
He stamps it with the lustre of the gold,
Until its very shadow is aflame.
He colors with the potency of skill
With haze of rose and saffron every copse.
The master of a double art is he,
And famous for his skill in either part,
And every artist to whom he is known
Him by none other name but Autumn calls.
In might and wisdom he is affluent,
And by his grace and kindness ever warm,
And through his reign the world was kept at peace,
Because he gave such freedom to the world.
He showered his gifts on every land and clime,
A paragon of generosity,
And through his gifts, at last reduced to earth,
He leaves at least the hungry satisfied.
Through him of little worth was reckoned gold,
He scattered it around like dust and soil.
Though he was famous for his graciousness,
Well did he know to injure by his might.
When he was angry all his breath was frost,
And those who saw him with affright grew pale.
The world its face of summer loveliness
Was changed to other colors at his touch,
For fear of him the rose garden grew faint,
And sallowed into tints of mellow gold.
He was a wonder worker of his kind,
Pity in him went hand in hand with rage.
Cold was he by his nature, half of ice
And half of water was his intellect.
Yet ofttimes did he blaze with glance of heat,
The blessing that he brought outweighed the bane,
And when he gently spoke with anyone
His countenance was lit with radiant warmth.
Yet toward the end he turned to bitter cold,
And kept that bearing to the very end.
Shah August once in regal state assumed
His seat among the nobles in Divan.
He gathered round him all his ministers
To greet his emirs and his noblemen,
When suddenly there came to him the news
That all the garden’s realm in ruin lay.
That banished was the monarch of the mead,
And the bower’s beauty all was devastate.
And when the monarch August heard the news
The tidings made him quiver like a leaf.
Full of impatience and anxiety
He hastened to explore the garden glade.
Although he well believed the tidings true,
He wished to have authentic evidence,
And that this evidence he might attain,
A spy must needs be on the errand sent.
XLIV
KING AUTUMN SENDS A RECONNOITRING PARTY TO THE CITY OF ROSE GARDEN, AND
IN A MOMENT CONQUERS IT, AND PAINTS IT IN HIS OWN LIVERY
A right swift messenger he had despatched,
Like dust upon the wind the herald sped.
His nature was of heat and frost combined,
The Persians called him Scatterer of the Leaves;
And when this title was accorded not,
They called him Plucker of the Summer Leaves.
The monarch August thus accosted him:
“Now hear my words aright, thou speedy one,
Beget thee at this instant to that bower,
And bring me news of all that thou shalt see,
And as thou flittest like a spirit free,
Show thyself merciful to Gulistan.
Let moderation all thy conduct rule,
And gain the hearts of all the country side.
Show not thyself a sudden blast of frost,
But first appear a warm and sultry air;
Begin to scatter round the kindly gold,
And happiness through power and honor bring.
As thyself thou art in color rich,
Scatter thy tints o’er every leaf and blade.”
As the leaf-plucker heard the monarch’s speech
In silence he departed on his way.
Quickly arrived he at the rose garden,
Fulfilling the commission of his king.
He scattered light and beauty as he went,
And everything he overlaid with gold.
And yet his bearing was not harsh or strict,
And he brought blessing whereso’er he went.
He mingled in the middle of the flowers,
With kindly tenderness he played with them,
He made inquiry, as he well was fit,
With his impetuous pertinacity.
And the parterres with many a hue were stained.
Needless his operations to recount.
When he the plight of the rose garden saw,
Straight to the King he made a swift return.
Telling to him of all that had befallen
Of good and bad unto the rose garden.
The king at once commanded that in arms
His cavalry should charge the garden realm.
He throned himself as monarch in the glade,
And all the dwellers there were captive made.
And as his wont, to happy make the world,
He scattered wide his gold on every head.
And everyone at once grew rich in life,
And everyone a golden caftan wore.
His hand was full of graciousness and gift,
Wherewith he strewed the land on every side.
He gave them such a mess of gold for prize
That head to foot they glimmered with the ore.
And thereupon the master of the realm
His manner altered in a high degree.
For where his voice was gracious and benign,
He now displayed his fury and his hate.
And all the garden people, white with fear,
Fell to the earth overmastered by alarm,
And as he was at first both sweet and kind,
So now he ravaged with the wildest rage.
He flung the dwellers of the garden out,
The garden naked lay in horror vast.
He threw the floral decorations low,
The leaves and branches scattered o’er the sod,
And as he devastated all day long,
And at the last there followed placid calm.
And thus while nature’s course its way pursues,
Quiet and peace result from violence.
XLV
KING WINTER APPEARS IN THE EAST AND BLOWS HIS COLD BLASTS OVER THE EARTH
The messenger upon his errand sped,
With chilling words his message to convey.
“A king,” he said, “was throned in the far West
Whose breath was cold, whose very glance was frost.
Chill was his breath and chill his aspect drear,
His heart and every action cruelty.
To moderation he was deadly foe,
And plagued the people with his blasting frost.
He was a sovereign who prevailed by cold,
King of the world who men as Winter knew.
Soon as his voice was heard amid the land
The people shuddered at his fierce attack;
His chilling breath could quench the heat of hell,
For he was colder than the touch of ice,
And as his power could cool the fire of hell,
His rage could change an Eden into hell.
