Fora long time bewailed the NightingaleHis agony in many a tender trill,And yet the Rose came never into view,And never saw one sparkle of the truth.He never saw her in his view appear,She never mentioned with her voice his name.The bird continued in his constancy,And her approach was ever far away.She had no true acquaintance with his grief,Though patience still was torture to his breast.Then said to him at last the fool of love,“Why is it that I do not write to her?I cannot speak to others my lament,I will to her myself my plight explain;I will the sufferings which o’erflow my heartAnd all my agony recount to her.My eyelashes shall serve me for a penAnd from mine eyes I will my ink distil;The tears which drip like blood beneath my lidsAre ink enough to write my love letter.”With pain he took the pen into his handAnd wrote his letter with a bleeding heart.Praise formed the exordium of this love-letter,Praise both of God and of the prophets blest.Then said he: “O beloved of my heart,Thou uncompassionate of those who love,Is there no end to thy prevailing charm?Is there no end to my surpassing pain?Is thy hard-heartedness persistent still?And is thy love enchantment without bound?Is it indeed the custom of the fairThat their great beauty should be pitiless?Oh, leave thine hardness, prayers of love regard,Look on the desolation of my heart.If lovely things were ever obdurate,Still might they with their hardness feel desire;Let not this soul in ardent passion faint,And this cleft bosom perish in its fire.From keen desire by night and day I mourn,My bosom and my eyes are wrought with grief.The sword of agony has pierced me throughAnd altered quite the habit of my mind,For patience I no longer have the strength,Nor can I longer separation bear.Oh, pity me, mine own, for I am weak,I am o’erwrought and without strength to-day.The sword of separation cleaves my breastAnd tints me with the tulip’s ruddied eye.My tears are like the Oxus of mine eyes,Pale as the lime the color of my cheeks.Have pity on me in my feebleness—My strength and force have ebbed away from me.Have pity on me. Patience dies in me,The sword of absence penetrates my soul.No longer patience can endure the strain,And on thy head my blood will be avenged.Reject me not, O Rose, but pity me,Is not the Rose the Nightingale’s delight?The beauty of the Rose’s charm appearedLong since through coming of the Nightingale.Oh, look not angry on thy paramour;What is he but the mirror of thy charms?For still through Medshnun’s rapture wild and strangeWas Leila’s flawless beauty long renowned.And if no moth had ever been consumedThe taper ne’er had known the adoring wing,And the more love the pining lover feels,So much the more his love should pine for him.And when the lover still persists in love,The one beloved should never turn away.Oh, thou hard-hearted one, be not incensed,But hear the prayer of one who dies for thee,For through thy hardness and thy self-contentThou hast to nothing brought thy worshipper.Let it be granted I am not thy peer;No grace would be in pity if I were.O queen, with thy compassion make me glad,And free me from the fetters of despair.”And when the Nightingale his letter closed,His next reflection was on sending it.“How shall I light upon a messengerTo bring this letter to my best beloved?”At last he found a fitting messengerTo take his love epistle to the queen.
Fora long time bewailed the NightingaleHis agony in many a tender trill,And yet the Rose came never into view,And never saw one sparkle of the truth.He never saw her in his view appear,She never mentioned with her voice his name.The bird continued in his constancy,And her approach was ever far away.She had no true acquaintance with his grief,Though patience still was torture to his breast.Then said to him at last the fool of love,“Why is it that I do not write to her?I cannot speak to others my lament,I will to her myself my plight explain;I will the sufferings which o’erflow my heartAnd all my agony recount to her.My eyelashes shall serve me for a penAnd from mine eyes I will my ink distil;The tears which drip like blood beneath my lidsAre ink enough to write my love letter.”With pain he took the pen into his handAnd wrote his letter with a bleeding heart.Praise formed the exordium of this love-letter,Praise both of God and of the prophets blest.Then said he: “O beloved of my heart,Thou uncompassionate of those who love,Is there no end to thy prevailing charm?Is there no end to my surpassing pain?Is thy hard-heartedness persistent still?And is thy love enchantment without bound?Is it indeed the custom of the fairThat their great beauty should be pitiless?Oh, leave thine hardness, prayers of love regard,Look on the desolation of my heart.If lovely things were ever obdurate,Still might they with their hardness feel desire;Let not this soul in ardent passion faint,And this cleft bosom perish in its fire.From keen desire by night and day I mourn,My bosom and my eyes are wrought with grief.The sword of agony has pierced me throughAnd altered quite the habit of my mind,For patience I no longer have the strength,Nor can I longer separation bear.Oh, pity me, mine own, for I am weak,I am o’erwrought and without strength to-day.The sword of separation cleaves my breastAnd tints me with the tulip’s ruddied eye.My tears are like the Oxus of mine eyes,Pale as the lime the color of my cheeks.Have pity on me in my feebleness—My strength and force have ebbed away from me.Have pity on me. Patience dies in me,The sword of absence penetrates my soul.No longer patience can endure the strain,And on thy head my blood will be avenged.Reject me not, O Rose, but pity me,Is not the Rose the Nightingale’s delight?The beauty of the Rose’s charm appearedLong since through coming of the Nightingale.Oh, look not angry on thy paramour;What is he but the mirror of thy charms?For still through Medshnun’s rapture wild and strangeWas Leila’s flawless beauty long renowned.And if no moth had ever been consumedThe taper ne’er had known the adoring wing,And the more love the pining lover feels,So much the more his love should pine for him.And when the lover still persists in love,The one beloved should never turn away.Oh, thou hard-hearted one, be not incensed,But hear the prayer of one who dies for thee,For through thy hardness and thy self-contentThou hast to nothing brought thy worshipper.Let it be granted I am not thy peer;No grace would be in pity if I were.O queen, with thy compassion make me glad,And free me from the fetters of despair.”And when the Nightingale his letter closed,His next reflection was on sending it.“How shall I light upon a messengerTo bring this letter to my best beloved?”At last he found a fitting messengerTo take his love epistle to the queen.
Fora long time bewailed the NightingaleHis agony in many a tender trill,And yet the Rose came never into view,And never saw one sparkle of the truth.He never saw her in his view appear,She never mentioned with her voice his name.The bird continued in his constancy,And her approach was ever far away.She had no true acquaintance with his grief,Though patience still was torture to his breast.Then said to him at last the fool of love,“Why is it that I do not write to her?I cannot speak to others my lament,I will to her myself my plight explain;I will the sufferings which o’erflow my heartAnd all my agony recount to her.My eyelashes shall serve me for a penAnd from mine eyes I will my ink distil;The tears which drip like blood beneath my lidsAre ink enough to write my love letter.”With pain he took the pen into his handAnd wrote his letter with a bleeding heart.Praise formed the exordium of this love-letter,Praise both of God and of the prophets blest.Then said he: “O beloved of my heart,Thou uncompassionate of those who love,Is there no end to thy prevailing charm?Is there no end to my surpassing pain?Is thy hard-heartedness persistent still?And is thy love enchantment without bound?Is it indeed the custom of the fairThat their great beauty should be pitiless?Oh, leave thine hardness, prayers of love regard,Look on the desolation of my heart.If lovely things were ever obdurate,Still might they with their hardness feel desire;Let not this soul in ardent passion faint,And this cleft bosom perish in its fire.From keen desire by night and day I mourn,My bosom and my eyes are wrought with grief.The sword of agony has pierced me throughAnd altered quite the habit of my mind,For patience I no longer have the strength,Nor can I longer separation bear.Oh, pity me, mine own, for I am weak,I am o’erwrought and without strength to-day.The sword of separation cleaves my breastAnd tints me with the tulip’s ruddied eye.My tears are like the Oxus of mine eyes,Pale as the lime the color of my cheeks.Have pity on me in my feebleness—My strength and force have ebbed away from me.Have pity on me. Patience dies in me,The sword of absence penetrates my soul.No longer patience can endure the strain,And on thy head my blood will be avenged.Reject me not, O Rose, but pity me,Is not the Rose the Nightingale’s delight?The beauty of the Rose’s charm appearedLong since through coming of the Nightingale.Oh, look not angry on thy paramour;What is he but the mirror of thy charms?For still through Medshnun’s rapture wild and strangeWas Leila’s flawless beauty long renowned.And if no moth had ever been consumedThe taper ne’er had known the adoring wing,And the more love the pining lover feels,So much the more his love should pine for him.And when the lover still persists in love,The one beloved should never turn away.Oh, thou hard-hearted one, be not incensed,But hear the prayer of one who dies for thee,For through thy hardness and thy self-contentThou hast to nothing brought thy worshipper.Let it be granted I am not thy peer;No grace would be in pity if I were.O queen, with thy compassion make me glad,And free me from the fetters of despair.”And when the Nightingale his letter closed,His next reflection was on sending it.“How shall I light upon a messengerTo bring this letter to my best beloved?”At last he found a fitting messengerTo take his love epistle to the queen.
