XXIThe Nightingale in His Amorous Pain Anxiously Addresses the Radiant Moon

Whilehe was thus oppressed with many a woe,Thus he addressed hischansonto the night:“What means, O night, this dark and murkiness,Which so torments with terror every soul?Is it from absence from the loved one come,That now the moon withholds her welcome beam?Is all the radiance of the sunlight quenched?And all the circling Pleiads put to flight?Has my lament extinguished Saturn’s ray,So that his rings no longer flash their beams?Has Jupiter his happy seat forsakenBecause of the unhappiness of earth?Is it that Mars has fallen by the sword,That therefore all the heavens are clothed in black?Why does the sun refuse to show his face?Is he, the fount of light, to darkness turned?Has Anahid, in hopeless apathy,Flung to the ground her lute of poesy?Is Mercury, heaven’s letter-writer, grownBlack as the ink that dries upon his pen?Why does the world this face of darkness wear?Is it that my lament has brought it gloom?Why is it morning fails to show itself?Surely mychansonhas not held it back.Why is the night so slow in its advance?Is it that day brings absence from my love?Surely the day of resurrection dawns,When all the stars fall down upon the earth!Who has thus closed the window of the moon?And broken the golden lampstand of the sun?Is it the operation of my sighsThat tinges all the earth with dismal hues?And has the dart of light forsaken heaven?And does the sky wear mourning for my woe?The constellated eagle stops his flight.Or has he flitted to the realms of gloom?Has Vega fallen, with a broken heart,Down from her pinnacle of happiness?”When he had uttered loud this lone complaint,He with his spirit thus soliloquized:“Why is it that the ruler of the worldHas set me in this valley of distress?For neither to my mother nor my sireHave I been aught but minister of pain.Oh, better were it I had ne’er been born,And all my blood had flowed away like milk!So that, before I closed my eyes in sleep,Death’s sword had doomed me to forgetfulness.Or while I yet in cradle bands reposed,My life had early passed away from me.Oh, that the mother’s milk that wet my lipsHad turned to poison in that very hour!Oh, that an arrow swift had struck my heart,And parted at a stroke the thread of life!Oh, that some poison-fanged and treacherous snakeHad bitten me to death upon my bed!Oh, that some vulture fierce had carried meTo its lone eyrie in the heights of Kaf!And when the soft hand of a mother dearArrayed her infant in the richest robes,Oh, that some sturdy robber of the road,For love of all my gold and finery,Had without pity drawn his rapier keenAnd from my shoulders struck my head to earth!Why does the world refrain from setting me,As its great foe, ’mid perils and mishaps?Why is it this calamity of woeHas failed to cleave my bosom unawares?”As thus he sang aloud his dolorous lay,The moon came out upon the clearing sky,And when he looked on heaven’s expanded field,Thus he addressed the goddess of the night.