For when his breath was fiercest, like a fire,
He burnt and made men feel the pain of hell.
His wild, inconstant, and unerring rage,
In ruin laid the elemental world.
When once his lance was on the people shot
’Twas like a poker stirring up the fire,
And when a householder his face discerned,
He swiftly turned him back into the house,
And while his fury was without restraint,
He drove the people to the ingle fire.
And so he waxed in furiousness of frost
That the world lit its fires and sat by them.
The streets were blocked by his invading might,
And in the houses piles of fuel blazed.
The people in the mosques assembled thick,
For refuge in the blaze of altar fires.
To save herself from his invading power
The rose garden became a blazing hearth,
And yet he did not spare his breath of frost,
But laid his hand on Autumn’s kindly glow.
And when that monarch showed himself on earth
He ran him neck to neck for victory,
And like a flood his fury ran apace,
And everything was stiffened in his way.
The water curdled into solid ground,
And the world’s eye was filled with crystal tears,
And each one went about with covered head.
The sun in heaven concealed himself for fear.
The poor man and the rich alike were forced
To warm themselves in skins and cloaks of felt.
And each one of the city elegants
Wound round his head a costly robe of fur.
In short, the Winter reigns, a king supreme,
Throughout the period of the dwindling days,
And swift as water hurried his command,
And like the wind o’er every country swept.
While he himself in sombre dignity
Scattered his silver frost on every side,
His silver with such lavish hands he spread
That house and heather shone with silvery gleams.
XLVI
KING WINTER DEVASTATES THE ROSE GARDEN IN A SNOWSTORM
And then he gave command unto his hosts.
“Make ready,” said he, “for a long campaign
Let all our army speed to rose garden
And fall upon it with the force of fire.”
Upon the general a command was laid
To overthrow the palace of the Rose.
He stood at Winter’s beckoning, a slave,
A minion, who attended his command.
He was himself of Winter’s temperament,
And in the world he bore the name of snow.
White was he as the crystal camphor is,
And he was as the crystal camphor cold,
And he was soft as cotton to the touch,
But chilly as the hardest cake of ice.
He was the winter’s steadiest adjutant,
And he was sent to ravage Gulistan.
And straight he set himself upon the way
To wage his warfare upon the rose garden.
And suddenly as is the hand of fate
The snow came down amain with fleecy cloud,
And in one night within the rose garden
Triumphant reigned in valley and in field.
High was it piled above each arching roof,
And over all the whitening cloak was spread.
It threatened men and horses to ingulf,
And like a camphor shower enshrouded all.
When Gulistan this sad disaster saw
A reign of terror rose in its domain.
The snow was seen to dance on every roof,
And glitter down like swords and lances bright.
And as the snow covered the woodland limbs
The winter on the garden settled down,
And all his army in their tents encamped,
And the whole city at their mercy lay.
And Autumn, when of this he was aware,
Shuddered and shook like aspen foliage.
Though he would fain have entered on a fight,
He saw ’twas vain to hope for victory.
At last, quite conquered, in retreat he fled
And sought his former dwelling and his seat.
But Winter still his domination claimed,
And sat enthroned as king in Gulistan.
He gave command, “Let no one from this time
Of bower and garden pleasance question make.”
And while he stayed there all the rose garden
Should to a heap of ashes be reduced,
And he who would be rash enough to dare
This edict to decry and disobey,
He who should violate this strict command,
With anger should be straightly visited.
So everyone about that place was sad,
And all the place was bound in bitter frost.
And everyone who but held out his hand
Was stripped and blighted like a withered bough.
And by the direful tyranny of cold
The happiness of all the folk was changed.
And as this destiny befell the glade
Each creature pressed impetuous round the fire.
Gray hairs and hair still glossy bright with youth
Pressed as to the high altar round the fire.
Early and late the fire burned round the hearth,
The fuel was as precious as the flame,
And to give heat unto a single hearth
Was worth the value of an aloe flower,
And those who sold the fuel were in glee,
And the wood market was a kingly realm,
And he who bore with him a bag of gold
Was poorer than the man who owned a wood.
In short, the tyrant cold was lord o’er all,
And each man found his house a prison cell.
For Winter’s mighty tyrant reigned o’er all,
And ravaged freely over all the wood.
He scattered silver with a lavish hand,
And all the world in silver frost was sunk.
The cedars donned a silver coronet,
And all the garden wore a silver braid.
The very streams in silver mail were clad,
And clumps of silvery ice adorned their banks.
Thus Winter made his campaign for a time
Within the precincts of the rose garden.
But listen how it happened at the last
That he retired and left the garden free.
XLVII
THE MONARCH SPRING RETIRES TO THE SOUTH TO THE KING OF THE EQUINOX, FROM
WHOM HE ASKS HELP, AND WHO IMMEDIATELY ASSURES IT TO HIM, AND HE RETURNS
THEREWITH TO THE CITY OF ROSE GARDEN
O nightingale, whose voice is ever loud,
And ever sounds within the entrance hall,
Of what avail has been thy clamorous lay,
For has the hour of thy fruition come?
