SECOND PERIOD.
ANWĀRI—NIZĀMĪ—LAILĪ AND MAJNŪN—A FRIEND—THE WEDDING—DELIVERANCE—THE
MEETING IN THE DESERT—DEATH OF THE LOVERS—THE VISION OF ZYD.
The second period of Persian poetry reaches from the beginning to the
end of the twelfth century, and it may be termed the panegyric age, from
the fact that the poets of this period, nearly all of them, devoted
their talents indiscriminately to the laudation of the princes of their
times. But we find also in this age, the beginning of the mystic school
which was so fully developed in the thirteenth century. It was during
this period that Amig of Bukhara composed the Egyptian story of Yūsuf
and Zulaikhā, which was the original of many poetic versions. A few good
satires also belong to the twelfth century, but the greatest panegyric
poet of this period was
ANWĀRI.
There is but little known of this Poet Laureate of Persia; he appears to
have been born, however, in the twelfth century at Bedeneh, a village in
Khorasān. He was a poor student in the town of Tus, and near the college
grounds one day, he happened to see the grand equipage of the Sultan,
and observing that one member of his suite was mounted upon a more
magnificent horse, and was more gorgeously equipped than the others, he
inquired who he was. On being told that he was the court poet, the
ambitious student aspired to the same position, and that very night he
prepared a poem in praise of the Sultan, which was presented at court
the next day. The royal vanity was so greatly pleased by this offering,
that the young poet was offered a position at court, which he promptly
accepted. He attended the Sultan in all of his warlike expeditions until
his death.[261] He wrote a few long poems, and also some simple lyrics
that were worthy of preservation, but perhaps the best of these
productions was “The Tears of Khorasān.” Khorasān was overrun by a
barbarous tribe of Turkomans, who committed every species of cruelty,
and this poem was a plea to the Prince of Samarcānd for relief. The
following extract, which is the opening stanza of his petition, will
give a sufficient idea of his style:
“Waft, gentle gale, Oh, waft to Samarcānd,
When next thou visitest that blissful land,
The plaint of Khorosānia plunged in woe
Bear to Tūrānia’s king our piteous scroll
Whose opening breathes forth all the anguished soul
And this denotes whate’er the tortured know.”
NIZĀMĪ.
The greatest poet of this period, however, was Nizāmī,[262] whose
pathetic love songs are the best productions of the kind in the Persian
tongue. He lived the greater part of his life at Ganja, and is therefore
known as Nizāmī of Ganja. His first important work was called “The
Storehouse of Mysteries.” This was followed by the beautiful poem of
“Koshrū and Shirīn,” the theme of which was taken from ancient Persian
history. In the latter part of the twelfth century he wrote his Diwan, a
collection which was said to contain twenty thousand verses, but few of
these, however, have come down to our own times. Soon afterward the
great poet wrote his famous love story entitled “Lailī and Majnūn,”
which was followed by his Book of Alexander, an epic which was devoted
to the glory of the Greek conqueror. His last work was the “Seven Fair
Faces,” and this was presented in the form of romantic fiction, and
consisted merely of seven stories which were told to amuse the king by
the seven wives of Bāhram Gor. These five works are known as the “Five
Treasures of Nizāmī.” His eulogies were sung by the greatest Persian
poets who lived after him.
It was of him that Sa’di wrote: “Gone is Nizāmī, our exquisite pearl,
which Heaven in its kindness, formed of the purest dew, as the gem of
the world.”
His most popular work, and one of the best of the Persian classics, is
the poem of Lailī and Majnūn, which, for tenderness, purity and pathos,
has been seldom equaled. We give here a short prose version of the
legend:
LAILĪ AND MAJNŪN.
Every nation has its favorite romance of love and chivalry. France and
Italy have their Abelard and Eloisa, their Petrarch and Laura, while
Arabia and Persia have their Lailī and Majnūn, the record of whose
sorrows is constantly referred to throughout the East as an example of
the most devoted affection. This story, which has been versified by
several Persian authors, is of Arabian origin, and hence it bears the
impress of Arabic thought.
The poem contains the mystic lights and shadows of Bedawīn life—the
fervid loves and passionate yearnings, the hopeless grief and stoical
endurance, which belong to the sons of the desert.