Inthose times dwelt in Gulistan a youth,Lovely and silver-bright and kind in mien.He was a letter-carrier fast and safe,And stood as messenger before the queen.This youthful letter-carrier, silver-bright,Whose manners were as radiant as his face,Skilful and sure in bearing a despatch,Held ever in his hand a written roll.The jasmine’s starry radiance was his,The ardor and the stature of a tree,His elegance adorned the garden glade,And Sandbach is the name they gave to him.The Nightingale his orders gave to himAnd poured his secret in a faithful breast,And said to him, “O generous friend of mine,May the Most High have mercy on thy soul!Why shouldst thou not bring tidings to the queenOf all her slave has dreamt about her charms?If thou this letter wilt convey for me,All that I have in future shall be thine,Since yonder distant loveliness through theeMay show itself propitious to my prayer.”The Sandbach the commission undertook,And said: “’Tis well; cheer up. I only hopeThy letter that is written by thy handMay carry no misfortune to the queen.”He took the folded missive in his hand,And his foot followed on his hand’s despatch.Low bowed he when he reached the Rose’s seat,And gave the love-letter into her hand.The Rose received from him thebillet-doux,And read the running letters of its page.And when she understood the note’s intent,And how the wistful bird in torture pined,Then said she: “Tell me how the poor man fares.Does he still mourn, and for compassion cry?Does separation still his bosom tear?Does his heart bleed, as bleeds the tulip’s heart?Give my heart’s greeting to the wretched one,And wish him healing of his misery.May he no longer mourn if fate permit,And be his heart no more consumed in woe.I will henceforth be faithful unto him,And bend myself to succor his distress;Since he has separated been from me,Consumed within the furnace of his pain,I will henceforth with greater tendernessAssuage the fiery ardor of the wight.And for a proof I feel in honor boundTo send an answer to these words of love.”Then straight she took into her hands a pen,And wrote an answer to the Nightingale.
Inthose times dwelt in Gulistan a youth,Lovely and silver-bright and kind in mien.He was a letter-carrier fast and safe,And stood as messenger before the queen.This youthful letter-carrier, silver-bright,Whose manners were as radiant as his face,Skilful and sure in bearing a despatch,Held ever in his hand a written roll.The jasmine’s starry radiance was his,The ardor and the stature of a tree,His elegance adorned the garden glade,And Sandbach is the name they gave to him.The Nightingale his orders gave to himAnd poured his secret in a faithful breast,And said to him, “O generous friend of mine,May the Most High have mercy on thy soul!Why shouldst thou not bring tidings to the queenOf all her slave has dreamt about her charms?If thou this letter wilt convey for me,All that I have in future shall be thine,Since yonder distant loveliness through theeMay show itself propitious to my prayer.”The Sandbach the commission undertook,And said: “’Tis well; cheer up. I only hopeThy letter that is written by thy handMay carry no misfortune to the queen.”He took the folded missive in his hand,And his foot followed on his hand’s despatch.Low bowed he when he reached the Rose’s seat,And gave the love-letter into her hand.The Rose received from him thebillet-doux,And read the running letters of its page.And when she understood the note’s intent,And how the wistful bird in torture pined,Then said she: “Tell me how the poor man fares.Does he still mourn, and for compassion cry?Does separation still his bosom tear?Does his heart bleed, as bleeds the tulip’s heart?Give my heart’s greeting to the wretched one,And wish him healing of his misery.May he no longer mourn if fate permit,And be his heart no more consumed in woe.I will henceforth be faithful unto him,And bend myself to succor his distress;Since he has separated been from me,Consumed within the furnace of his pain,I will henceforth with greater tendernessAssuage the fiery ardor of the wight.And for a proof I feel in honor boundTo send an answer to these words of love.”Then straight she took into her hands a pen,And wrote an answer to the Nightingale.
Inthose times dwelt in Gulistan a youth,Lovely and silver-bright and kind in mien.He was a letter-carrier fast and safe,And stood as messenger before the queen.This youthful letter-carrier, silver-bright,Whose manners were as radiant as his face,Skilful and sure in bearing a despatch,Held ever in his hand a written roll.The jasmine’s starry radiance was his,The ardor and the stature of a tree,His elegance adorned the garden glade,And Sandbach is the name they gave to him.The Nightingale his orders gave to himAnd poured his secret in a faithful breast,And said to him, “O generous friend of mine,May the Most High have mercy on thy soul!Why shouldst thou not bring tidings to the queenOf all her slave has dreamt about her charms?If thou this letter wilt convey for me,All that I have in future shall be thine,Since yonder distant loveliness through theeMay show itself propitious to my prayer.”The Sandbach the commission undertook,And said: “’Tis well; cheer up. I only hopeThy letter that is written by thy handMay carry no misfortune to the queen.”He took the folded missive in his hand,And his foot followed on his hand’s despatch.Low bowed he when he reached the Rose’s seat,And gave the love-letter into her hand.The Rose received from him thebillet-doux,And read the running letters of its page.And when she understood the note’s intent,And how the wistful bird in torture pined,Then said she: “Tell me how the poor man fares.Does he still mourn, and for compassion cry?Does separation still his bosom tear?Does his heart bleed, as bleeds the tulip’s heart?Give my heart’s greeting to the wretched one,And wish him healing of his misery.May he no longer mourn if fate permit,And be his heart no more consumed in woe.I will henceforth be faithful unto him,And bend myself to succor his distress;Since he has separated been from me,Consumed within the furnace of his pain,I will henceforth with greater tendernessAssuage the fiery ardor of the wight.And for a proof I feel in honor boundTo send an answer to these words of love.”Then straight she took into her hands a pen,And wrote an answer to the Nightingale.
Theletter thus began, “Now praise to God,A thousand greetings to his prophets be!”Then she continued: “O thou wanderer wild,O sick at heart that knowest no medicine,’Tis love that has encumbered all thy lifeAnd bound thee up in this distraction’s coil.How is it that the misery of thy loveAnd separation has so altered thee?How should my absence so affect thy heart,And what concern is my heart’s love to thee?Does separation’s knife thy spirit wound,And has concupiscence thy heart inflamed?And are thy eyes still wet with bitter tears,And sorrow, does it desolate thy soul?What ails thee, friend? Art thou not well in health?Or art thou always languishing in pain?Art thou of me so fiercely amorousThat thou thus hastenest to enjoy my love?I see, poor wretch, that misery drives thee so,That I from sympathy must faithful be.’Tis time that I obedient to thy needShould be, and thou shouldst take me for a friend.That I should yield my beauty to thy handSo long as thou art worthy of the gift.Thou hast so long been separation’s slave,Thou now should be fruition’s honored king.Long hast thou drunk dark separation’s draught.Now pledge me in enjoyment’s nectary cup.He who is bold upon the path of loveDeserves to see his loved one face to face.Be happy, then, thy pain is ended now,The day of full fruition has arrived.”While thus the pen went over the lettered page,She closed the brief epistle with a kiss,Then gave it to the messenger, and soLet him who wept and sorrowed now rejoice.Into his hand the letter Sandbach took,The letter that should cheer the Nightingale,And said: “I bring to thee good news of joy,No more the wretch may sighing pass his hours,Now has happiness awoke from sleepAnd on the joyless now has joy bestowed.”With eagerness he gave to him the note.“The Lord is very merciful,” he said,“For after absence oft fruition comes.Cease, then, the clamor of thy lack-a-day.”Soon as the Nightingale the tidings heardHe was beside himself from keen desire.He kissed the letter, read it with his eyes,Then opened it and closed it up again.He said: “The letter is an amulet,A written patent from the grace of God,A letter of reprieve in God’s own name,Of liberation from despair and grief.”And as the Nightingale the letter readThe cry of ardent passion burst from him,A flood of inspiration seized his soul—He worshipped every cipher one by one,He thanked the Lord with loud hilarity,And with a burst of gladness praised the penThe soul of all those letters gave to him,Fresh life supplanting now the death of love.His keen desire inspired his throbbing throat,And he could nothing sing but of the Rose.
Theletter thus began, “Now praise to God,A thousand greetings to his prophets be!”Then she continued: “O thou wanderer wild,O sick at heart that knowest no medicine,’Tis love that has encumbered all thy lifeAnd bound thee up in this distraction’s coil.How is it that the misery of thy loveAnd separation has so altered thee?How should my absence so affect thy heart,And what concern is my heart’s love to thee?Does separation’s knife thy spirit wound,And has concupiscence thy heart inflamed?And are thy eyes still wet with bitter tears,And sorrow, does it desolate thy soul?What ails thee, friend? Art thou not well in health?Or art thou always languishing in pain?Art thou of me so fiercely amorousThat thou thus hastenest to enjoy my love?I see, poor wretch, that misery drives thee so,That I from sympathy must faithful be.’Tis time that I obedient to thy needShould be, and thou shouldst take me for a friend.That I should yield my beauty to thy handSo long as thou art worthy of the gift.Thou hast so long been separation’s slave,Thou now should be fruition’s honored king.Long hast thou drunk dark separation’s draught.Now pledge me in enjoyment’s nectary cup.He who is bold upon the path of loveDeserves to see his loved one face to face.Be happy, then, thy pain is ended now,The day of full fruition has arrived.”While thus the pen went over the lettered page,She closed the brief epistle with a kiss,Then gave it to the messenger, and soLet him who wept and sorrowed now rejoice.Into his hand the letter Sandbach took,The letter that should cheer the Nightingale,And said: “I bring to thee good news of joy,No more the wretch may sighing pass his hours,Now has happiness awoke from sleepAnd on the joyless now has joy bestowed.”With eagerness he gave to him the note.“The Lord is very merciful,” he said,“For after absence oft fruition comes.Cease, then, the clamor of thy lack-a-day.”Soon as the Nightingale the tidings heardHe was beside himself from keen desire.He kissed the letter, read it with his eyes,Then opened it and closed it up again.He said: “The letter is an amulet,A written patent from the grace of God,A letter of reprieve in God’s own name,Of liberation from despair and grief.”And as the Nightingale the letter readThe cry of ardent passion burst from him,A flood of inspiration seized his soul—He worshipped every cipher one by one,He thanked the Lord with loud hilarity,And with a burst of gladness praised the penThe soul of all those letters gave to him,Fresh life supplanting now the death of love.His keen desire inspired his throbbing throat,And he could nothing sing but of the Rose.