Within the cage thou must thy sojourn make,
Who once couldst walk amid the rose garden.
Surely thou hast enough of suffering spread,
And now must still in disappointment pine.
Thy flight has brought thee but to contumely,
Now to fruition spread thy eager wings.
For when misfortune gains its highest point,
Relief is given to the suffering one.
And all thy lamentations, what are they
Unto the Rose who laughs amid thy woe?
He who has drunk his full from legend’s cup
Sings thus, deep, low in dregs of misery.
And when the king who burns the world with fire,
And has the happy August for his name,
Conquered the city of the rose garden,
And subjugated it and held it fast
And vanquished all the treasures of the Spring,
To leave his palace and his court behind,
The monarch Spring, forsaking his estate,
Fled to the safest city of the South.
Many a day with toil and pain he rode,
And came at last into a distant land,
In the dominion of a mighty czar,
Whose brows were crowned with buds of happiness.
He was a monarch of astounding might,
Full of munificence and mightiness.
His noble bearing was with mildness formed.
Gentle his mind, friendly, and delicate.
For he was born beneath auspicious stars,
Of those high stars that herald in the day.
A lord of light was he, exalted high
From his nobility and mighty fame;
His happiness the world flooded with light,
His name was called the Harbinger of Spring.
Well was the Spring acquainted with this shah,
Who was direct descendant of his line.
And as King Spring these tidings spread abroad,
The Harbinger of Spring the message took,
And went to meet the Spring on his approach,
Giving him honor high in every way.
The monarch who ’mid gentle breezes moved,
Gave many honors to the prince of Spring,
And as he came, unto the throne drew near,
He took him by his side upon the throne.
And for one day was feast and welcome held
In honor and in glad festivity.
And lo! among the guests the question rose
What is the true condition of affairs?
Then spake the monarch, asking of the Spring,
Why he had fled away from Gulistan.
“How art thou come,” he said, “and whither bound?
What has directed your affection here,
To leave the garden’s blest tranquillity,
And o’er the routes of travel toil thy way?”
So monarch Spring narrated to him all
That had befallen the town of rose garden,
And how that king who man had August named
With violence had overrun the land,
How he had wasted it with furious flame,
And all the bowers of roses turned to ash;
How Autumn had the spot to ruin brought,
And how black Winter devastated it.
And all that happened in the rose garden
He told in detail to the mighty shah.
And when the king the dismal tidings learnt,
His soul within him was to fury turned,
And soon as monarch Spring had related all
The Harbinger of Summer cried aloud:
“Lord of the world, let naught confuse thy soul,
Away with sorrow from thy anxious breast;
No longer shall thy patient mind be tried,
For there is hope again for Gulistan.
And if the Lord of heaven good fortune give,
Thou shalt again unto thy realm return,
And throned in power once more in rose garden
Shall trample every foeman in the dust.”
And when the monarch Spring this comfort heard
He seconded the promise with a wish,
And said: “O king, thou art a constant friend,
And never may misfortune cross thy path.
Mayst thou live long in honor and renown,
And thy felicity be girt with power,
Soon as I heard that lofty word of thine
Into my soul tranquillity returned.
Though the campaign has devastated all,
It has not taken from me all my hopes.”
The Harbinger of Spring, when this he heard,
In silence placed his hand upon his brow,
And hurriedly his preparations made
For a campaign toward the garden bower.
So that the shah elected to this place
Might in the bower of roses pitch his tent.
XLVIII
THE HARBINGER OF SPRING GAINS POSSESSION OF THE CITY OF ROSE GARDEN,
VANQUISHES KING WINTER, AND MAKES THE MONARCH OF THE SPRING TRIUMPHANT
When o’er the land the breath of morning came,
The world was filled with blissful radiancy.
The news of fresh arrivals filled the glade,
And the trees ranged themselves in serried ranks.
And everything that in the garden grew
Was seared and mildewed by the past distress,
And yet anew life’s waters woke again,
And all was tinged with Spring’s perennial green,
Though all in death had lain for many a day,
Now living once again they raised their hand,
And everything with ardent passion throbbed.
And the East Wind came by with soft approach,
And benediction followed on his course.
And all the flowers their faces showed again,
And over all the light of summer shone.
The cypresses wore garments of delight,
And danced in many a ring along the mead
And each narcissus started from its sleep.
The tulips raised again their shining brows,
And as war’s cruel visage disappeared
The land again was peopled as of yore.
And when King Winter in the sunlight saw
The people of the land come back again,
And that the meadows which he had o’errun
Were finally relinquished to the foe,
He was o’ercome with grief and shame and ire,
And heated by the sense of his defeat.
The snow, o’ercome by advent of the Spring,
In utter shame betook itself to earth.
In sooth, already had it drabbled o’er
The rose garden with her enkindled wrath,
For snow now felt itself o’ermastered, weak;
His host was overcome at every point.
And as the snow dissolved into the ground,
A flood of tears was spread on every field.
The Winter could no longer stand his ground,
And rapidly he started in retreat.
He turned him back again toward the West,
And gave up occupancy of the land.
And on the land the light of justice shone
And truth prevailed and error was abashed.