Majnūn was the son of a haughty chief, while Lailī belonged to an humble
Arab tribe, but her father carried in his veins the pride of his desert
race, and the bitter hatreds of the Moslems. Lailī is described as being
very beautiful, with the crimson of her cheek flashing through the dark
olive shades of her face, and her heavy ringlets, “black as night,”
hanging in graceful profusion around her shapely neck.
“When ringlets of a thousand curls
And ruby lips and teeth of pearls,
And dark eyes flashing quick and bright,
Like lightning on the brow of night—
When charms like these their power display
And steal the wildered heart away—
Can man, dissembling, coldly seem
Unmoved as by an idle dream?
Kais[263] saw her beauty, and her grace
The soft expression of her face;
And as he gazed and gazed again
Distraction stung his burning brain;
No rest he found by day or night—
She was forever in his sight.”
But the wandering tribe to which the girl belonged folded their tents
and slipped away to the solitudes of the mountains. They had left no
trace of their going—no hint of where they might be found, and the
luckless maid found herself far from her lover with no possible means of
communicating with him, while the frantic boy was wandering through the
wilds in the almost hopeless search for his love.
“He sought her in rosy bower and silent glade,
Where the palm trees flung refreshing shade;
Through grove and frowning glen he lonely strayed,
And with his griefs the rocks were vocal made.”[264]
Alarmed by the condition of his son, the old chieftain gathered his men
for an organized search, and at last they found the mountain stronghold
of the tribe they sought.
They were challenged by a stern voice beyond the rocky barriers, which
demanded:
“Come ye hither as friends or foes?
Whatever may your errand be,
That errand must be told to me;
For none, unless a sanctioned friend,
Can pass the line that I defend.”
This challenge touched the chieftain’s pride, and he haughtily responded
that he came in friendship, to propose the marriage of his son to the
Arab maiden to whom he had taken a silly fancy.
“With shame,
Possess’d of power, and wealth, and fame,
I to his silly humor bend,
And humbly seek his fate to blend
With one inferior. Need I tell
My own high lineage known so well?
If sympathy my heart incline,
Or vengeance, still the means are mine.
Treasure and arms can amply bear
Me through the toils of desert war;
But thou’rt the merchant pedler chief,
And I the buyer; come, sell, be brief!
If thou art wise, accept advice;
Sell and receive a princely price!”
The haughty tone of the applicant was little calculated to call forth a
favorable response, and the proud father replied:
“Madness is neither sin nor crime, we know,
But who’d be linked to madness or a foe?
Thy son is mad—his senses first restore;
In constant prayer the aid of heaven implore.
But while portentous gloom pervades his brain
Disturb me not with this vain suit again.
The jewel sense no purchaser can buy,
Nor treachery the place of sense supply.
Thou hast my reasons, and this parley o’er,
Keep them in mind and trouble me no more.”
The scorn of the father’s reply had been, if possible, more bitter than
the insulting demand, and Syd Omri turned indignantly to his followers
and ordered the homeward march. The desert fates were stern, and
“When Majnūn saw his hopes decay,
Their fairest blossoms fade away,
And friends and sire who might have been
Kind intercessors, rush between
Him and the only wish that shed
One ray of comfort round his head,
He beat his hands, his garments tore,
He cast his fetters on the floor
In broken fragments, and in wrath
Sought the dark wilderness’s path,
And there he wept and sobbed aloud,
Unnoticed by the gazing crowd.”
The kinsmen of Lailī brought to the encampment the news that a youth,
insane and wild, was haunting the desert wastes below the mountain, and
the fair Lailī blushed when she heard the tidings, but dared not venture
forth to meet her maniac lover. The Arab chief swore vengeance against
the hapless youth, and ordered his followers to slay him in the desert.
The father of Majnūn heard of the cruel decree and sent his own
followers into the wilderness to rescue his son.... Again and again he
was carried to his father’s home, and as frequently he made his escape,
always wandering, with unerring instinct, near to his beloved.
“Lailī in beauty, softness, grace,
Surpassed the loveliest of her race.
The killing witchery that lies
In her soft, black, delicious eyes—
Her lashes speak a thousand blisses
Her lips of ruby ask for kisses;
Her cheeks, so beautiful and bright,
Have caught the moon’s refulgent light;
Her form the Cypress tree expresses,
And full and plump, invites caresses.