Theletter thus began, “Now praise to God,A thousand greetings to his prophets be!”Then she continued: “O thou wanderer wild,O sick at heart that knowest no medicine,’Tis love that has encumbered all thy lifeAnd bound thee up in this distraction’s coil.How is it that the misery of thy loveAnd separation has so altered thee?How should my absence so affect thy heart,And what concern is my heart’s love to thee?Does separation’s knife thy spirit wound,And has concupiscence thy heart inflamed?And are thy eyes still wet with bitter tears,And sorrow, does it desolate thy soul?What ails thee, friend? Art thou not well in health?Or art thou always languishing in pain?Art thou of me so fiercely amorousThat thou thus hastenest to enjoy my love?I see, poor wretch, that misery drives thee so,That I from sympathy must faithful be.’Tis time that I obedient to thy needShould be, and thou shouldst take me for a friend.That I should yield my beauty to thy handSo long as thou art worthy of the gift.Thou hast so long been separation’s slave,Thou now should be fruition’s honored king.Long hast thou drunk dark separation’s draught.Now pledge me in enjoyment’s nectary cup.He who is bold upon the path of loveDeserves to see his loved one face to face.Be happy, then, thy pain is ended now,The day of full fruition has arrived.”While thus the pen went over the lettered page,She closed the brief epistle with a kiss,Then gave it to the messenger, and soLet him who wept and sorrowed now rejoice.Into his hand the letter Sandbach took,The letter that should cheer the Nightingale,And said: “I bring to thee good news of joy,No more the wretch may sighing pass his hours,Now has happiness awoke from sleepAnd on the joyless now has joy bestowed.”With eagerness he gave to him the note.“The Lord is very merciful,” he said,“For after absence oft fruition comes.Cease, then, the clamor of thy lack-a-day.”Soon as the Nightingale the tidings heardHe was beside himself from keen desire.He kissed the letter, read it with his eyes,Then opened it and closed it up again.He said: “The letter is an amulet,A written patent from the grace of God,A letter of reprieve in God’s own name,Of liberation from despair and grief.”And as the Nightingale the letter readThe cry of ardent passion burst from him,A flood of inspiration seized his soul—He worshipped every cipher one by one,He thanked the Lord with loud hilarity,And with a burst of gladness praised the penThe soul of all those letters gave to him,Fresh life supplanting now the death of love.His keen desire inspired his throbbing throat,And he could nothing sing but of the Rose.
Itwas a night in which the rose gardenWas clear illumined as with light of day,When tints of darkness interblent with lightWent wandering over beds of hyacinths.The moon stood high upon the dome of heaven,And round her was the company of stars.Upon this night the Nightingale discoursedIn dulcet notes the ardor of his soul.He sang at first in his delight and joyHis song in every tone the poets knew.Upon this night a hyacinth came by,A vixen full of tricks and treachery.In her dark night attire she forward sped,To wander through the glades of Gulistan.Then suddenly she heard a tuneful note;Like Anka’s echo came the storm of song.Forward she came and saw the pilgrim poor,Who moaned as if he consolation claimed.Close to the minstrel she ensconced herself,And looking up to Bulbul, greeted him.And said to him, “Pray tell to me thy name.Why is it that thou clamorest so loud?”He said, “I call upon the one I love.Through love I did forget how loud I cried.”Quoth she, “To whom has love devoted thee?Who is it that thy heart and spirit love?”Quoth he, “I am the bondsman of my love,For one in love is thrall and pupil too.”Quoth she, “What bond and emblem bearest thou?Whence dost thou come? What is thy native land?”Quoth he, “Love hath no ensign and no home,No special dwelling-place in any realm.”Quoth she, “Explain to me this pain of thine,Tell me the secrets of thy loving heart.”Quoth he, “I have no other guide but love.”And here he stopped and spake no other word.Quoth she, “What is the character of love?And does it bring the lover aught of gain?”Quoth he, “Love brings its slave to nothingness,It forfeits every gain, but wins delight.”Quoth she, “And what is, then, the end of love?Does he who loves find rest his home at last?”Quoth he, “The goal of love is suffering’s lot,The heart through love finds all its end in pain.”Quoth she, “The wise man never longs for pain,More perfect he who shuns disquietude.”Quoth he, “Who suffers not is not a man,For manhood must be based on suffering,And he who suddenly in pain is plungedBefits him then to suffer patiently.”Quoth she, “In pain, then, thou dost take delight,Then cease thy sighs and study self-control.”Quoth he, “And hadst thou medicine for thy pain?”Quoth he, “I need none till my heart be broke.”Quoth she, “And over whom dost thou lament?”Quoth he, “My only one, my darling queen.”Quoth she, “But tell me what her name may be?”Quoth he, “Alas, I have forgot her name.”Quoth she, “Bethink thee, till it come again.”Quoth he, “Do lovers have the power of thought?”Quoth she, “What makes thy speech so riddling dark?”Quoth he, “My love’s hair has entangled me.”Quoth she, “Give up this passion for thy queen.”Quoth he, “But that were to give up my soul.”Quoth she, “Thy mistress is not true to thee.”Quoth he, “Enough to me is her disdain.”Quoth she, “Fruition of her cannot be.”Quoth he, “Without her I am bound to die.”Quoth she, “Begone and leave this rose garden.”Quoth he, “To leave this spot is leaving life.”Quoth she, “No pity is outpoured for thee.”Quoth he, “Yet pity still be praised by me.”Quoth she, “And dost thou hope for bliss at last?”Quoth he, “Does not the sun shed light over all?”Quoth she, “Thou liest beneath the sword of pain.”Quoth he, “So be it. I have naught to say.”Quoth she, “This separation costs thy blood.”Quoth he, “My blood, yes, and my soul as well.”She saw that this poor wretched stripling stillAn answer made to every jibe of hers.The hyacinth with jealous passion glowered,Her face grew black through bitterness and wrath.Quoth she: “’Tis palpable to me at last,This oaf is amorous of the Rose herself,And can it be that in the rose gardenSo dissolute a rover should appear?What is his business here in Gulistan?What is he doing in our garden realm?He must at once be banished from the place,So that he tread no more our glorious glade.It is a burning shame, in truth, that oneSo beggarly should at our threshold lie.”And so excited was the hyacinthThat long she pondered trick and guile and ruse.Well versed was she in crooked ways of guile,And took delight in devious intrigue.And now she tried some method to deviseBy which to purge the bowers of Gulistan.