And as Spring’s herald occupied the land,
King Spring himself returned to claim his own
He took his seat once more upon his throne,
And then his herald vanished from the scene.
XLIX
THE MONARCH SPRING MOUNTS UPON HIS THRONE AND MAKES HIS RESIDENCE IN THE
CITY OF THE ROSE GARDEN
As monarch Spring now on his radiant throne
Flourished, as in the glorious days of yore,
He opened there the treasures of his might,
And in the dust he scattered radiant pearls;
He lavished honors on each denizen,
And all were clad in mantles of the green,
And Gulistan is once again restored;
And grove and garden open wide their hearts,
And light is shining in narcissus’ eyes,
And joy is in the heart of all the world;
The tulips don once more their ruby crowns;
The glade of Gulistan is filled with flowers;
The cypress once again his office takes,
And stands as porter at the garden gate.
And all the lilies drew their swords again,
And every thorn whetted its arrow point,
The sandbach opened out his gleaming rolls
In harmony with nature’s odorous life.
The tapestry of vegetation, new
With satin green, the field and fallow clothed.
And all the people of the world repaired
Into the garden as a paradise.
The world from happiness an Eden grew,
And vernal freshness sparkled in the Spring.
The Rose ascended to her throne again;
The hyacinth her locks of purple wore,
The messenger East Wind within the grove
Awoke to life from out his skeleton;
And every stream with ardent passion ran,
And every flood with towering head advanced;
The rose garden again its beauty takes,
And peace and quiet reign on every side.
And as the Rose her lofty throne ascends,
In ranks the nobles at her bidding come;
The dew her favorite beverage provides;
The tulips in her service goblets bring,
And each man drinks according to desire;
And honor and good wishes follow wine.
And all the time does festive gladness reign,
By day and night the joyous feast goes on.
L
THE FAIR ROSE SENDS THE EAST WIND TO CHEER THE MOURNING NIGHTINGALE
And once upon this festal holiday
The Rose bethought her of the Nightingale,
And said: “Where is that miserable fool
Who was inebriate with wine and love?
How fares it with the man of sighs and tears?
How can he live dissociate from our grove?
Shall we no longer hear that lute of his?
What is it that has checked his thrilling lay?
And has his heart been snatched away by pain?
And was he haply driven from grief to dust?
And has the flame of absence burnt him up?
And is he slain by moody glance of mine?
Is it the thorn has laid him suffering low,
And him enlisted ’mid my deadliest foes?”
They said to her, with salutation kind:
“O Rose, the fairest paragon of charms,
The wretch that was impaled upon the thorn
Has since been prisoner made within a cage.
By night and day behind the cage’s bar
He sings aloud his melody of woe.
Still he laments, and all his dolorous song
Pierces the heart of hearers to the quick;
And in the dreary prison-house enthralled
Him no refreshment of delight consoles.”
And when the tender Rose these tidings heard,
She breathed a sigh over the beggar’s lot.
“And shall the prisoner, detained in gyves,
Never attain felicity again?”
And full of pity, as his rescuer,
She called for the East Wind, her messenger,
And said: “East Wind, who cheerest every soul,
Now let thy breath upon that beggar blow.
Find him, and greet him wheresoe’er he be,
And do him honor every way thou canst.
And say to him, ‘O heart with suffering full,
That without consolation feelest pain,
How has the pang of absence slain thy soul?
What is the blow that grief has dealt to thee?
Thou art within this narrow cage confined,
And overcome with pain and grief and fear.
The dagger of thy grief has pierced thy heart;
The agony of absence wastes thy breast;
Long hast thou borne the languor absence brings;
’Tis time that thou should’st know fruition’s bliss.
Though absence rages o’er thee like a storm,
Thou still art worthy of the joy of love.’
Go, my East Wind, and with such words as these,
Seek to console him with the news of bliss.
Absence no more shall waste his mind away,
Console him, then, and bring back heart to him.”
The messenger East Wind, when this he heard,
Answered “Long live the Queen,” and forth he went.
He journeyed wide, and everywhere he sought
To find where dwelt the mournful nightingale.
LI
THE PINING NIGHTINGALE LIES IN AFFLICTION IN THE CAGE AND TURNS HIMSELF
TO GOD. THE KINDLY EAST WIND ARRIVES AND GIVES HIM INFORMATION AS TO THE
CONDITION OF AFFAIRS
And Bulbul in the distance suffered pain,
In the hard strait of absence from his love;
And in the cage he sang his dolorous lay,
Renouncing every hope of happiness.
And in the cage he stood, lamenting loud,
And mourning was his orison of morn;
For every morning did he pray to God,
To send him help in his disastrous plight,
And said: “O God! I languish in the dust,
A prey to anguish in this narrow cage;
The halter of estrangement binds my neck;
Estrangement from my love fetters me here.
My soul within my sickening self confined
Is like a wretched bird within a cage.
Power and unrighteousness have dashed me down
Into one narrow corner of the world.
O God! Why does not life escape this cage
And find its habitation in the stars?
Sometimes thou art benign to mortal prayer,
Oh, set me free from this accursed cage!