With all these charms, the heart to win,
There was a ceaseless grief within,—
Yet none beheld her grief, or heard,
She droop’d like broken-winged bird.
Her secret thoughts, her love concealing,
But softly to the terrace stealing
From morn to eve, she gazed around
In hopes her Majnūn might be found.”
An oasis with its cooling streams was near the rocky fortress of the
Bedawīn encampment, and here the tall palms seemed to lean against the
sky, while the doves cooed in the thickets of foliage. Here the gentle
Lailī came day after day, hoping that her lover might venture near. She
gathered the lilies that bloomed around her feet, as she wandered
through the fragrant grove, but her dark eyes were heavy with unshed
tears, when she reclined beneath a mournful cypress tree and softly
chanted her song of faithfulness:
“Oh, faithful friend and lover true,
Still distant from thy Lailī’s view;
Still absent, still beyond her power,
To bring thee to her fragrant bower;
Oh noble youth! still thou art mine,
And Lailī, Lailī still is thine.”
As she pensively sat one day beneath the cypress tree, a youth of kingly
mien passed that way. His eyes rested a moment upon her crimson lips,
and the flowing tresses which were dark as the plume of a raven’s wing—
he saw too the full form with its shapely curves and the beaming
softness of the dark eyes, with their heavy lashes. Ibn Salām was the
honored name of this young prince, who with his suite had sought for a
moment the cooling shades of the palm-tree grove, and he it was who
hastened to her father with a plea for his daughter’s hand. Dazzled by
the gold and position of the suitor, the father of Lailī gave a cordial
consent to the proposed union.
A FRIEND.
The chief of the domain where Majnūn wandered in his pitiful loneliness,
looked with compassion upon him, for one day, while in pursuit of a
bounding deer, he saw the wasted frame and wild look of the despairing
lover. Dismounting from his splendid steed, Noufal, the Arab chief, came
kindly to him and listened to the story so constantly told of love and
suffering. With kindly words the chieftain soothed the restless spirit,
and gently drawing the tortured mind away from its painful thought he
offered nourishment to the sinking body. A change for the better came
over him, and he took the proffered cup and drank, although he drank to
Lailī’s name. Refreshed by Noufal’s kindly ministry and drawn by gentle
urging, Majnūn went with his new friend to his home, and there received
the best of care and hopeful cheer.
“An altered man, his mind at rest,
In customary robes he dressed;
A turban shades his forehead pale,
No more is heard the lover’s wail,
His dungeon gloom exchanged for day,
His cheeks a rosy tint display;
He revels midst the garden sweets,
And still his lip the goblet meets;
But so intense his constant flame
Each cup is quaffed in Lailī’s name.”
The generous Noufal was not content with the change so nearly wrought,
but he gathered his bravest men in battle array, and marched at their
head to the mountain fortress of the Bedawīn encampment. The troops of
Arabian horsemen were halted and sword and helmet glittered in the sun,
while Noufal sent his messenger forward with a demand for the hand of
the coveted bride. His request was haughtily refused, and when the
messenger was again sent forward with a threat of revenge if his wishes
were not complied with, his power and vengeance were alike defied. Then
the word of command rang along the glittering lines. There was a
rattling of helmets and spears, a twanging of the bowstring and a
gallant charge was made upon the foe that was so well entrenched in the
mountain fastnesses. Amidst the clangor of brazen drums and trumpets,
the fearful fight went on and
“Arrows, like birds, on either foeman stood,
Drinking with open beak the vital flood;
The shining daggers in the battle’s heat
Rolled many a head beneath the horse’s feet;
And lightnings hurled by death’s unsparing hand
Spread consternation through the weeping land.”
There was no pause in the sound of the trumpets, no stay in the wild
flight of the arrows, as the dreadful work went on, and the dripping
swords were bathed with the crimson tide of shame.
The shades of night came down ere the fate of the battle was decided,
but the assaulting party had suffered most, and in another hour of
conflict the friends of Majnūn had been undone. With the coming of the
morning light the assault was renewed, and the desert rang again with
the sounds of war; all along the long line glittered the sword and
buckler, the helmet and spear; swords clashed and the desert sands were
wet again with the blood of the fallen. At last the tribe of Lailī’s
sire gave way, and Noufal won the bitter fight, though many of his
bravest men lay bleeding on the burning sand.