Itwas a night in which the rose gardenWas clear illumined as with light of day,When tints of darkness interblent with lightWent wandering over beds of hyacinths.The moon stood high upon the dome of heaven,And round her was the company of stars.Upon this night the Nightingale discoursedIn dulcet notes the ardor of his soul.He sang at first in his delight and joyHis song in every tone the poets knew.Upon this night a hyacinth came by,A vixen full of tricks and treachery.In her dark night attire she forward sped,To wander through the glades of Gulistan.Then suddenly she heard a tuneful note;Like Anka’s echo came the storm of song.Forward she came and saw the pilgrim poor,Who moaned as if he consolation claimed.Close to the minstrel she ensconced herself,And looking up to Bulbul, greeted him.And said to him, “Pray tell to me thy name.Why is it that thou clamorest so loud?”He said, “I call upon the one I love.Through love I did forget how loud I cried.”Quoth she, “To whom has love devoted thee?Who is it that thy heart and spirit love?”Quoth he, “I am the bondsman of my love,For one in love is thrall and pupil too.”Quoth she, “What bond and emblem bearest thou?Whence dost thou come? What is thy native land?”Quoth he, “Love hath no ensign and no home,No special dwelling-place in any realm.”Quoth she, “Explain to me this pain of thine,Tell me the secrets of thy loving heart.”Quoth he, “I have no other guide but love.”And here he stopped and spake no other word.Quoth she, “What is the character of love?And does it bring the lover aught of gain?”Quoth he, “Love brings its slave to nothingness,It forfeits every gain, but wins delight.”Quoth she, “And what is, then, the end of love?Does he who loves find rest his home at last?”Quoth he, “The goal of love is suffering’s lot,The heart through love finds all its end in pain.”Quoth she, “The wise man never longs for pain,More perfect he who shuns disquietude.”Quoth he, “Who suffers not is not a man,For manhood must be based on suffering,And he who suddenly in pain is plungedBefits him then to suffer patiently.”Quoth she, “In pain, then, thou dost take delight,Then cease thy sighs and study self-control.”Quoth he, “And hadst thou medicine for thy pain?”Quoth he, “I need none till my heart be broke.”Quoth she, “And over whom dost thou lament?”Quoth he, “My only one, my darling queen.”Quoth she, “But tell me what her name may be?”Quoth he, “Alas, I have forgot her name.”Quoth she, “Bethink thee, till it come again.”Quoth he, “Do lovers have the power of thought?”Quoth she, “What makes thy speech so riddling dark?”Quoth he, “My love’s hair has entangled me.”Quoth she, “Give up this passion for thy queen.”Quoth he, “But that were to give up my soul.”Quoth she, “Thy mistress is not true to thee.”Quoth he, “Enough to me is her disdain.”Quoth she, “Fruition of her cannot be.”Quoth he, “Without her I am bound to die.”Quoth she, “Begone and leave this rose garden.”Quoth he, “To leave this spot is leaving life.”Quoth she, “No pity is outpoured for thee.”Quoth he, “Yet pity still be praised by me.”Quoth she, “And dost thou hope for bliss at last?”Quoth he, “Does not the sun shed light over all?”Quoth she, “Thou liest beneath the sword of pain.”Quoth he, “So be it. I have naught to say.”Quoth she, “This separation costs thy blood.”Quoth he, “My blood, yes, and my soul as well.”She saw that this poor wretched stripling stillAn answer made to every jibe of hers.The hyacinth with jealous passion glowered,Her face grew black through bitterness and wrath.Quoth she: “’Tis palpable to me at last,This oaf is amorous of the Rose herself,And can it be that in the rose gardenSo dissolute a rover should appear?What is his business here in Gulistan?What is he doing in our garden realm?He must at once be banished from the place,So that he tread no more our glorious glade.It is a burning shame, in truth, that oneSo beggarly should at our threshold lie.”And so excited was the hyacinthThat long she pondered trick and guile and ruse.Well versed was she in crooked ways of guile,And took delight in devious intrigue.And now she tried some method to deviseBy which to purge the bowers of Gulistan.
Itwas a night in which the rose gardenWas clear illumined as with light of day,When tints of darkness interblent with lightWent wandering over beds of hyacinths.The moon stood high upon the dome of heaven,And round her was the company of stars.Upon this night the Nightingale discoursedIn dulcet notes the ardor of his soul.He sang at first in his delight and joyHis song in every tone the poets knew.Upon this night a hyacinth came by,A vixen full of tricks and treachery.In her dark night attire she forward sped,To wander through the glades of Gulistan.Then suddenly she heard a tuneful note;Like Anka’s echo came the storm of song.Forward she came and saw the pilgrim poor,Who moaned as if he consolation claimed.Close to the minstrel she ensconced herself,And looking up to Bulbul, greeted him.And said to him, “Pray tell to me thy name.Why is it that thou clamorest so loud?”
He said, “I call upon the one I love.Through love I did forget how loud I cried.”Quoth she, “To whom has love devoted thee?Who is it that thy heart and spirit love?”Quoth he, “I am the bondsman of my love,For one in love is thrall and pupil too.”Quoth she, “What bond and emblem bearest thou?Whence dost thou come? What is thy native land?”Quoth he, “Love hath no ensign and no home,No special dwelling-place in any realm.”Quoth she, “Explain to me this pain of thine,Tell me the secrets of thy loving heart.”Quoth he, “I have no other guide but love.”And here he stopped and spake no other word.Quoth she, “What is the character of love?And does it bring the lover aught of gain?”Quoth he, “Love brings its slave to nothingness,It forfeits every gain, but wins delight.”Quoth she, “And what is, then, the end of love?Does he who loves find rest his home at last?”Quoth he, “The goal of love is suffering’s lot,The heart through love finds all its end in pain.”Quoth she, “The wise man never longs for pain,More perfect he who shuns disquietude.”Quoth he, “Who suffers not is not a man,For manhood must be based on suffering,And he who suddenly in pain is plungedBefits him then to suffer patiently.”Quoth she, “In pain, then, thou dost take delight,Then cease thy sighs and study self-control.”Quoth he, “And hadst thou medicine for thy pain?”Quoth he, “I need none till my heart be broke.”Quoth she, “And over whom dost thou lament?”Quoth he, “My only one, my darling queen.”Quoth she, “But tell me what her name may be?”Quoth he, “Alas, I have forgot her name.”Quoth she, “Bethink thee, till it come again.”Quoth he, “Do lovers have the power of thought?”Quoth she, “What makes thy speech so riddling dark?”Quoth he, “My love’s hair has entangled me.”Quoth she, “Give up this passion for thy queen.”Quoth he, “But that were to give up my soul.”Quoth she, “Thy mistress is not true to thee.”Quoth he, “Enough to me is her disdain.”Quoth she, “Fruition of her cannot be.”Quoth he, “Without her I am bound to die.”Quoth she, “Begone and leave this rose garden.”Quoth he, “To leave this spot is leaving life.”Quoth she, “No pity is outpoured for thee.”Quoth he, “Yet pity still be praised by me.”Quoth she, “And dost thou hope for bliss at last?”Quoth he, “Does not the sun shed light over all?”Quoth she, “Thou liest beneath the sword of pain.”Quoth he, “So be it. I have naught to say.”Quoth she, “This separation costs thy blood.”Quoth he, “My blood, yes, and my soul as well.”She saw that this poor wretched stripling stillAn answer made to every jibe of hers.The hyacinth with jealous passion glowered,Her face grew black through bitterness and wrath.Quoth she: “’Tis palpable to me at last,This oaf is amorous of the Rose herself,And can it be that in the rose gardenSo dissolute a rover should appear?What is his business here in Gulistan?What is he doing in our garden realm?He must at once be banished from the place,So that he tread no more our glorious glade.It is a burning shame, in truth, that oneSo beggarly should at our threshold lie.”And so excited was the hyacinthThat long she pondered trick and guile and ruse.Well versed was she in crooked ways of guile,And took delight in devious intrigue.And now she tried some method to deviseBy which to purge the bowers of Gulistan.
Justwhen the sun of full fruition dawned,An obstacle that instant rose to sight.Oft the possessor of a faithful friendIs rescued from the clutches of despair,The Rose is circled round with many a thorn,And where the treasure lies do serpents coil.And where a friend appears to cheer the heartA foeman also rises to oppose,A cruel foe had thus appointed beenTo take his stand as guardian of the Rose.The royal watchman of her Majesty,Her careful master at her beck and call,Tyrannical, in nature envious,Evil in mind, rejoicing to give pain.Whose nod was dreadful as the cast of spears,Whose eyelashes were terrible as darts.He ever stood with dagger at his beltAnd in his hand the deadly partisan;Like Mars on guard within some prison-house,Armed was he on each limb with knife and spear,And he who merely offered him his handWas ripped and mangled to the very quick.His every deed was full of rancorous wrath,And in the rose-garden his name was Thorn.The hyacinth fell in with him that dayIn her attempt to oust the Nightingale.And by the thorn she thought to bring him bane,And kept this secret in her darkling breast,That from the pleasant shades of GulistanBulbul might banished be for evermore.The hyacinth, in many an intrigue versed,Thus full of rage approached the deadly thorn,And said: “O thou, what dost thou rage for now?Hast thou no sense of honor and no pride?For in this rose garden a rover stands,A lover of the Rose, a noisy wight,A wanton fool, inspired by jealous whim,Who desecrates the Rose’s queenly name.But he is shameless, without reverence,And talks the whole night long of naught but love.Can it be possible, that such as heIs taken up with passion for the Rose?That he by sighing and by songs of loveShould take the fair name of our queen away?That he should choose her name to be the themeOf common babble in the market-place?The Rose through him will now be scandal’s theme,And round the world will men revile the Rose.This vagabond hath thus behaved himselfAnd many a lying vow has breathed to her.I fear that by his reckless impudenceHer noble name at last may suffer loss.Soon as the thorn these treacherous tidings heardEach hair upon his head became a sword,And the assassin thorn spake full of wrath:“God blame thee for a worthless loon! And whyDidst thou not long ere this the vagabondIn fetters bind, a prisoner on the spot,And put the chain of serfdom round his neck,And lock him fast within the prison hold?”She answered: “Though I have not fettered him,Yet have I reasoned with him many times.My council yet was bootless to the churl,He answered every word with repartee.”The thorn replied: “Point out the wretch to me,The sot and the seducer of the town.His gore shall tinge my poniard scarlet bright,For I shall plunge it in his dastard blood.”So saying, from his seat out sprang the thornAnd drew his dagger in a burst of rage.The very moment he the Bulbul foundHe dealt him many a wound with flashing blade,And said to him: “Audacious beggar, thouWho knowest neither modesty nor ruth,What brought thee to the harem of our Queen?Think of her rank and of thy base estate,Thou who each night dost shout thy lack-a-dayDost thou not feel some shame? Away with thee,Away with all this hubbub and this cry.Is this a prison, or a lady’s bower?How comes it that without a blush of shameThou callest o’er and o’er again her name?Show thyself here no longer, beggar vile,Go hide that sottish countenance of thine.Or else without or hinderance or delayI with my dagger will thy bosom cleave.”With that the thorn transfixed the Nightingale,Giving him pangs of sufferings manifold.And now the Nightingale with cries of painAnd thousand lamentations leaves the grove.He left the grove, the rose garden of love,And sang his sorrow to the break of morn.
