XI
The Shah Provides a Teacher for His Daughter Rose
As in daytime does the moon appear,
In beauty tender, yet but half revealed,
So did the father see his daughter’s face
Grow fair, and thanked his God by day and night.
He watched her beauty with an anxious eye,
And prayed it might to full perfection come.
And brought a teacher, who might lead his child
Along the path where knowledge could be plucked.
He wrote upon a book of pages old
As flame the precious lore which she should scan.
Into her hand he placed the precious book;
It was a new adventure for the Rose.
And from the ancient tutor she began
To read the lines of learning’s alphabet.
Page after page the volume was explored,
But all was dull and comfortless to her.
She learned the history of Gulistan,
She learned by heart the annals of Bostan,
It soon had mastered all Vaharistan,
She read the booke of history in Divan,
Yet full of grace, her mind by no means dull,
She had no skill in writing prose or verse.
XII
Morning and Evening in the Rose Garden
Upon a morning when the glittering ray
Flooded the meadow green where bloomed the Rose,
And when the sun upon the world’s high throne
Showed the Rose the radiance of his orb,
The sun saw joyfully that his daughter dear
Was in her freshest beauty full bedecked.
He knew that she was worthy happiness,
That she was worthy of her princely lot.
Another was sovereign of a realm that brought
Quiet and happiness throughout the world,
His castle was a fortress green in hue,
Green was the hue of its foundation stones;
Inside was decked with high magnificence,
There tulip beds and cypress boughs abounded.
The master who had raised this lofty pile
Had given to it the name of Rosary;
By those who knew the beauteous city well
It very often bore another name.
And every grove and gelder-rose and mead
Had each its proper and especial title.
And in this city did the ruling king
Give to the Rose the highest post of state,
And that the city might be full of grace
He gave to it the Rose to be its flower;
And going with great joy into the grove,
She sat upon the throne in honor there;
And straightway all the world was filled with glee,
And all the world by balmy winds was swept,
The fragrance of whose odors filled the world.
And by their charm lapped it in ecstasy;
In calm felicity the hours went by,
And stream and soil in blessed peace reposed.
XIII
The Attendants of the Pure Rose, and a Description of Her Noble Court Service
Of rose gardens the Bulbul is the muse,
And thus begins her clear and thrilling song:
The Rose of simple mind and tender mood,
With frank heart, and with disposition kind,
Has chosen for the servants of her house
A band of trusty followers true of heart.
The first was guardian of the sherbet cup;
Comrade of laughter, tears, and genial hours;
Each morning she the rose-water prepared,
The crimson-tinted wine that scents the glade.
’Twas the delight and joy of the Divan,
And shared the name and honors of the dew.
Another was the cheerful cup-bearer.
Ruby his belt, and his cup a carbuncle;
With rosy cheeks he was conspicuous,
For loveliness of lip the painter’s choice.
His inmost bosom was the home of love,
And tinged blood-red with passionate desire.
He drank the wine that fed his passion’s fire,
And never failed the wine cup to his hand.
He was the chief at each Rose festival,
And the guests called him by the Tulip’s name.
Another was the garden’s eye, and seemed
The very lamp and eyelight to the grove.
So full of contemplation was his face,
So full of meditation’s sober glance.
The radiance of his eye was in its orb,
And wise men saw that it was crystal clear.
This was the prophet of the sinless glance,
Who stood the president of the Divan.
Five golden coins he found, and in his hand
He bore them on the petals of his cup:
He handed round the goblet night and day,
And late and early was he drunk with wine;
So long as wine was flowing, at his board
He would not close his eye till dawn of day.
The eye-glance of the close in sooth was he,
And in the rose-bed is Narcissus called;
And since he holds his goblet in his hand
The gold Cup is he among flowerets named.
Sword-Bearer was another waiting-man;
The guardian of the spacious Rosary;
He bore his naked sword behind the Rose,
And night and day he closely guarded her.
A fencer of incomparable skill
Was he, in short, the prefect of the burg.
A valiant Cerberus and dragon he,
Whose sword and dagger never left his hand.
He was in very truth a trusty slave,
And wide and free his reputation spread.
In the rose garden his acquaintances
Had styled him the Free Lily of the glade.
And there was still another, free as he,
Whose form had grown as lofty as his mind;
Towering he stood, with high and graceful head,
He was the very emir of the grove.
Tall as a column did he seem to rise,
And as an arrow straight his course he took;
And so in Gulistan by day and night
He watched as porter at the entrance gate.