“And now the elders of that tribe appear,
And thus implore the victor. Chieftain, hear!
The work of slaughter is complete;
Thou seest our power destroyed; allow
Us wretched suppliants at thy feet
To humbly ask for mercy now.
How many warriors press the plain?
Khanjer and spear have laid them low;
At peace, behold our kinsman slain,
For thou art now without a foe.
Then pardon what of wrong has been;
Let us retire unharmed—unstay’d—
Far from this sanguinary scene,
And take thy prize—the Arab maid.”
The aged father came forth with dust and ashes upon his hoary head, and
admitted that his tribe was fully conquered, and offered the life of his
daughter for a peace offering, while still refusing to allow her to wed
with a maniac.
“My daughter shall be brought at thy command;
The red flames may ascend from blazing brand
And slay their victim, crackling in the air,
And Lailī dutiously shall perish there.
Or, if thou’dst rather see the maiden bleed,
This thirsty sword shall do the dreadful deed;
Dissever at one blow that lovely head,
Her sinless blood by her own father shed!
In all things thou shalt find me faithful, true,
Thy slave I am—what would’st thou have me do?
But mark me; I am not to be beguiled;
I will not to a demon give my child;
I will not to a madman’s wild embrace
Consign the pride and honor of my race,
And wed her to contempt and foul disgrace.”
The chivalry of the desert disdained to tear the child from her father’s
arms, even though that father was a conquered foe. The gallant Noufal,
feeling that he was himself defeated, and that in vain the blood of his
brave men had stained the desert sands, sadly gave the order that the
conquered tribe should be allowed to retire unmolested from the well
fought field.
“And thou and thine may quit the field.
Still armed with khanjer, sword and shield;
Both horse and rider. Thus in vain
Blood has bedewed this thirsty plain.”
With a heavy heart the gallant chief pursued his homeward way with
Majnūn, reckless and desperate, by his side. He tried again to calm the
poignant pangs of hopeless love, and to bless, with gentleness and
tender care, the wounded and despairing spirit.
“But vain his efforts; mountain, wood and plain
Soon heard the maniac’s piercing woes again;
Escaped from listening ear and watchful eye,
Lonely again, in desert wild to lie.”
In another part of the wild domain a cloud of dust on the horizon of the
desert tells of the coming of a troop of horsemen, and soon a wearied
and broken column is seen beneath the clouds of sand which obscure the
blue of heaven. The women of the conquered tribe, who had been placed in
safer quarters, come forth to meet the returning warriors. As the
trampling steeds come nearer they hear the leader’s angry word, as he
breathes his curses, loud and deep, upon the victor in the fight, for he
scarcely cares to survive the blow while burning with the disgrace of
defeat. Poor Lailī listens sadly to the story of her fate, but no hope
of aid can enter her crushed and broken heart. And still the story of
her beauty is borne on every gale, and the neighboring tribes are
wondering for whom her father is keeping the beauteous gem.
THE WEDDING.
At last, the lover comes with his magnificent offerings of embroidered
robes, and carpets worked with silk and gold; the rarest gems were
brought to lay at her feet, and a long line of camels, with their
tinkling bells, were laden with costly presents for the bride of Ibn
Salām.
Beautiful steeds were proudly stepping to the low music of his march,
for a long line of the purest Arabian blood was coursing in their veins.
But while the nuptial pomp and nuptial rites engaged the chieftain’s
household, and every square was ringing with the rattle of drums and the
voice of pipe and cymbal, the stricken bride was sitting sad and lone in
her retreat, mourning for her betrothed, and pleading that she might be
allowed to die rather than to wed the man that she could never love. The
joyous bridegroom came with gorgeous litter and golden throne for the
chosen bride to occupy. He came in richest garb, with happy smiles and
costly jewels, into the presence of his promised bride, but the Arabian
maiden turned with flashing eyes upon the intruder, and informed him
that the betrothal had been made by her father without consulting her.