Justwhen the sun of full fruition dawned,An obstacle that instant rose to sight.Oft the possessor of a faithful friendIs rescued from the clutches of despair,The Rose is circled round with many a thorn,And where the treasure lies do serpents coil.And where a friend appears to cheer the heartA foeman also rises to oppose,A cruel foe had thus appointed beenTo take his stand as guardian of the Rose.The royal watchman of her Majesty,Her careful master at her beck and call,Tyrannical, in nature envious,Evil in mind, rejoicing to give pain.Whose nod was dreadful as the cast of spears,Whose eyelashes were terrible as darts.He ever stood with dagger at his beltAnd in his hand the deadly partisan;Like Mars on guard within some prison-house,Armed was he on each limb with knife and spear,And he who merely offered him his handWas ripped and mangled to the very quick.His every deed was full of rancorous wrath,And in the rose-garden his name was Thorn.The hyacinth fell in with him that dayIn her attempt to oust the Nightingale.And by the thorn she thought to bring him bane,And kept this secret in her darkling breast,That from the pleasant shades of GulistanBulbul might banished be for evermore.The hyacinth, in many an intrigue versed,Thus full of rage approached the deadly thorn,And said: “O thou, what dost thou rage for now?Hast thou no sense of honor and no pride?For in this rose garden a rover stands,A lover of the Rose, a noisy wight,A wanton fool, inspired by jealous whim,Who desecrates the Rose’s queenly name.But he is shameless, without reverence,And talks the whole night long of naught but love.Can it be possible, that such as heIs taken up with passion for the Rose?That he by sighing and by songs of loveShould take the fair name of our queen away?That he should choose her name to be the themeOf common babble in the market-place?The Rose through him will now be scandal’s theme,And round the world will men revile the Rose.This vagabond hath thus behaved himselfAnd many a lying vow has breathed to her.I fear that by his reckless impudenceHer noble name at last may suffer loss.Soon as the thorn these treacherous tidings heardEach hair upon his head became a sword,And the assassin thorn spake full of wrath:“God blame thee for a worthless loon! And whyDidst thou not long ere this the vagabondIn fetters bind, a prisoner on the spot,And put the chain of serfdom round his neck,And lock him fast within the prison hold?”She answered: “Though I have not fettered him,Yet have I reasoned with him many times.My council yet was bootless to the churl,He answered every word with repartee.”The thorn replied: “Point out the wretch to me,The sot and the seducer of the town.His gore shall tinge my poniard scarlet bright,For I shall plunge it in his dastard blood.”So saying, from his seat out sprang the thornAnd drew his dagger in a burst of rage.The very moment he the Bulbul foundHe dealt him many a wound with flashing blade,And said to him: “Audacious beggar, thouWho knowest neither modesty nor ruth,What brought thee to the harem of our Queen?Think of her rank and of thy base estate,Thou who each night dost shout thy lack-a-dayDost thou not feel some shame? Away with thee,Away with all this hubbub and this cry.Is this a prison, or a lady’s bower?How comes it that without a blush of shameThou callest o’er and o’er again her name?Show thyself here no longer, beggar vile,Go hide that sottish countenance of thine.Or else without or hinderance or delayI with my dagger will thy bosom cleave.”With that the thorn transfixed the Nightingale,Giving him pangs of sufferings manifold.And now the Nightingale with cries of painAnd thousand lamentations leaves the grove.He left the grove, the rose garden of love,And sang his sorrow to the break of morn.
Justwhen the sun of full fruition dawned,An obstacle that instant rose to sight.Oft the possessor of a faithful friendIs rescued from the clutches of despair,The Rose is circled round with many a thorn,And where the treasure lies do serpents coil.And where a friend appears to cheer the heartA foeman also rises to oppose,A cruel foe had thus appointed beenTo take his stand as guardian of the Rose.The royal watchman of her Majesty,Her careful master at her beck and call,Tyrannical, in nature envious,Evil in mind, rejoicing to give pain.Whose nod was dreadful as the cast of spears,Whose eyelashes were terrible as darts.He ever stood with dagger at his beltAnd in his hand the deadly partisan;Like Mars on guard within some prison-house,Armed was he on each limb with knife and spear,And he who merely offered him his handWas ripped and mangled to the very quick.His every deed was full of rancorous wrath,And in the rose-garden his name was Thorn.The hyacinth fell in with him that dayIn her attempt to oust the Nightingale.And by the thorn she thought to bring him bane,And kept this secret in her darkling breast,That from the pleasant shades of GulistanBulbul might banished be for evermore.The hyacinth, in many an intrigue versed,Thus full of rage approached the deadly thorn,And said: “O thou, what dost thou rage for now?Hast thou no sense of honor and no pride?For in this rose garden a rover stands,A lover of the Rose, a noisy wight,A wanton fool, inspired by jealous whim,Who desecrates the Rose’s queenly name.But he is shameless, without reverence,And talks the whole night long of naught but love.Can it be possible, that such as heIs taken up with passion for the Rose?That he by sighing and by songs of loveShould take the fair name of our queen away?That he should choose her name to be the themeOf common babble in the market-place?The Rose through him will now be scandal’s theme,And round the world will men revile the Rose.This vagabond hath thus behaved himselfAnd many a lying vow has breathed to her.I fear that by his reckless impudenceHer noble name at last may suffer loss.Soon as the thorn these treacherous tidings heardEach hair upon his head became a sword,And the assassin thorn spake full of wrath:“God blame thee for a worthless loon! And whyDidst thou not long ere this the vagabondIn fetters bind, a prisoner on the spot,And put the chain of serfdom round his neck,And lock him fast within the prison hold?”She answered: “Though I have not fettered him,Yet have I reasoned with him many times.My council yet was bootless to the churl,He answered every word with repartee.”The thorn replied: “Point out the wretch to me,The sot and the seducer of the town.His gore shall tinge my poniard scarlet bright,For I shall plunge it in his dastard blood.”So saying, from his seat out sprang the thornAnd drew his dagger in a burst of rage.The very moment he the Bulbul foundHe dealt him many a wound with flashing blade,And said to him: “Audacious beggar, thouWho knowest neither modesty nor ruth,What brought thee to the harem of our Queen?Think of her rank and of thy base estate,Thou who each night dost shout thy lack-a-dayDost thou not feel some shame? Away with thee,Away with all this hubbub and this cry.Is this a prison, or a lady’s bower?How comes it that without a blush of shameThou callest o’er and o’er again her name?Show thyself here no longer, beggar vile,Go hide that sottish countenance of thine.Or else without or hinderance or delayI with my dagger will thy bosom cleave.”With that the thorn transfixed the Nightingale,Giving him pangs of sufferings manifold.And now the Nightingale with cries of painAnd thousand lamentations leaves the grove.He left the grove, the rose garden of love,And sang his sorrow to the break of morn.
Thethorn, his thoughts on hate and vengeance fixed,Soon as he had outraged the NightingaleWent straightway hurriedly to see the Rose,And gave her counsel in a long address.And said to her, “How did it happen, Rose,That such an oaf could make his love to thee,And that the very lowest of the lowBy his addresses could affront thy name?Thou art the pearl, the princess. Can it beA nameless beggar should draw nigh to thee?That night and day by his persistent songHe causes all the grove to prate of thee?Is it that thou his daring would approveAnd smilest on his ardor and desires,And givest ear to such a rogue as thisAnd listenest to the words he says to thee,So that the beggar in thy favor proudShameless inflates himself and boasts his crime?He is a man of boundless arrogance,And of audacity untamable.Do not encourage him, my gracious queen.The beggar knows the truth about himself.I, with my sword, have pierced his breast with woundsAnd gladly stretched him bleeding on the ground.And that I did not out of fear for thee,But out of reverence for this pleasant grove.”Soon as the Rose these words of fury heard,Pained to the heart, her rage o’ermastered her.She said: “What has this beggar done to thee,That thou shouldst thus transfix his soul with pain?He is a harmless wretch in dire distress,In sorrow and perplexity involved.He came with all his melodies of loveTwo days ago a guest in this fair grove.Shame that thou thus hast wronged and injured him!Sure no one has this guest repulsed with scorn.Does it befit the soul magnanimousTo outrage and bring scorn upon a guest?Tell me what harm he ever did to thee,This pilgrim foreigner and hermit pure,That thou hast undertaken thus to cleaveHis bosom with that cruel blade of thine?Was it because he sang with flowing heart?A song of sorrow gives our souls delight.He was the minstrel of our happy lawn,And won the flowers to raise their chalice higher.Not lawlessly my fetters he endured.Then what disgrace for me can be in this?For beauty and accomplishment completeHave always made their orisons to love.And beauty’s self is perfected through love,And beauty without love endures eclipse.When love entwines itself round beauty’s formIt gives no stigma to the thing it holds.And nothing can the crown of beauty mar,Though thousand thousands babble out her name.Was Joseph in Egyptian lands disgraced,When he was object of the people’s love?Go, leave the poor man in tranquillity,Harass him not, be pitiful to him.Thou must not him with cruelty oppress,But treat him after this with kindliness.”When the thorn heard the Rose’s reprimand,Like needles on his head uprose his hair.What he had heard was not what he desired,And trouble overspread his countenance.And now the royal audience was o’er,He went to visit Spring, the garden’s king.