I never cease to utter my lament,
For I am slain by separation’s pain;
And no one listens to my tale of woe,
When I lament upon my absent love.
And there is no one brings me, in my love,
The tidings that I crave of my beloved.
O that the Queen would some compassion show,
And smile in recognition on her slave!
O Lord, I flee to thee to gain thy help,
And upon thee my firm foundation place;
Therefore I melt thy Spirit with my sighs;
Thou canst not fail at my petition’s plea.
O God, my God, by all thy radiant light,
Give succor to me, leave me not forlorn!
Thou who the Author art of things that are,
Open to me the door of my release.”
As thus the wretched bird his song pursued,
The deity the suffering suppliant heard;
For when a tortured soul appeals to God
God ever listens to his loud complaint.
And all the time the Nightingale was heard,
As is each soul that prays with earnestness.
The sufferings that round that prisoner rose
Were almost now unto their limit brought;
For the East Wind, that cheers the souls of men,
Arrived and saw the Nightingale encaged,
And came and said, “My greeting to your Grace,”
And bowed his forehead to the very dust.
He said: “How fares it with thee, prisoner?
How is it thou art prisoned thus by pain?
And what transgression art thou guilty of,
That thou art thus imprisoned in a cage?
Who is it found thee guilty of a crime,
That to confinement thou hast been consigned?
Who is it that hath slandered thee abroad,
And set thee thus behind the prison bar,
When thou in freedom findest such delight,
Who is it that has tortured thus thy heart?
How is it thou art thus a prisoner found,
Tormented with the anguish of thy heart?
Come back again to glades of Gulistan,
And let us hear thee speak thy heart’s desire.”
LII
THE CAPTIVE NIGHTINGALE ANSWERS THE KIND-HEARTED EAST WIND, WHO BRINGS
TO THE PINING LOVER GREETING FROM THE RADIANT ROSE
Soon as the Nightingale this message heard
He was in ardent passion overwhelmed.
He cried aloud with sighs and deep lament;
“Hear me; I will my woe relate to thee.
I, a poor man, for lovingness atone,
And all the guilt is in the jailer found.
Love is the only guilt that I avow,
This is the cause of all my sorrows here.
While love has thus enchained my inmost life,
My song alone the note of freedom sounds.”
And the East Wind responded to this speech.
“Heroic sufferer,” he replied to him,
“Torment thyself no more, the course of love
At last is tending to the goal desired;
Long hast thou borne this dire adversity,
The hour of happiness at last draws near.
The queenly Rose her greeting sends to thee,
And makes the message through this herald known;
Thy long-continued passion finds its end,
’Tis time the volume of thy pain be closed.
Soon shalt thou from thy prison-house be freed.
Lament no more, thy succor is at hand.”
Then the East Wind the pleasant message gave,
With which the Rose had sent him on his way;
And when the bird received that sweet despatch,
He fell to earth, quite overcome with joy.
And said: “Oh, let me know the news she sends,
For it has reached me in a happy hour;
The hour in which I fell to earth for grief,
There comes to me the news of happiness.”
And with a thankful heart he thanked the Lord;
And to the East Wind every blessing wished,
And on his backward way the East Wind went,
And songs of thankfulness the bird began.
And when the East Wind reached the happy Rose
He said: “O Light that glorifiest the world,
The Nightingale is prisoner in a cage;
The cage is like a dungeon to the bird;
And he is overwrought with love for thee;
And languishes amid the pangs of love.
His strains betray the languor of his heart,
Oft as he breathes them on the listening wind.
And ofttimes he reflects, that all his life,
Is now surrendered to a narrow cage;
And soon his spirit will surrendered be,
Unless the anguish of his song be stilled.
And tho’ full many a sufferer I have seen,
Saw I none ever in such languishment.”
LIII
WHILE THE NIGHTINGALE LIES A PRISONER SUFFERING IN HIS CAGE, THE ROSE
COMES TO PAY HIM A SICK VISIT, AND TO LEARN OF HIS HEALTH
And when the Rose these tidings had received
She said: “Alas! him genius has endowed,
Poor, wretched one, with melody of pain!
Long has he lived devoted to my love,
And many pains and anguish has he borne
Because he cannot look upon my face.
Yet since this mendicant is so forlorn,
And so overwrought by his melodious pain,
’Tis time that I his disposition learn,
And pay a visit to the lonely one.
’Tis duty bids us go and cheer the sick;
And my great duty now concerns this bird.
Come, thou East Wind, that cheerest earthly hearts,
Point me the way unto his dwelling-place.
’Tis thine to bring the wandering outcast joy,
And free him from the barriers of the cage.”
Approvingly the Wind of East replied:
“Thou, who, like gold, has stood the test of time,
Long mayst thou all the bliss of life enjoy,
And in both worlds mayst thou find happiness.
Now it is time that thou shouldst yonder wretch
Console in pity ere he breathe his last.”
The graceful Rose straightway her journey took,
And to the Nightingale her course she bent.
And while the Nightingale his theme pursued,
And still in disappointed ardor pined,
His heart swelled high with tidings of delight,
When all was told him of the Rose’s word.