She declared she would rather die than become a wife unloving, for in
her heart she could find only hatred for the man who was willing to
claim her under circumstances so revolting, and then with the air of a
queen she ordered him to leave her alone. When Ibn Salām heard her
frenzied words, he turned away from the indignant girl and poured his
woes into her father’s ear. The pitiful pleadings of the girl were
unheeded, and the fearful mockery of marriage went on amidst the glare
of trumpets and sounding drum,—went on, with jewels and costly gifts for
the unwilling bride, and all the outward show of happiness and joy. But
though Lailī’s plighted faith to Majnūn seemed so sorely broken, she
still cherished his memory with tenderest thought, and
“Deep in her heart a thousand woes
Disturbed her days’ and nights’ repose
A serpent at its very core
Writhing and gnawing evermore;
And no relief—a prison room
Being now the lonely sufferer’s doom.”
Amidst all the heartaches of humanity the slow movement of sun and stars
still goes on, and the bare horizon of the desert is illumined by the
lamps of heaven. Night with her coolness and dews, comes down upon the
burning sands with the restful touch of peace. Her primeval fountains of
light have gathered for all time around the desert steppes, watching
their silent mysteries, and touching with glory the far-away crowns of
their palms.
Lailī sat in her prison tower, looking out upon the peaceful beauty of
the night, and its soft repose crept into her troubled heart, bringing
with it a message of hope. For days and years she had lived within that
guarded tower, shut like a gem within its stony bed, surrounded by the
dragon watch which her husband still supplied. But hark! there is an
unusual sound beneath her casement; there are flickering lamps and
wailing cries; confused voices are bearing messages to and fro; there is
a death-note in the wild chant which is ringing out upon the night.
“Beneath her casement rings a wild lament,
Death-notes disturb the night; the air is rent
With clamorous voices; every hope is fled,
He breathes no longer—Ibn Salām is dead!
The fever’s rage had nipp’d him in his bloom;
He sank unloved, unpitied, to the tomb.”
Lailī looked up to the face of the moon, and thought of its chilling
rays that fell upon the haggard form of her desert love. She gazed upon
the flashing star that stood like a guardian above his restless sleep,
and then she turned to receive the messengers who brought the formal
tale that her jailor now was dead. And must she mourn for the man she
loathed? Ah, yes; the Arab law must be obeyed, and she must assume the
garments of woe! It was easy for her to weep,
“But all the burning tears she shed
Were for Majnūn, not the dead.’”
The days went by with weary feet, and the night still looked upon a
lonely heart, for the Arab law maintained that years must pass before
one breath of freedom could be given to the woman in the rock-bound
tower. But Lailī arose one morn with a new light in her dark eyes, and
called her faithful Zyd, the boy who had long served his gentle lady,
and to whom her word was the law supreme. To him she said:
“To-day is not the day of hope,
Which only gives to fancy scope;
It is the day our hopes completing,
It is the lover’s day of meeting!
Rise up! the world is full of joy;
Rise up! and serve thy mistress, boy;
Together, where the cypress grows,
Place the red tulip and the rose;
And let the long dissever’d meet—
Two lovers, in communion sweet.”
THE MEETING IN THE DESERT.
Then with her faithful attendant she went cautiously forth, and together
they threaded their way over the desolate sand and through the grove of
palms; but she stayed not to gather the lilies blooming around her feet—
she waited not to catch the breath of the roses, or to drink of the tiny
stream, whose life-giving waves had made this little oasis to bloom like
a garden in the midst of the desert. But she hastened on her way, and
the boy ran by her side wondering why she sped so quickly through the
grove. On, beyond its cooling shade and over the barren steepes, she
pressed with unfaltering feet until she saw the haggard form of her
lover; then she stepped gently to his side and laid her hand upon his
arm. “Ah! Majnūn, it is thy Lailī that has come;” his mind awoke with
one glad cry, for the familiar voice with its caressing tones rang with
the notes of peace and joy through the darkened chambers of his brain.
For one glad moment he held her in his arms, and then, overcome with
emotion, he fainted at her feet. She quickly knelt beside him, and then
“His head which in the dust was laid
Upon her lap she drew, and dried
His tears with tender hand and pressed
Him close and closer to her breast;
‘Be here thy home beloved, adored,
Revive, be blest;—oh! Lailī’s lord.’
At last he breathed, around he gazed,
As from her arms his head he raised—
‘Art thou,’ he faintly said, ‘a friend
Who takes me to her gentle breast—
Dost thou in truth so fondly bend
Thine eyes upon a wretch distressed?