Whilehe was thus oppressed with many a woe,Thus he addressed hischansonto the night:“What means, O night, this dark and murkiness,Which so torments with terror every soul?Is it from absence from the loved one come,That now the moon withholds her welcome beam?Is all the radiance of the sunlight quenched?And all the circling Pleiads put to flight?Has my lament extinguished Saturn’s ray,So that his rings no longer flash their beams?Has Jupiter his happy seat forsakenBecause of the unhappiness of earth?Is it that Mars has fallen by the sword,That therefore all the heavens are clothed in black?Why does the sun refuse to show his face?Is he, the fount of light, to darkness turned?Has Anahid, in hopeless apathy,Flung to the ground her lute of poesy?Is Mercury, heaven’s letter-writer, grownBlack as the ink that dries upon his pen?Why does the world this face of darkness wear?Is it that my lament has brought it gloom?Why is it morning fails to show itself?Surely mychansonhas not held it back.Why is the night so slow in its advance?Is it that day brings absence from my love?Surely the day of resurrection dawns,When all the stars fall down upon the earth!Who has thus closed the window of the moon?And broken the golden lampstand of the sun?Is it the operation of my sighsThat tinges all the earth with dismal hues?And has the dart of light forsaken heaven?And does the sky wear mourning for my woe?The constellated eagle stops his flight.Or has he flitted to the realms of gloom?Has Vega fallen, with a broken heart,Down from her pinnacle of happiness?”When he had uttered loud this lone complaint,He with his spirit thus soliloquized:“Why is it that the ruler of the worldHas set me in this valley of distress?For neither to my mother nor my sireHave I been aught but minister of pain.Oh, better were it I had ne’er been born,And all my blood had flowed away like milk!So that, before I closed my eyes in sleep,Death’s sword had doomed me to forgetfulness.Or while I yet in cradle bands reposed,My life had early passed away from me.Oh, that the mother’s milk that wet my lipsHad turned to poison in that very hour!Oh, that an arrow swift had struck my heart,And parted at a stroke the thread of life!Oh, that some poison-fanged and treacherous snakeHad bitten me to death upon my bed!Oh, that some vulture fierce had carried meTo its lone eyrie in the heights of Kaf!And when the soft hand of a mother dearArrayed her infant in the richest robes,Oh, that some sturdy robber of the road,For love of all my gold and finery,Had without pity drawn his rapier keenAnd from my shoulders struck my head to earth!Why does the world refrain from setting me,As its great foe, ’mid perils and mishaps?Why is it this calamity of woeHas failed to cleave my bosom unawares?”As thus he sang aloud his dolorous lay,The moon came out upon the clearing sky,And when he looked on heaven’s expanded field,Thus he addressed the goddess of the night.

Whilehe was thus oppressed with many a woe,Thus he addressed hischansonto the night:“What means, O night, this dark and murkiness,Which so torments with terror every soul?Is it from absence from the loved one come,That now the moon withholds her welcome beam?Is all the radiance of the sunlight quenched?And all the circling Pleiads put to flight?Has my lament extinguished Saturn’s ray,So that his rings no longer flash their beams?Has Jupiter his happy seat forsakenBecause of the unhappiness of earth?Is it that Mars has fallen by the sword,That therefore all the heavens are clothed in black?Why does the sun refuse to show his face?Is he, the fount of light, to darkness turned?Has Anahid, in hopeless apathy,Flung to the ground her lute of poesy?Is Mercury, heaven’s letter-writer, grownBlack as the ink that dries upon his pen?Why does the world this face of darkness wear?Is it that my lament has brought it gloom?Why is it morning fails to show itself?Surely mychansonhas not held it back.Why is the night so slow in its advance?Is it that day brings absence from my love?Surely the day of resurrection dawns,When all the stars fall down upon the earth!Who has thus closed the window of the moon?And broken the golden lampstand of the sun?Is it the operation of my sighsThat tinges all the earth with dismal hues?And has the dart of light forsaken heaven?And does the sky wear mourning for my woe?The constellated eagle stops his flight.Or has he flitted to the realms of gloom?Has Vega fallen, with a broken heart,Down from her pinnacle of happiness?”When he had uttered loud this lone complaint,He with his spirit thus soliloquized:“Why is it that the ruler of the worldHas set me in this valley of distress?For neither to my mother nor my sireHave I been aught but minister of pain.Oh, better were it I had ne’er been born,And all my blood had flowed away like milk!So that, before I closed my eyes in sleep,Death’s sword had doomed me to forgetfulness.Or while I yet in cradle bands reposed,My life had early passed away from me.Oh, that the mother’s milk that wet my lipsHad turned to poison in that very hour!Oh, that an arrow swift had struck my heart,And parted at a stroke the thread of life!Oh, that some poison-fanged and treacherous snakeHad bitten me to death upon my bed!Oh, that some vulture fierce had carried meTo its lone eyrie in the heights of Kaf!And when the soft hand of a mother dearArrayed her infant in the richest robes,Oh, that some sturdy robber of the road,For love of all my gold and finery,Had without pity drawn his rapier keenAnd from my shoulders struck my head to earth!Why does the world refrain from setting me,As its great foe, ’mid perils and mishaps?Why is it this calamity of woeHas failed to cleave my bosom unawares?”As thus he sang aloud his dolorous lay,The moon came out upon the clearing sky,And when he looked on heaven’s expanded field,Thus he addressed the goddess of the night.

