Now as these words the Bulbul listened to,
She roused in Gulgul joy and love’s delight.
“Thou seest here,” said he, “a mendicant,
With tearful eyes, that plead to pity’s soul.
’Tis love has lessoned me in sorrow’s school,
But never have I learned what is my name.
Thou askest me the place from which I come,
Love is my origin and native land.
My foot turns backward still to beckoning love;
’Tis love inspires and gives me genius;
For I am one whose mind is crazed by love;
And in the world I wander lost for love.
Heedless I hurry by, nor care for rest,
Yet travel cannot give the balm I crave.
And often to my love I give full rein,
Until I am not master of my mind;
And at the will of love, am driven adrift,
And therefore ever wait I love’s behest;
In short, this love pang quite o’ermasters me,
And takes away from me the power of choice.
Now I am brainless, footless, purposeless,
Tossed like a plaything at the whim of Fate.
I am constrained by love, and driven along
Hither and thither like an autumn leaf.
I have no other impulse in my soul,
Where love and love alone predominates.
The shame of love is more than honor’s meed
To me, and more than fortune’s smile.
The very gloom of love is sweet to me,
For what were worldly bliss without this flame?
The hand of pleasure has made smooth and clear
The mirror of my heart with Love’s own glass.
Love is no shame, for love is happiness;
True shame in worldly happiness is found.”
Soon as the East Wind heard these words of love
He murmured loudly, thrilled with deep delight.
Thus spoke he: “O thou, all afflicted one,
Who from the love pang of thy secret wounds
Groanest and sighest, like a man in love,
Tell me where is the lady of thy love?
Toward whom does thy soul’s intuition turn?
Who is the Leila that enchains thee thus?
Who is it that has burdened thee with grief?
Where is the Schirin that thus plagues Ferhadan?
Who is the Afra of thine ardent flame?
Say to what king thou wouldst devote thy blood?
For whom is it thou sufferest loss of rest?
And whose compassion dost thou supplicate?
What light in all the world has fame enough
To keep thee moth-like hovering in its flame?
And of what rose art thou the nightingale,
That thou shouldst be the slave of music’s sound?”
Thus spoke the warbler: “Gracious are thy words,
And therefore will I make my chanson plain.
From the first moment that I was conceived,
Love with my inmost essence was entwined,
And in my mother’s womb it came to me
That love should be my only intellect.
And that great painter Nature made for me
The only form of beauty to be love.
And since my life was in my spirit locked,
Only by love can I my soul unlock.
And without hindrance or reserve, so far,
I have outpoured, unchecked, my song of love.
Yet know I not for whom I burn, for whom
By night and day I suffer in this flame.
However may this flame continuous glow,
I know not yet how it was kindled first.
So runs my life; a solitary wight
I live in ignorance of her I love,
Of her who lit in me this flaming torch;
To whom I ever lift this suppliant hand.
Restless, ah me, these weary sighs I heave,
Yet do not know the queen for whom I sigh.
This bitter plight is all the life I know,
Of all things else I am in ignorance.
Now tell me, what thy current’s course may be,
Whence comest thou, and whither dost thou wend?
What message is it thou art sent upon,
And who it is thou seekest in this land?
What is the object of thy wandering search,
And who thou art, and what thy name may be?
What was the first beginning of thy life,
And in what country was thine origin?
Thou bringest fragrance of the truth sincere,
And needst must be a creature trustworthy;
Thy breath gives life to every human soul,
And in thy fragrance is a human soul.
The breath of health is certainly thy dower,
Before it even the dead might come to life.”
The East Wind to these golden words gave ear,
Then answered: “Stranger, amiable and good,
I, in return for all that thou hast told,
Will tell my story with the strictest faith.
I also, like Abdallah strenuous,
Am in the same perplexity with thee.
I think a child who is with beauty dowered
As fickle and unstable as the wind;
It is desire that sends me wandering,
And yields to me the essence of my life.
Like to a vortex runs my eddying course;
And without head or foot I drift away.
Nor can I stop a while and take repose;
Desire is all the power to act I know.
My origin is pleasure and desire,
Which in the howling desert gave me life.
And for my outward lot, my happy friend,
I in a grove of roses have my home.
And am a servant to the sovereign Rose,
And wait upon her pleasure constantly,
My breath refreshment brings to all the flowers,
And cheers the rose parterre with cheerful light.”
Then said the Nightingale: “O happy friend,
Thy breath brings health and purity to me!
But what is that you call a rose garden?
And prithee tell me who this princess is?”
Then said the Wind which fosters life in things:
“Gladly I tell, and thou shalt joyful hear.
There stands a place within the realms of Kum.