Are these thy unveiled cheeks I see
Can bliss be yet in store for me?
I thought it all a dream, so oft
Such dreams come in my madness now.
Is this thy hand so fair and soft?
Is this in sooth my Lailī’s brow?
In sleep these transports I may share
But when I wake ’tis all despair!
Let me gaze on thee—e’en though it be
An empty shade alone I see;
How shall I bear what once I bore
When thou shalt vanish as before?’”
Then the beauteous vision rested within his arms, with her dark ringlets
flowing around her smooth neck, and the sweet confession of her love
beaming in her tremulous eyes. He saw her chin of dimpled sweetness, and
the soft cheek with its crimson flush, then her matchless voice came
again to his ears with its message of tenderness.
“To hope, dear wanderer, revive;
Lo Zemzems,[265] cool and bright,
Flow at thy feet—then drink and live
Seared heart! be glad for bounteous heaven
At length our recompense hath given,
Beloved one, tell me all thy will
And know thy Lailī faithful still.
Here in this desert, join our hands,
Our souls were joined long, long before;
And if our fate such doom demands,
Together wander evermore.
Oh Kais! never let us part,
What is the world to thee and me?
My universe is where thou art
And is not Lailī all to thee?”
The tempted lover listened, with his soul in his longing eyes, but he
knew that he could not make her his wife according to the Arab law—they
could not be legally wedded, and his love for her was too pure and
unselfish to accept the sacrifice that she proposed to make. To him,
then, was given the hardest task ever given into lover’s hands—that of
saving the woman that he worshipped from his own embrace. After the
years of suffering that had been his, could he push the tempting cup
from his thirsting lip? Was the weakened frame strong enough to carry
out the dictates of his will? Nay, did God require such a sacrifice
after all these years of loyalty and truth? Were they not already wedded
in his pure sight? Had she not always been his own in the eyes of
heaven? These questions surged through his throbbing brain as he held
the woman he loved in his close embrace. One sweet taste of heaven,
surely the Lord had given, in the desert of his wasted life—one moment
of bliss wherein he might taste the lips he had hungered for, so long.
But should he therefore outrage his own conscience, and sacrifice the
woman he loved, for the temporary enjoyment of the present life? His
manhood and his conscience answered, never. He clasped her closer to his
aching heart—he kissed again the tempting lips—his eyes lingered with
one long sad look upon the lovely face, and then he slowly answered:
“How well, how fatally I love,
My madness and my misery prove;
All earthly hopes I could resign—
Nay, life itself, to call thee mine.
But shall I make thy spotless name—
That sacred spell—a word of shame?
Shall selfish Majnūn’s heart be blest
And Lailī prove the Arab’s jest?
The city’s gates though we may close
We cannot still our conscience’s throes.
No—we have met,—a moment’s bliss
Has dawned upon my gloom in vain
Life yields no more a joy like this,
And all to come can be but pain.
Thou, thou, adored! might be mine own
A thousand deaths let Majnūn die
Ere but a breath by slander blown
Should sully Lailī’s purity!
Go, then—and to thy tribe return,
Fly from my arms that clasp thee yet;
I feel my brain with frenzy burn—
Oh, joy, could I but thus forget!”
With another kiss upon the silent lips—another close embrace, the manly
lover tore himself away to another struggle between death and life;
still warring in the unequal strife with fate, he told to the desert
wind, his piteous tale:
“The fevered thoughts that on me prey
Death’s sea alone can sweep away.
I found the bird of Paradise
That long I sought with care;
Fate snatched it from my longing eyes—
I held—despair.
Wail, Lailī, wail our fortunes crossed,
Weep, Majnūn, weep—forever lost.”
DEATH OF THE LOVERS.
Time passed by on leaden feet, for he no longer carried in his hands the
flowers of hope. No longer the bare horizon of the desert was illumined
with the mirage of rivers and palms. Fate had done her worst, and Death,
the great consoler, waited near to place his seal with the touch of
peace upon the weary brow. The flower of the desert lay again in the
tower where she had passed so many wasted years, and feeling that her
life was going out with the glory of the setting sun, she called her
mother to her side and pleaded that when she was gone Majnūn might be
allowed to weep over her grave.