With full dependence on the grace of God,
He decked himself in radiant array,
And he bethought himself that he would be
Like sunlight shining in the motes of earth;
So should his face the happy sunlight show,
When ’mid the stars the day god shines on high,
And day has reached the zenith of the noon,
And the orbed moon with its full radiance shines.
And now the Rose to visit him appeared,
And asked him the condition of his life.
She saw him quite o’ermastered and undone,
And all his strength by adverse fortune broken.
And when she saw him, she astonished stood,
And through astonishment was motionless.
Soon as the Nightingale set eyes on her,
He recommenced his melancholy song,
And fainting, fell through passion to the ground,
And motionless he lay from wounds of pain.
He closed his eyes and to the dust he pressed
His cheeks, by tears of absence long grown pale;
While ardent passion through his bosom flamed.
Like to a suppliant he lay grovelling there,
And said: “O God, what dream is this I see?
Am I transported into fancy’s realm,
So that the sun of happiness shines out,
And I behold the lustre of the moon?
That happiness at last descends to me;
And that the moon her face through tempests shows;
That my disasters have an end at last;
That exile in reunion comes to end;
That healing falls upon the wounds of pain;
And that my heart the balm of mercy meets?”
While thus the bird in languishment reclined,
The Rose regarded him with tenderness;
And there was naught for him but kindly thought;
In gentle pity opened out her soul.
And sweetly did she question how he fared,
And how it went with his calamities,
And pity her majestic heart enthralled,
While he, she saw, with ardent passion glowed.
And while the Rose her jewels scattered round,
The Nightingale gave utterance to his soul.
The bird sang loud, the flower lent listening ear,
And soft caresses thus were interchanged;
And many things were said on either side,
And when their mutual greetings closed at last,
And the Rose started on her journey home,
The Nightingale broke out in strains of song.
And when the well-beloved had flown away,
The amorous bird cried after her in vain;
And once again began his loving lay,
Reiterating echoes of his pain.
All his great passion had come back to him,
That momentary bliss was but a dream.
He said, in wanderings of wonder lost,
“Whither has fled this union sweet of bliss?
Oh, what a wondrous incident is this!
Hard to believe has this occurrence been;
And since the world is unsubstantial show,
How is it that to me true suffering comes?
Where is distress, and where is happiness?
Where is compassion, what is trustworthy?
And this fair Rose who stood before my cage,
Where are the sweet caresses of my friend?
Shall happiness return to me through her?
Or was my hope nothing but fantasy--
The fantasy of overwrought desire--
That it so quickly fades upon my sight?”
And in this plight the wretched singer gave,
From throbbing throat, his call for pity’s aid.
LIV
THE LOVELY ROSE SENDS THE CHEERFUL EAST WIND TO THE MONARCH OF SPRING
ASKING HIM TO FREE THE NIGHTINGALE
Ah, lovely Rose, she has a heart of gold,
And much she mourns for the lorn Nightingale;
And said: “East Wind, my herald messenger,
Blow thou my message o’er the world’s domain.
I wish thee to become my instrument,
Through which release and help my bird shall ease.
Ah! that the Bulbul with the open heart,
No more might suffer in the deadly cage!
Now show thy pity for that wretched soul,
And gain him freedom from the iron bars.
Betake thee to the monarch of the world;
And speak to him in many a pleading word;
And then occasion will be granted thee
The Bulbul’s dreary tale to tell to him.
And tell him how the wretch in prison pines,
O’erwhelmed in suffering and misery;
The king will have compassion on his lot,
And show his favor to the destitute.
He will be just and kindly to the bird
And willingly release him from the cage.”
The East Wind ran on hearing this command,
And quickly to the monarch took his way.
Upon the palace threshold laid him down,
And in the dust his countenance he set.
His wishes and his prayer expressed to him,
In answer to the royal questioning.
And many tidings told of this and that,
Till to the end of all his news he came.
Of many things he spoke in many ways
And information gave of this and that.
And then it happened that he came at last
To tell the story of the Nightingale,
And said, “O thou, the high illustrious one,
A king endowed with each attractive gift,
How is it possible that in thy day
The cry of guiltless suffering should arise?
That the poor prisoner in a cage should pine?
And that the mighty should oppress the weak?
That night and day the weak should utter woe,
And without guilt endure the stroke of pain?
That he should lie in fetters and in gyves--
He whose sweet voice is ever eloquent?
And is it well that king so just as thou
Should trample on so innocent a wretch?
That he within the cage should cry for help,
Through such a tedious period of distress?
That he, by night and day, should make lament
And no one listen to his dolorous song?”
When this the lofty monarch of the world
Had heard, he said: “And lives that beggar still?
And is he still imprisoned in the cage,
Caught in the meshes of his pain and woe?
Now must his sad imprisonment have end.
Fetch him and let me look upon his face.”
Soon as the firman of the Shah went forth,
The tidings of it reached the Nightingale.
For one among the courtiers hurried forth,
To bring the hapless one to happiness.
And from the cage he was at once released
And brought into the presence of the king.
And soon as the celestial monarch’s eye
Beheld the plight and misery of the wretch,
And saw how vile and weak he did appear,
And how he was reduced to skin and bone,
And all forespent by separation’s pang,
And dwindled like the crescent of the moon,
He questioned him of each particular,
And of his public conduct in the past.