Thethorn, his thoughts on hate and vengeance fixed,Soon as he had outraged the NightingaleWent straightway hurriedly to see the Rose,And gave her counsel in a long address.And said to her, “How did it happen, Rose,That such an oaf could make his love to thee,And that the very lowest of the lowBy his addresses could affront thy name?Thou art the pearl, the princess. Can it beA nameless beggar should draw nigh to thee?That night and day by his persistent songHe causes all the grove to prate of thee?Is it that thou his daring would approveAnd smilest on his ardor and desires,And givest ear to such a rogue as thisAnd listenest to the words he says to thee,So that the beggar in thy favor proudShameless inflates himself and boasts his crime?He is a man of boundless arrogance,And of audacity untamable.Do not encourage him, my gracious queen.The beggar knows the truth about himself.I, with my sword, have pierced his breast with woundsAnd gladly stretched him bleeding on the ground.And that I did not out of fear for thee,But out of reverence for this pleasant grove.”Soon as the Rose these words of fury heard,Pained to the heart, her rage o’ermastered her.She said: “What has this beggar done to thee,That thou shouldst thus transfix his soul with pain?He is a harmless wretch in dire distress,In sorrow and perplexity involved.He came with all his melodies of loveTwo days ago a guest in this fair grove.Shame that thou thus hast wronged and injured him!Sure no one has this guest repulsed with scorn.Does it befit the soul magnanimousTo outrage and bring scorn upon a guest?Tell me what harm he ever did to thee,This pilgrim foreigner and hermit pure,That thou hast undertaken thus to cleaveHis bosom with that cruel blade of thine?Was it because he sang with flowing heart?A song of sorrow gives our souls delight.He was the minstrel of our happy lawn,And won the flowers to raise their chalice higher.Not lawlessly my fetters he endured.Then what disgrace for me can be in this?For beauty and accomplishment completeHave always made their orisons to love.And beauty’s self is perfected through love,And beauty without love endures eclipse.When love entwines itself round beauty’s formIt gives no stigma to the thing it holds.And nothing can the crown of beauty mar,Though thousand thousands babble out her name.Was Joseph in Egyptian lands disgraced,When he was object of the people’s love?Go, leave the poor man in tranquillity,Harass him not, be pitiful to him.Thou must not him with cruelty oppress,But treat him after this with kindliness.”When the thorn heard the Rose’s reprimand,Like needles on his head uprose his hair.What he had heard was not what he desired,And trouble overspread his countenance.And now the royal audience was o’er,He went to visit Spring, the garden’s king.
Thethorn, his thoughts on hate and vengeance fixed,Soon as he had outraged the NightingaleWent straightway hurriedly to see the Rose,And gave her counsel in a long address.And said to her, “How did it happen, Rose,That such an oaf could make his love to thee,And that the very lowest of the lowBy his addresses could affront thy name?Thou art the pearl, the princess. Can it beA nameless beggar should draw nigh to thee?That night and day by his persistent songHe causes all the grove to prate of thee?Is it that thou his daring would approveAnd smilest on his ardor and desires,And givest ear to such a rogue as thisAnd listenest to the words he says to thee,So that the beggar in thy favor proudShameless inflates himself and boasts his crime?He is a man of boundless arrogance,And of audacity untamable.Do not encourage him, my gracious queen.The beggar knows the truth about himself.I, with my sword, have pierced his breast with woundsAnd gladly stretched him bleeding on the ground.And that I did not out of fear for thee,But out of reverence for this pleasant grove.”Soon as the Rose these words of fury heard,Pained to the heart, her rage o’ermastered her.She said: “What has this beggar done to thee,That thou shouldst thus transfix his soul with pain?He is a harmless wretch in dire distress,In sorrow and perplexity involved.He came with all his melodies of loveTwo days ago a guest in this fair grove.Shame that thou thus hast wronged and injured him!Sure no one has this guest repulsed with scorn.Does it befit the soul magnanimousTo outrage and bring scorn upon a guest?Tell me what harm he ever did to thee,This pilgrim foreigner and hermit pure,That thou hast undertaken thus to cleaveHis bosom with that cruel blade of thine?Was it because he sang with flowing heart?A song of sorrow gives our souls delight.He was the minstrel of our happy lawn,And won the flowers to raise their chalice higher.Not lawlessly my fetters he endured.Then what disgrace for me can be in this?For beauty and accomplishment completeHave always made their orisons to love.And beauty’s self is perfected through love,And beauty without love endures eclipse.When love entwines itself round beauty’s formIt gives no stigma to the thing it holds.And nothing can the crown of beauty mar,Though thousand thousands babble out her name.Was Joseph in Egyptian lands disgraced,When he was object of the people’s love?Go, leave the poor man in tranquillity,Harass him not, be pitiful to him.Thou must not him with cruelty oppress,But treat him after this with kindliness.”When the thorn heard the Rose’s reprimand,Like needles on his head uprose his hair.What he had heard was not what he desired,And trouble overspread his countenance.And now the royal audience was o’er,He went to visit Spring, the garden’s king.
Hehurried to the palace of the shah,And standing on his feet before the throne,He said: “My sovereign to the end of time,May thy prosperity unbroken be!There lingers in the rose garden a rogueBy day and night, a rogue incurableWho by the Rose infatuated lives,And drunken with love’s goblet is distraught.Nor night nor day he ceases his complaintAs he relates the beauties of the Rose,Nor night nor day can I o’ermaster him.The beggar still with fire poetic burns,He has nor shame nor self-respect in life,And finds alone in drunkenness delight.The Rose herself is fettered by his lay,And sympathizes with this amorous sot.Now the affair has reached the final stage,And he has gained the notice of the Rose.”Soon as the monarch had heard the thorn’s address,Perturbed, he thus addressed the listening slave:“Where is this beggar, pale and passionate?Let him be seized and in a cell confined.”And so he sent his hunter to the grove,A hunter of inexorable heart.And said to him, “Go seek the beggar-manAnd put him without pity into chains.”Soon as the firman of the king went outThey quickly scoured the glades of Gulistan,And sought amid the rose-garden parterresFor traces of the tuneful Nightingale.
Hehurried to the palace of the shah,And standing on his feet before the throne,He said: “My sovereign to the end of time,May thy prosperity unbroken be!There lingers in the rose garden a rogueBy day and night, a rogue incurableWho by the Rose infatuated lives,And drunken with love’s goblet is distraught.Nor night nor day he ceases his complaintAs he relates the beauties of the Rose,Nor night nor day can I o’ermaster him.The beggar still with fire poetic burns,He has nor shame nor self-respect in life,And finds alone in drunkenness delight.The Rose herself is fettered by his lay,And sympathizes with this amorous sot.Now the affair has reached the final stage,And he has gained the notice of the Rose.”Soon as the monarch had heard the thorn’s address,Perturbed, he thus addressed the listening slave:“Where is this beggar, pale and passionate?Let him be seized and in a cell confined.”And so he sent his hunter to the grove,A hunter of inexorable heart.And said to him, “Go seek the beggar-manAnd put him without pity into chains.”Soon as the firman of the king went outThey quickly scoured the glades of Gulistan,And sought amid the rose-garden parterresFor traces of the tuneful Nightingale.
Hehurried to the palace of the shah,And standing on his feet before the throne,He said: “My sovereign to the end of time,May thy prosperity unbroken be!There lingers in the rose garden a rogueBy day and night, a rogue incurableWho by the Rose infatuated lives,And drunken with love’s goblet is distraught.Nor night nor day he ceases his complaintAs he relates the beauties of the Rose,Nor night nor day can I o’ermaster him.The beggar still with fire poetic burns,He has nor shame nor self-respect in life,And finds alone in drunkenness delight.The Rose herself is fettered by his lay,And sympathizes with this amorous sot.Now the affair has reached the final stage,And he has gained the notice of the Rose.”Soon as the monarch had heard the thorn’s address,Perturbed, he thus addressed the listening slave:“Where is this beggar, pale and passionate?Let him be seized and in a cell confined.”And so he sent his hunter to the grove,A hunter of inexorable heart.And said to him, “Go seek the beggar-manAnd put him without pity into chains.”Soon as the firman of the king went outThey quickly scoured the glades of Gulistan,And sought amid the rose-garden parterresFor traces of the tuneful Nightingale.