By night and day his faithful watch he kept,
Upright to stand was what he most desired;
He recked not that his day-long post was hard,
While on one foot he stood before the gate;
He was a man of stature eminent
A mighty man, and Cypress was his name.
There was another, like a messenger
Becapped, who pilfered crowns for livelihood;
No parallel of his this world has seen;
He ever seemed to outstrip all rivalry.
Soon as he burst from out the western post,
He reached within a twinkling to the east.
He was so light, that while his course he took,
No cloud of dust arose beneath his feet.
A youngster was he, boisterous in play,
And East Wind was his title in the world.
Another was of purest character,
And simple in his mind, and frank in mien;
His inmost bosom was a well unstained,
And fair as were his cheeks, that all admired.
And yielding was his tender heart to love;
His artless nature moves another’s smile.
And, while his heart was thus so pure and clear,
He was the mirror-holder to the Rose;
And winning was he from his babbling flow;
And men had given to him the name of Brook.
Another was a thief, as full of tricks
Of knavery as a dusky Indian.
Well could he snare his victim in a gin;
He was a robber full of pranks and tricks.
He could the thread spin out with marvellous skill
And hang suspended by a single hair.
His subtility was endless, and more crooks
Were in it than in woman’s curling locks.
His heart was full of trickeries and feints,
And as a flower his name was Hyacinth.
And each of these are ranged around the Rose
As escorts at the throne of king and queen.
And in the rose garden from time to time
The Rose refreshment seeks in cups of wine.
The Rose alone of all the flowers around
Was decked with satisfying grace, and hence
Fit opportunity she gained, in which
She might for brighter happiness prepare.
XIV
How in the Morning the Mirror-holder of the Tender-cheeked Rose Holds the Mirror, and How the Rose is Proud of Her Beauty
It was in the bright morning of the day,
And lo, her face was in the mirror shown;
And in the radiance gleamed her lovely face,
For it was mirrored in the placid brook.
And in a thousand ways the Rose was ware
That all the world believed how fair she was.
She raised herself above her cloak of night,
And freshly in the streaming sunlight waked;
To lay her fair attire in fullest view
She set herself upon a ruby throne;
Radiant indeed her beauty there appeared;
’Twas red on red in brilliancy shone.
She sat like monarch ’mid his people throned;
All other kings were dust upon the road.
But that her beauty may be manifest,
Needs must she cast her image on the glass.
And lo! the Brook before her ran his course,
And laid the glittering mirror at her feet.
And when she saw herself reflected there,
So lovely, she was rapt in wonderment.
And when she saw herself so fresh and bright
And lovely, she was touched with vanity;
And blushing red in her own charms delight,
“Ah, God,” she cried, “there is no god but God!
What beauty hast thou given to me, O Lord,
What excellence among the flowers is mine!
What gracious eyebrows arch above mine eyes!
Like to a canopy they set them off.
How diamond-like and gray those orbs appear!
Their gaze might stir the pulses of the dead.
How lustrous are those amber locks! Their light
Must strike amazement to the minds of man.
And oh, how dazzling are these cheeks of mine!
For after these the moon itself is dim.
And what a beauty mark that little mole,
Which more becoming makes the tender cheek!
Who now will value eyes that fiercely scowl,
And the fell glances that like swords they wave?
But here are eyelashes that twinkle fast,
Like friends that stand together ranged in war.
And then that mouth, whose breath is sweet enough
To bring the mantling life-blush to the dead.”
The bolt of self-love pierced her to the heart,
And she was pride-struck by her loveliness,
“And oh,” she said, “is houri in the world,
Or peri, so delightsome to behold?
Was ever one with beauty so bedecked,
As I am in the universe beheld?
Such beauteous charm as God has given to me,
To none in this life has he given e’en this.
And can my beauty now be paralleled,
And is not this my face without compare?
The world admits that ne’er in time before
Has such a prize of beauty been revealed;
I am the beauty that has never like,
The only fair with whom not one can vie.”
Thus she extolled herself to honor’s height,
And made the claim of beauty absolute,
Then called the Eastern Wind, her messenger,
And said, “O faithful bearer of my words,
Assist me in my dire perplexity,
And lighten up for me the night of doubt.
Traverse the realms of Syria and Kum,
And glancing over all the plains you cross,
(Either in Occident or Orient,
Where evening darkles, or where morning glows),
See if in any spot you chance to reach
Aught fairer you can find in face than me;
If anywhere there’s beauty like to mine,
And whether there’s perfection reaching mine.