The Bulbul called down blessings on his head,
And in the dust he bowed before his face;
Then he ran on in ardent passion’s tone,
As a gazelle in his swift circle turns;
From his sweet lips he warbled to the Shah
The whole expression of his gifted heart.
And as his ardent trills and mournful notes
Filled with astonishment the royal mind,
He owned him, in the usage of his art,
A singer perfect of consummate skill.
And as the monarch listened to his strain,
He felt the tide of pleasure flood his heart,
And said: “Oh, what an artist do I hear!
Well fit to fill my bosom with delight.
It is injustice to this wretched man
To put him pitiless in prison cell,
Because forsooth within the rose garden
He sets himself as friend beside the Rose.
For since this beggar is a very seer,
I think he is companion for a king.
Now let the Nightingale attend the Rose,
And let him stay with her where’er she bide.
She has no slave so faithful to her heart,
So let him speak with her where’er she be.”
And instantly the monarch gave command
Within the rose garden to bring the bird,
That he might medicine and healing bring
To all the suffering of the pining Rose.
The Nightingale bowed low upon the ground,
With songs of benediction did he praise
The king, and beamed with longing and desire,
And came at length unto the rose garden.
LV
THE GRACIOUS EAST WIND BRINGS NEWS TO THE ROSE OF THE NIGHTINGALE’S
RELEASE
He met the cypress and with honor hailed,
And courteous salutation yielded him.
Who asked the Bulbul whither he was bound,
And who had given peace to his desire;
And he related to him every jot,
How he had been released from bitter pain.
The cypress wore a look of wonderment,
Hither and thither did he toss his head,
And said to him: “At last, my treasured bird,
Upon my summit shall thy home be made.”
So there the cypress and the Nightingale,
Henceforth consorted in a friendship true.
But the East Wind had fluttered to the Rose,
Swift as the arrow from the bowstring shot,
And in a voice of joy his message said:
“O Rose, rejoice! for good the news I bring;
The Shah at liberty has Bulbul set,
And given happiness to the forlorn,”
And then he told her all that had befallen;
As everything he had been witness to.
The day was warm and the Rose laughed aloud,
And rocked herself with pleasure ’mid the leaves.
In haste she put her crimson mantle on,
And gave her garment, grateful, to the Wind.
Into his hand she placed a ruby gem,
And breathed upon him all her gracious scent.
And gold was strewn about the rose garden,
And all the folk for dust walked over gold.
And the Rose bloomed in all her stateliest pomp,
And laughed with joy in her enkindling heart.
LVI
DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING FEAST GIVEN BY THE LOVELY ROSE, TO WHICH SHE
ASKS THE NIGHTINGALE, AND ENJOYS HERSELF WITH HIM IN ARDENT PASSION AND
KINDNESS AND PURE LOVE
Upon a certain morning, when the day
O’er all the world lay like an open rose,
When day was bright with sweet fruition’s bliss,
And the world’s face was like a rose fountain,
When the world opened like a petaled rose,
And folk like nightingales sang out for joy,
Then was it that the Rose, in Gulistan,
Adorned herself with caftan of pure gold.
Red was she both without, and red within,
And red the turban high that crowned her brow.
She decked herself with gladness and with joy,
And o’er her shoulders flung a mantle green.
And to atone for all past suffering
She sends out invitations to a feast,
That she may cheer with brightness troubled hearts,
And fill their goblets with the wine of joy.
She gave the tulips word of her design,
And bade them crown with wine the gleaming cup.
She told the dew to pour its sparkling wine
Into the chalice of each opening flower.
She bade narcissus with his beaker full,
To show himself that day a roysterer,
And that the cypress should before the gate
Stand seneschal, awaiting her command.
She saw the meadow carpeted with green,
And all new garmented the world of flowers.
The stately lily dropped her gleaming sword,
And stood with peaceful mien beside her hearth.
The hyacinth forsook his plots of ill,
And thought upon his rightful services.
And as the Rose this firman sent abroad,
All Gulistan was decked for holiday.
And to the garden feast they hurried fast,
Bent on the recreation of their hearts.
The Rose herself, with happy mien, assumed
The place of honor in the rose garden,
And all the other nobles sat around,
In ranks and orders at the garden feast;
And the bright cup went round from lip to lip;
And each to other pledged the beady wine.
In cup of virgin gold, a foaming draught
The Rose with loving laughter drank to all.
And twice again the ruddy wine she quaffed,
With heart and eye fixed on the Nightingale.
She saw that from the circle of her court,
The bird, all solitary, sat aloof.
And then her veil she lifted from her face,
That she, against her wont, might plain be seen;
And said: “The time for sorrow has gone by,
Now let each sufferer plead his cause to us.
Then wherefore should the Bulbul sit apart,
Rather than gladden with his lays our feast?
For now in separation’s deadly night,
Well has he earned the glory of the dawn.
“Go,” to the East Wind said she, “bring to me
That mourning minstrel for this festal hour.”