“Again it was the task of faithful Zyd,
Through far extending plain and forest wide,
To seek the man of woes, and tell
The fate of her, alas! he loved so well.
With bleeding heart he found his lone abode,
Watering with tears the path he rode.
And beating his sad breast, Majnūn perceived
His friend approach, and asked him why he grieved?
‘Alas!’ he cried, ‘the hail has crushed my bowers,
A sudden storm has blighted all my flowers;
Thy cypress tree o’erthrown, the leaves are sear;
The moon has fallen from her lucid sphere;
Lailī is dead.’
His sad duty was done, and the bereaved lover lay unconscious at his
feet. With gentle ministry the stricken man was roused from his swoon,
and then he started toward the loved one’s grave.
“Now he threads
The mazes of the shadowy wood, which spreads
Perpetual gloom, and now emerges where
No bower nor grove obstructs the fiery air;
Climbs the mountain’s brow, o’er hill and plain
Urged quicker onward by his burning brain,
Across the desert’s arid boundary hies
Zyd, like a shadow, following where he flies.
And when the tomb of Lailī meets his view,
Prostrate he falls, the ground his tears bedew;
‘Alas!’ he cries, ‘no more shall I behold
That angel face, that form of heavenly mould,
For thou hast quitted this contentious life,
This scene of endless treachery and strife;
And I, like thee, shall soon my fetters burst,
And quench, in draughts of heavenly love, my thirst.
There where angelic bliss can never cloy,
We soon shall meet in everlasting joy;
The taper of our souls, more clear and bright,
Will then be lustrous with immortal light.’”
The troubled day was closing fast in night, and though he received the
kindly ministry of his friends, only a few more weeks had passed away,
when the stricken lover was found with his head resting lovingly upon
her tomb, while upon his loyal brow there rested the peaceful touch of
death. His weary heart had found rest at last, rest beyond the fevered
dream of life, with all its anxious hopes and fears. Reverent hands
opened Lailī’s tomb, and they laid the stilled heart beside her own.
“One promise bound their faithful hearts—one bed
Of cold, cold earth united them when dead.
Severed in life, how cruel was their doom!
Ne’er to be joined but in the silent tomb!”
THE VISION OF ZYD.
No heart more loyal was left behind than that of the faithful page who
so long had done the lady’s bidding. He often pondered on the faith and
devotion of the lovers, and one night he slept alone beneath the desert
sky, when the canopy of heaven seemed to roll away. A new morning seemed
to dawn in glory upon the waiting earth, and touch the distant mountain
peaks with crowns of light. Beneath the radiance of its coming, the
secrets of the earth, which had been written in the roll-call of the
ages, were read by the waiting millions, for the age of recompense had
come. The desert sands gave way to vistas of golden fruit and blooming
roses; the white lilies gleamed amidst the green verdure, and the almond
blossoms waved in silvery sprays upon the passing breeze. The
nightingale sang in fadeless bowers, and the low, sweet voices of the
ring-doves were heard among the feathery plumes of the palms. The desert
voices gave way to the rich melodies from harp and shell. The fronded
palms pressed upward, and a royal throne, with gems and gold, stood
beneath their protecting shade.
“Upon that throne, in blissful state,
The long divided lovers sate,
Resplendent with seraphic light,
They held a cup with diamonds bright.”
This cup was filled with the nectar of immortality, and, quaffing its
rich contents, they wandered away, hand in hand, through the long aisles
of unfading flowers.
“The dreamer who this vision saw,
Demanded with becoming awe,
What sacred names the happy pair
In Irem-bowers were wont to bear.
A voice replied: ‘That sparkling moon
Is Lailī still—her friend Majnūn;
Deprived in your frail world of bliss,
They reap their great reward in this!’”
Zyd wakened from his wondrous dream, and, rejoicing, told the story of
his glad vision. The sons of the desert took up the mystic theme, and
still repeat the promise that pure and loyal love can never fail of its
final reward.
“Saki! Nizāmī’s song is sung;
The Persian poet’s pearls are strung;
Then fill again the goblet high!
Thou wouldst not ask the reveler why
Fill to the love that changes never!
Fill to the love that lives forever!
That purified by earthly woes,
At last with bliss seraphic glows.