Make thou my beauty known to all the world,
That he who listens may with passion burn.
Let people of the time be made aware,
All beauty has been consecrate to me;
That mortals have not had it as their dower
In shape so faultless as belongs to me;
The fair must learn to estimate their charms
Aright, and know how few they do possess,
And that I only may true beauty claim;
The rest are slaves, while I alone am queen.”
The herald East-Wind, as he heard her word,
Kissed low the ground before the monarch’s feet.
“Thou art indeed the only beautiful,
My Queen, the beautiful, the Queen of Light.
Who will refuse to say that this is true,
Excepting him whose sight is lost to him?
Who to thy beauty’s question answers ‘No’?
All estimate thy grace as bright and pure,
And own the whole wide world is filled with light
From thy great beauty, as from dawn of day.
I’ll make my circuit through the farthest nook,
From the bright Orient to the cloudy West.”
He spoke, and started straightway on his course,
Blew a loud blast, and travelled with the wind;
Like to the flocks of birds he shaped his course,
And saw the beautiful in every place;
He quickly travelled o’er the land of Kum,
And soon on Persia’s confines found himself.
Soon to the realms of India did he cross,
Next to Manchuria, and to China’s plain.
And here on beauty’s track he found himself,
And heard of one called Beauty’s King Supreme.
Into his presence eagerly he went,
And, blowing softly, saw him face to face;
So o’er the whole wide world he passed, and saw
Naught far or near in beauty like his friend.
By day and night he traversed hill and dale.
Now hear what at the last befell to him.
XV
The East Wind Finds the Nightingale, and They Discuss the Beauty of the Rose
Thus the betrothed of that lorn lover sang,
In verses such as these his song of pain:
“There was a wanderer, the slave of want,
Who had full many a wrong endured of love,
His bosom had its pain, his heart its rage;
He was a dervish, cowled like any monk.
By day he gave full voice to his complaint,
And in the night-time watched the skies of heaven.
His sole existence nowadays was love,
For love alone had claimed him for its slave.
And in his day of trial was his dust
In love compacted, and in love absorbed:
With love his very essence was compounded,
In love the letter of his life was writ.
And now without an object in his life,
He was in love’s consuming fire inflamed.
At times he sang aloud a song of love,
While sighs of bitter sorrow tore his breast.
He sang Ghasele, winsome youth and fair,
Who drew the souls of many a neophyte
By his pure mind and by his brilliant charms;
A noble stripling gay, and soft of heart.
His voice brought cheerfulness to every heart,
His music banished sorrow far away,
And when his flute-like tones swelled out amain,
In every soul he kindled passion’s fire.
His breathing tones sent gladness through the land,
And those who heard him plainly understood.
In short, he was a tender juvenal,
In all things ready for some enterprise.
Though beggared now, forlorn, and sick for love,
He was a noble in descent and birth,
Who to the winds his lands and lineage threw,
And gave himself to melancholy thoughts.
His coronet and throne capricious spurned,
And to the power of love surrendered all.
For he indeed for very love was crazed,
And as a doting maniac roved the world.
His talk was nothing but the voice of love,
And he was named the Wandering Nightingale.
With rapid foot the East Wind sped his way
Like a bird messenger o’er all the world;
And lo! there reached his ear a strain of love,
In tones of lamentation dolorous.
Arrested by the song, the East Wind stood,
Long listening with delight to that refrain;
For such a chanson made his heart to swell,
And seemed like summer fragrance in the air.
Forward he hasted to behold the wight,
Who was so love-struck, and so woe-begone;
And said: “Thou art indeed plunged deep in love,
And from love’s goblet drunken with desire.
Thy voice infuses passion in the soul,
Why is it that thou kindlest thus our blood?
Whence didst thy song its powerful spell obtain,
That thus it sets on fire the human breast?
Who art thou, by what name mayst thou be called?
And from what master didst thou learn thy lay?
Whence came to thee this chosen lot of thine?
What inspiration is it makes thy soul?
What means the ecstasy that rules thy strain,
And gives thy voice its overmastering charm?
Thou whom such gifts transcendent glorify,
How is it thou art fallen thus so low?
Why do thy brows this mournful cowl disgrace,
And thou, why art thou seated in the dust?
Love in thy very countenance is writ,
And love’s wound plainly has transfixed thy heart.
Art thou in love? How has thy passion fared?
Now is the time to tell, so tell me true.”