Hewho sets out to adorn his countenanceMakes plainer the expression of his face,And thus it fell that when the NightingaleFelt his breast severed by the thorn’s assault,Far wandering from the glade of Gulistan,He traversed many a field and meadow plain.And as he thus for consolation sought,He saw a poor man in a quiet nook,Who sat in weakness and in misery,His figure bowed in deep despondency.He seemed down-trodden, blue, and broken-limbed,As is the life of those whom love has crowned.He sat in weeds of sorrow on the plain,For he was clad in robes of mourning blue,His head sank low upon the mossy sod,As if his mind wandered beyond the world.He breathed the fragrant love breath of the grove,His cup was filled with wine of suffering.He had a tongue which never uttered sound,’Twas oft thrust out from very weariness.And since he filled his vials with his tears,They called him in the garden violet.The wounded Nightingale accosted him,Beholding one all destitute of strength,But he was overcome with hopeless love,His frame convulsed with suffering and dismay.Here Bulbul found a comrade in distress,And with a question tried to hearten him,And said: “My friend, what has befallen thee?How is it love has dealt so hard with thee?I see, thou art a worthy slave of love,From which thou art so weak and overwrought.What is it in thy mind which makes thee sigh?Pilgrim, why wearest thou this mourning blue?Is it that thy beloved has done thee wrong?Or has a rival stepped into thy place?For grief has bent thee double by its load,And all thy soul is out tune through grief.Who is it that has flung thee to the dust?Who is it gave thee to be rapine’s sport?The feet of men have trod thee to the ground,As a poor weakling in the gay parterre.Was it the loved one pierced thee to the soul?Or is it that a rival tortures thee?Say, wretched one, what ails thee, for thy pain,Binds thee at once in kinship with my heart.”He noticed how the violet, weak in speech,With stammering tongue at length replied to him,“I, too, am wounded by the darts of love,And thus my case is witness to thy wit,’Tis love that bows my bosom to the dust,’Tis grief that thus has flung me to the earth.For oh, my soul has taken the fire of love,I burn for satisfaction and relief.The breath which from my lips forever comesHas tinged my raiment with this mournful blue,And longing for the Rose has done to death.Absence from her has thus afflicted me;’Tis love that makes me grovel in the dust.And in this guise I traverse all the world.I am tormented by the pangs of love,And finally the dust becomes my home.Love as I may the beauty of the Rose,Alas, that beauty I may ne’er enjoy.For she is ignorant of my distress,And I may never paint it to her heart.And no man knows the anguish of my mind.I have no friend familiar on this plain,And now I am so wan and courageless,I cannot even speak of my distress.”Now when the Nightingale this poor man saw,He felt compassion for his misery,And each one to the other freely spokeOf all their woes, and many things besides.Then suddenly the royal spy approached,With darkling eyes and cunning looks askew,And while these two together converse held,And mourned over the ardor of their love,The cunning snare was spread above the bird,And corn was scattered for the prey’s decoy.The Nightingale was seized with cruel hand,And in a moment into durance cast.And for the pain and anguish of the wretchA cage was brought with many an iron bar,And then he was imprisoned in the cage.The cage must be his dungeon evermore,And now the Nightingale at last was caught,And banished evermore from peace and joy.Like a poor anxious prisoner was he now,For what more like a prison than a cage?And night and day within that cage he wept,O’erwrought by absence and the pang of love.They brought him in his cage before the shah,Before the shah he sang his well-a-day.The Nightingale was sick from suffering sore.Ah, see, what a deluding world can do!
Hewho sets out to adorn his countenanceMakes plainer the expression of his face,And thus it fell that when the NightingaleFelt his breast severed by the thorn’s assault,Far wandering from the glade of Gulistan,He traversed many a field and meadow plain.And as he thus for consolation sought,He saw a poor man in a quiet nook,Who sat in weakness and in misery,His figure bowed in deep despondency.He seemed down-trodden, blue, and broken-limbed,As is the life of those whom love has crowned.He sat in weeds of sorrow on the plain,For he was clad in robes of mourning blue,His head sank low upon the mossy sod,As if his mind wandered beyond the world.He breathed the fragrant love breath of the grove,His cup was filled with wine of suffering.He had a tongue which never uttered sound,’Twas oft thrust out from very weariness.And since he filled his vials with his tears,They called him in the garden violet.The wounded Nightingale accosted him,Beholding one all destitute of strength,But he was overcome with hopeless love,His frame convulsed with suffering and dismay.Here Bulbul found a comrade in distress,And with a question tried to hearten him,And said: “My friend, what has befallen thee?How is it love has dealt so hard with thee?I see, thou art a worthy slave of love,From which thou art so weak and overwrought.What is it in thy mind which makes thee sigh?Pilgrim, why wearest thou this mourning blue?Is it that thy beloved has done thee wrong?Or has a rival stepped into thy place?For grief has bent thee double by its load,And all thy soul is out tune through grief.Who is it that has flung thee to the dust?Who is it gave thee to be rapine’s sport?The feet of men have trod thee to the ground,As a poor weakling in the gay parterre.Was it the loved one pierced thee to the soul?Or is it that a rival tortures thee?Say, wretched one, what ails thee, for thy pain,Binds thee at once in kinship with my heart.”He noticed how the violet, weak in speech,With stammering tongue at length replied to him,“I, too, am wounded by the darts of love,And thus my case is witness to thy wit,’Tis love that bows my bosom to the dust,’Tis grief that thus has flung me to the earth.For oh, my soul has taken the fire of love,I burn for satisfaction and relief.The breath which from my lips forever comesHas tinged my raiment with this mournful blue,And longing for the Rose has done to death.Absence from her has thus afflicted me;’Tis love that makes me grovel in the dust.And in this guise I traverse all the world.I am tormented by the pangs of love,And finally the dust becomes my home.Love as I may the beauty of the Rose,Alas, that beauty I may ne’er enjoy.For she is ignorant of my distress,And I may never paint it to her heart.And no man knows the anguish of my mind.I have no friend familiar on this plain,And now I am so wan and courageless,I cannot even speak of my distress.”Now when the Nightingale this poor man saw,He felt compassion for his misery,And each one to the other freely spokeOf all their woes, and many things besides.Then suddenly the royal spy approached,With darkling eyes and cunning looks askew,And while these two together converse held,And mourned over the ardor of their love,The cunning snare was spread above the bird,And corn was scattered for the prey’s decoy.The Nightingale was seized with cruel hand,And in a moment into durance cast.And for the pain and anguish of the wretchA cage was brought with many an iron bar,And then he was imprisoned in the cage.The cage must be his dungeon evermore,And now the Nightingale at last was caught,And banished evermore from peace and joy.Like a poor anxious prisoner was he now,For what more like a prison than a cage?And night and day within that cage he wept,O’erwrought by absence and the pang of love.They brought him in his cage before the shah,Before the shah he sang his well-a-day.The Nightingale was sick from suffering sore.Ah, see, what a deluding world can do!
Hewho sets out to adorn his countenanceMakes plainer the expression of his face,And thus it fell that when the NightingaleFelt his breast severed by the thorn’s assault,Far wandering from the glade of Gulistan,He traversed many a field and meadow plain.And as he thus for consolation sought,He saw a poor man in a quiet nook,Who sat in weakness and in misery,His figure bowed in deep despondency.He seemed down-trodden, blue, and broken-limbed,As is the life of those whom love has crowned.He sat in weeds of sorrow on the plain,For he was clad in robes of mourning blue,His head sank low upon the mossy sod,As if his mind wandered beyond the world.He breathed the fragrant love breath of the grove,His cup was filled with wine of suffering.He had a tongue which never uttered sound,’Twas oft thrust out from very weariness.And since he filled his vials with his tears,They called him in the garden violet.The wounded Nightingale accosted him,Beholding one all destitute of strength,But he was overcome with hopeless love,His frame convulsed with suffering and dismay.Here Bulbul found a comrade in distress,And with a question tried to hearten him,And said: “My friend, what has befallen thee?How is it love has dealt so hard with thee?I see, thou art a worthy slave of love,From which thou art so weak and overwrought.What is it in thy mind which makes thee sigh?Pilgrim, why wearest thou this mourning blue?Is it that thy beloved has done thee wrong?Or has a rival stepped into thy place?For grief has bent thee double by its load,And all thy soul is out tune through grief.Who is it that has flung thee to the dust?Who is it gave thee to be rapine’s sport?The feet of men have trod thee to the ground,As a poor weakling in the gay parterre.Was it the loved one pierced thee to the soul?Or is it that a rival tortures thee?Say, wretched one, what ails thee, for thy pain,Binds thee at once in kinship with my heart.”He noticed how the violet, weak in speech,With stammering tongue at length replied to him,“I, too, am wounded by the darts of love,And thus my case is witness to thy wit,’Tis love that bows my bosom to the dust,’Tis grief that thus has flung me to the earth.For oh, my soul has taken the fire of love,I burn for satisfaction and relief.The breath which from my lips forever comesHas tinged my raiment with this mournful blue,And longing for the Rose has done to death.Absence from her has thus afflicted me;’Tis love that makes me grovel in the dust.And in this guise I traverse all the world.I am tormented by the pangs of love,And finally the dust becomes my home.Love as I may the beauty of the Rose,Alas, that beauty I may ne’er enjoy.For she is ignorant of my distress,And I may never paint it to her heart.And no man knows the anguish of my mind.I have no friend familiar on this plain,And now I am so wan and courageless,I cannot even speak of my distress.”Now when the Nightingale this poor man saw,He felt compassion for his misery,And each one to the other freely spokeOf all their woes, and many things besides.Then suddenly the royal spy approached,With darkling eyes and cunning looks askew,And while these two together converse held,And mourned over the ardor of their love,The cunning snare was spread above the bird,And corn was scattered for the prey’s decoy.The Nightingale was seized with cruel hand,And in a moment into durance cast.And for the pain and anguish of the wretchA cage was brought with many an iron bar,And then he was imprisoned in the cage.The cage must be his dungeon evermore,And now the Nightingale at last was caught,And banished evermore from peace and joy.Like a poor anxious prisoner was he now,For what more like a prison than a cage?And night and day within that cage he wept,O’erwrought by absence and the pang of love.They brought him in his cage before the shah,Before the shah he sang his well-a-day.The Nightingale was sick from suffering sore.Ah, see, what a deluding world can do!