Hesang in agony, “O radiant moon,That fillest all the welkin with thy light,Dost thou in some bright sun thy mansion find,Whence thou derivest thine enraptured beam?And hast thou thence a borrowed splendor gained,With which to fill the world thou gazest on?The darkness that is dense and hideousTurns at thy coming into splendor clear.Leave me not comfortless this whole night long,But guide me to my darling’s wakeful bower.To me, a wanderer on the rough highway,Be guide and leader on a path direct.And, when thou movest in thine orbit blest,Let thy light flow like some enchanting lay.Thou art indeed the glowing sun of night,Flinging o’er heaven the light flecks of thy face.Oh, cast thy radiance on this friend of thine,Who wanders with no sunshine in his life.Be to the poor, who consolation need,The balm for every wound ’neath which they faint.One glance of thine has power to dissipateThe fevered pangs of sufferance in the poor.Needy and friendless and of all forlorn,Fit object he of thy consoling aid.And since his sorrows are beyond compare,And with no changing breath he bears thee love,And since his love to thee is reckoned crime,Do thou absolve him of his guiltiness.For if thou turn thee from a beggar’s path,Before the people thou shalt blush with shame.When men rebuke him, and blot out his name,Or make his name forgotten by his kind,If thou at last become averse to him,There is no hope of pity for his soul.”While the poor lover thus his mourning made,The welkin sparkled with the glance of day.

Hesang in agony, “O radiant moon,That fillest all the welkin with thy light,Dost thou in some bright sun thy mansion find,Whence thou derivest thine enraptured beam?And hast thou thence a borrowed splendor gained,With which to fill the world thou gazest on?The darkness that is dense and hideousTurns at thy coming into splendor clear.Leave me not comfortless this whole night long,But guide me to my darling’s wakeful bower.To me, a wanderer on the rough highway,Be guide and leader on a path direct.And, when thou movest in thine orbit blest,Let thy light flow like some enchanting lay.Thou art indeed the glowing sun of night,Flinging o’er heaven the light flecks of thy face.Oh, cast thy radiance on this friend of thine,Who wanders with no sunshine in his life.Be to the poor, who consolation need,The balm for every wound ’neath which they faint.One glance of thine has power to dissipateThe fevered pangs of sufferance in the poor.Needy and friendless and of all forlorn,Fit object he of thy consoling aid.And since his sorrows are beyond compare,And with no changing breath he bears thee love,And since his love to thee is reckoned crime,Do thou absolve him of his guiltiness.For if thou turn thee from a beggar’s path,Before the people thou shalt blush with shame.When men rebuke him, and blot out his name,Or make his name forgotten by his kind,If thou at last become averse to him,There is no hope of pity for his soul.”While the poor lover thus his mourning made,The welkin sparkled with the glance of day.

Hesang in agony, “O radiant moon,That fillest all the welkin with thy light,Dost thou in some bright sun thy mansion find,Whence thou derivest thine enraptured beam?And hast thou thence a borrowed splendor gained,With which to fill the world thou gazest on?The darkness that is dense and hideousTurns at thy coming into splendor clear.Leave me not comfortless this whole night long,But guide me to my darling’s wakeful bower.To me, a wanderer on the rough highway,Be guide and leader on a path direct.And, when thou movest in thine orbit blest,Let thy light flow like some enchanting lay.Thou art indeed the glowing sun of night,Flinging o’er heaven the light flecks of thy face.Oh, cast thy radiance on this friend of thine,Who wanders with no sunshine in his life.Be to the poor, who consolation need,The balm for every wound ’neath which they faint.One glance of thine has power to dissipateThe fevered pangs of sufferance in the poor.Needy and friendless and of all forlorn,Fit object he of thy consoling aid.And since his sorrows are beyond compare,And with no changing breath he bears thee love,And since his love to thee is reckoned crime,Do thou absolve him of his guiltiness.For if thou turn thee from a beggar’s path,Before the people thou shalt blush with shame.When men rebuke him, and blot out his name,Or make his name forgotten by his kind,If thou at last become averse to him,There is no hope of pity for his soul.”While the poor lover thus his mourning made,The welkin sparkled with the glance of day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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