The East Wind, nourisher of all that lives,
Well knew the goodness of the princess’ heart;
And thus he spoke unto the Nightingale:
“O sorrow singer, let thy lot be bliss.
The Rose, who greets thee now with kindliness,
Invites thee to her festal gathering;
O Bulbul, now distress thyself no more,
For thou hast reached the goal of thy desire.”
And as these words the pining Bulbul heard,
He turned himself to God with thankful heart.
At last he came, with many a tender thought,
Unto the festival the Rose ordained.
The Rose all honor did him in her power;
And took him to herself to cherish him.
And said, “Ah, sad one, what has pained thee now?
Thou art for all thy absence now consoled.
And now it is ordained by happy fate,
That I should give to thee a little pledge.
My flight has put thy song quite out of tune,
And turned aside the music of thy song.
Now let thyself no longer rove away,
For thou canst rightly linger here a while;
For all the sickness I have caused to thee,
A thousand faithful pledges be returned.
It is the custom of the beauteous one,
That she should crown affliction with her trust.”
As to the Nightingale these gracious words
Were in caressing accents thus addressed,
He charged himself with fault a thousand times,
And mute he stood, and weak and tottering.
He said: “The word that falls from thee is good,
And trust that follows after suffering
Is good, and what thou doest is well done.
For above all a loving sweetheart stands;
And I have shed my blood for love of thee,
And shouldst thou slay me I would not complain.
For thee, the breath of life within me heaves,
E’en separation as delight I hail.”
’Twas thus the Rose and Nightingale beguiled
The time in conversation amorous.
Then they began to quaff the ruddy wine;
And many a goblet sparkled to the brim.
Draughts of the rosy-tinted wine they took,
And in the feast the pastoral pipes were heard,
And Bulbul his clear notes with ardor poured.
They rang through all the ranks of Gulistan,
Like some sweet lute they floated on the air,
And oft in loudest trills they burst like flame.
His look was fixed upon the lustrous Rose,
In ardent longing soft as a caress.
Now his love burst in flame like aloe flowers;
And in his glowing song he uttered sighs.
Although made happy by his keen delight,
He still in sighs the longed-for kisses craved.
With golden draughts the goblet oft was filled,
But kisses were the sugar in the cup.
For while the bird began to sip the wine,
He stole a kiss from the fair Rose’s lips;
Warmer and warmer with the feast he grew,
With hearts quite melted went they arm in arm,
And as the liquor mounted to his brain
The banqueter lay senseless on the ground.
And the glass circled round amid the feast,
Till heaven its circuit had to evening brought.
LVII
THE DESCRIPTION OF THE NIGHT AND THE NIGHT-LONG REVEL AMID THE SOUND OF
TRUMPETS AND CASTANETS
And when the day dissolved the company,
The feast renewed itself through all the night.
Soon as in heaven the constellations bright,
Assembled round the moon, their empress queen.
The stars that fluttering like butterflies,
Were gathered in the palace of the moon,
So gathered nobles in the rose garden,
With friendship and with pledging of the wine.
And now the Rose was filled with wild desire,
The Nightingale his loveliest chanson poured.
And the narcissus lit his golden lamps,
And brightened all the spaces of the grove,
And the glass circled ’mid the merry throng,
And lute and castanet their music made.
The flutes with their shrill notes began to sound,
Commingled with the tinkling tambourine.
And round in rank on rank the flowers were ranged.
Buds blew the horn, and roses beat the drum,
The very violets in the music joined.
While all the larch-trees rustled in accord.
Narcissus beat the drum with thundering note,
Through the whole rout the pattering tomtom rang,
The lilies took the hautboys in their hands,
The tulips blew their bagpipes, and each played
On every side the instrument he chose,
And so the merry concert filled the groves.
The cypress led the dance at his own will,
His step kept time to the musician’s note,
And the East Wind sighed softly over all,
Amid the clangor of the flute and horn.
And so the revel sounded deep and high
As flutes, or dying harmonies ordained,
And clamor filled with shouts the rose garden,
And all the city rang to beat of drum.
And drowsy fumes of wine made tottering feet,
The red from many a lip was kissed away.
The Nightingale is drunk for happiness,
Sunk in the melody of his desire.
He thinks upon the lips of her he loves,
And ceases not to sip the ruddy wine,
And the Rose blushes as she pledges him,
And all his keen desire she turns to bliss.
And tender protestations there are heard,
And happy pledges are between them made,
And love from both sides breathes its scented breath,
And the sweet pang of passion fills that hour,
And not a cloud was in the placid sky.
The lover stood possessed of his beloved,
And ever higher mantled pleasure’s tide,
Till all the consciousness of life was lost.
The Rose and Nightingale together there,
In undisturbed communion abode.
And many a word of tenderness they spoke,
Threading in speech the mazes of their love,
Propitious was the opportunity.
They were united ne’er to be divorced.
The lover and the object of his love
Were rendered one in passion’s glowing hour.
The dance of love went on till morning light,
The feast of passion lasted till the dawn.
No sleep their eyelids closed, and till the morn
They ceased not quaffing of the ruby wine.
LVIII
THE HAPPINESS OF THE ROSE AND NIGHTINGALE DOES NOT CONTINUE