Oheart, thy tongue now kindle into fire,Soften thy disposition with desire.Build up a burning story out of truth,And with hot breath go raging through the world.Oh, let the utterance of the pen stream fire,And let the world itself go off in fire.Whoever sets ablaze the narrativeShall lighten up the circle of the world.In Eastern lands there sat enthroned in mightA mighty monarch potent and revered.A sovereign who could set afire the earth,He was a hero of a fiery heart.His marrow was with happiness aflame,And the world sighed beneath his conquering arm,And he was wont with his prevailing wrathTo lay in devastation all the land.He blazed in every confine of the earth,And glowing ardor shone where’er he trod.Although he was of fervent nature born,All that he counselled was by wisdom marked.He touched the mountain with the brew of life,And gave to all the world her energy.A king of flame who sat enthroned in light,His name was that of sun and moon in one;His happiness was heat on heat increased,And the world swooned submissive to his sway.And more and more his fervor he increased,His rage and heat laid desolate the earth,The world was kindled like a flame of fire,His deadly hand threw conflagration round.The people doffed the garments they had worn,So much they feared the coming of his rage.During his reign went no one out of doors,And all the people kept themselves at home,Until they wearied of this quietude,And all were willing to endure his glow,And all were willing in the shade to be,Some in the garden, some by city wall.Meanwhile the world flamed out in cruel plight,And like a templed altar worshipped him.The sparks of horror seethed with higher glow,And the great banners of his power rose higher.At last he styled him “Emperor of the World,”His banners flaunted in the firmament,The hues of heat were painted in the sky.The dust was in his honor turned to flame,His blaze subdued the universe in light,His fury kindled like a furnace coal.In time he sent his heat out far and wide,The scent of scorched wild-fowl went o’er the land,His fury choked the very sigh of love,And in the watercourse he scorched the stone.And by the influence of his raging fireThe circling birds were roasted as they flew,And every grain was parched upon its sod.The scent of musk, in conflagration quenched,The world made nothing but a pit of ash,And nothing green was left upon the plain.And greater still grew up the tyrant’s power,And the burnt streams were dried within their beds.And more and more with grisly cruelty,What time the people lay upon the rack,The ladder of the heavens was all aglow,And sent out sparks like to a furnace grate.And the earth felt his ardor like a scourge,And melted ashen-colored into dust.And no one wore a shoe for very heat,And the brain reeled beneath the overpowering blast,And in the river that reflecteth heavenThe fish and cattle were but shrivelled forms.In short, the world was made a weary waste,Fire raged around on every side, and heat,Brought by the bitter fury of the blast,Took all the beauty from the realm of man.
Oheart, thy tongue now kindle into fire,Soften thy disposition with desire.Build up a burning story out of truth,And with hot breath go raging through the world.Oh, let the utterance of the pen stream fire,And let the world itself go off in fire.Whoever sets ablaze the narrativeShall lighten up the circle of the world.In Eastern lands there sat enthroned in mightA mighty monarch potent and revered.A sovereign who could set afire the earth,He was a hero of a fiery heart.His marrow was with happiness aflame,And the world sighed beneath his conquering arm,And he was wont with his prevailing wrathTo lay in devastation all the land.He blazed in every confine of the earth,And glowing ardor shone where’er he trod.Although he was of fervent nature born,All that he counselled was by wisdom marked.He touched the mountain with the brew of life,And gave to all the world her energy.A king of flame who sat enthroned in light,His name was that of sun and moon in one;His happiness was heat on heat increased,And the world swooned submissive to his sway.And more and more his fervor he increased,His rage and heat laid desolate the earth,The world was kindled like a flame of fire,His deadly hand threw conflagration round.The people doffed the garments they had worn,So much they feared the coming of his rage.During his reign went no one out of doors,And all the people kept themselves at home,Until they wearied of this quietude,And all were willing to endure his glow,And all were willing in the shade to be,Some in the garden, some by city wall.Meanwhile the world flamed out in cruel plight,And like a templed altar worshipped him.The sparks of horror seethed with higher glow,And the great banners of his power rose higher.At last he styled him “Emperor of the World,”His banners flaunted in the firmament,The hues of heat were painted in the sky.The dust was in his honor turned to flame,His blaze subdued the universe in light,His fury kindled like a furnace coal.In time he sent his heat out far and wide,The scent of scorched wild-fowl went o’er the land,His fury choked the very sigh of love,And in the watercourse he scorched the stone.And by the influence of his raging fireThe circling birds were roasted as they flew,And every grain was parched upon its sod.The scent of musk, in conflagration quenched,The world made nothing but a pit of ash,And nothing green was left upon the plain.And greater still grew up the tyrant’s power,And the burnt streams were dried within their beds.And more and more with grisly cruelty,What time the people lay upon the rack,The ladder of the heavens was all aglow,And sent out sparks like to a furnace grate.And the earth felt his ardor like a scourge,And melted ashen-colored into dust.And no one wore a shoe for very heat,And the brain reeled beneath the overpowering blast,And in the river that reflecteth heavenThe fish and cattle were but shrivelled forms.In short, the world was made a weary waste,Fire raged around on every side, and heat,Brought by the bitter fury of the blast,Took all the beauty from the realm of man.
Oheart, thy tongue now kindle into fire,Soften thy disposition with desire.Build up a burning story out of truth,And with hot breath go raging through the world.Oh, let the utterance of the pen stream fire,And let the world itself go off in fire.Whoever sets ablaze the narrativeShall lighten up the circle of the world.In Eastern lands there sat enthroned in mightA mighty monarch potent and revered.A sovereign who could set afire the earth,He was a hero of a fiery heart.His marrow was with happiness aflame,And the world sighed beneath his conquering arm,And he was wont with his prevailing wrathTo lay in devastation all the land.He blazed in every confine of the earth,And glowing ardor shone where’er he trod.Although he was of fervent nature born,All that he counselled was by wisdom marked.He touched the mountain with the brew of life,And gave to all the world her energy.A king of flame who sat enthroned in light,His name was that of sun and moon in one;His happiness was heat on heat increased,And the world swooned submissive to his sway.And more and more his fervor he increased,His rage and heat laid desolate the earth,The world was kindled like a flame of fire,His deadly hand threw conflagration round.The people doffed the garments they had worn,So much they feared the coming of his rage.During his reign went no one out of doors,And all the people kept themselves at home,Until they wearied of this quietude,And all were willing to endure his glow,And all were willing in the shade to be,Some in the garden, some by city wall.Meanwhile the world flamed out in cruel plight,And like a templed altar worshipped him.The sparks of horror seethed with higher glow,And the great banners of his power rose higher.At last he styled him “Emperor of the World,”His banners flaunted in the firmament,The hues of heat were painted in the sky.The dust was in his honor turned to flame,His blaze subdued the universe in light,His fury kindled like a furnace coal.In time he sent his heat out far and wide,The scent of scorched wild-fowl went o’er the land,His fury choked the very sigh of love,And in the watercourse he scorched the stone.And by the influence of his raging fireThe circling birds were roasted as they flew,And every grain was parched upon its sod.The scent of musk, in conflagration quenched,The world made nothing but a pit of ash,And nothing green was left upon the plain.And greater still grew up the tyrant’s power,And the burnt streams were dried within their beds.And more and more with grisly cruelty,What time the people lay upon the rack,The ladder of the heavens was all aglow,And sent out sparks like to a furnace grate.And the earth felt his ardor like a scourge,And melted ashen-colored into dust.And no one wore a shoe for very heat,And the brain reeled beneath the overpowering blast,And in the river that reflecteth heavenThe fish and cattle were but shrivelled forms.In short, the world was made a weary waste,Fire raged around on every side, and heat,Brought by the bitter fury of the blast,Took all the beauty from the realm of man.