’Tis called the rose parterre, the Rose’s realm;
There, in a climate genial, this burg
Is equally renowned with paradise,
Of paradise with Eden’s beauties blent;
And flowers, fresh flowers are ever blooming there.
The waters gleam like springs of paradise;
The dust is fragrant as the purest musk;
The watered plain is like the mirror stream
That flashes over Eden’s happy realm;
The dust is naught but amber all unpriced;
This home of healing is a paradise.
Within ’tis filled with all things beautiful,
And siren strains incomparable resound.
Well may it bear the name of paradise,
For every glade with glowing houris shines.
The Rose is queen and ruler of the town,
Which holds the lordship over all the world.
Unique for beauty is the reigning Rose,
And her charm beautifies all other worlds.
She is the princess of things beautiful,
The moon of beauty in the arch of heaven.
All spheres celestial lie below her feet
When she sits throned on cushions of delight.
Be she by me both praised and idolized,
Whose sight might lap you into ecstasy!
The bloom of love gives radiance to her eyes;
Enchantment fills the meshes of her hair.
Her brows are beauteous as the crescent moon;
Her mole is like a glittering star of eve;
The eye, when angry, like a dragon gleams;
It draws the dagger against all who love.
No courage can endure the terror spread
By the arched brows that overstand her eyes.
The flash, so soon as it is felt by man,
Confounds his senses, and defeats his wit.
Those eyes can rob the very soul of life;
The whisper of the mouth alone restore it.
He who their beauty looks upon, declares
’Tis God who sends a blessing on this face;
In short, she only does the ideal show,
As being the only beauty in the world.
And I have wandered in a hundred realms,
And never have I found the match of her.
For beauty is in her so eminent
That she is the perfection of the world.
She is the padishah, the queen of light,
And as a slave to such a queen I bow;
I swiftly speed her errand when she bids,
And flash along my journey like the wind.”
When Bulbul had these words attentive heard,
Straight to the earth he groaning fell for grief;
For in his heart the love-fire had been lit
And blazed like tapers in a holy place;
Endurance now was overcome by love;
He flung himself with cries into the dust.
His breast was filled with passionate desire,
And in the pain itself he found delight.
The dew of ardent passion filled his eye,
And pangs of love his inmost bosom tore;
He cried aloud with anguish, sighed, and groaned,
His eyes were wet with tears unworthy love.
Then said he to the East Wind anxiously:
“Why should this sudden flame consume my life?
What is the arrow that unfeeling fate
To my bared bosom has this instant shot?
What is the goblet whose enticing draught
Has robbed me of my senses while I drank?
How shall I reason of the dazzling light
That flutters round my spirit like a moth?
What is this lightning flash, whose sudden blaze
Kindles a world of terror in my soul?
What blast is this that carries me away
And strikes my very being as it flies?
What stranger guest is this who comes to me
And takes away my reason by his word?
Peace like a bird escapes from out my hand,
And all my soul in utter ashes lies.
The old distress has taken the strength of new,
And yonder beauty overwhelms my heart.”
XVI
The Witty East Wind Counsels the Wandering Nightingale
The East Wind calmly on the vagrant gazed,
Whose heart and soul were lit with raging flame,
And said, “Now tell to me, thou shameless one,
Where are thy courtesy and manners fled?
Whence can a beggar claim such dignity,
That he in love could ask a princess bride?
What spurs and flogs thee on to such extremes?
Beware, or thou will lose at last thy wits.
Compare her loftiness with thy estate;
What can a beggar want of royalty?
The Rose is winsome in a thousand ways,
The Nightingale is but a singer clear;
Although a thousand times thy love thou sing,
Hope not the Rose’s fragrant charm to win.
Whence dost thou gain such fitting dower of worth,
As makes thee fit to mate the balmy Rose?
Abandon passion, with its torments sore,
And shun this emptiness of wild desire.
For even should’st thou live a thousand years,
Ne’er wilt thou reach the level of the Rose.
And though thou cry Gulgul a thousand times,
Thou never wilt arouse the lady’s heart.
Refrain, then, further to torment thyself,
Nor strike on iron cold thine idle blows.”
Now when the Nightingale had heard these words,
He burst into a passionate lament;
And said: “Although I but a dervish be,
Yet still the wounds that pain my heart are fresh.
A beggar am I in my outward guise,
But I am none the less love’s padishah.
Love makes me independent in the world,
Such beggary as mine is worth a crown.
I love the Rose, and shall forever love,
And a fakir may sometimes love a shah;
Sense is indeed the guide of sober life,
But sense is never fostered by true love;
The lover in his acts is privileged,
As is the drunkard and the beggar-man.
He who would moderation value first,
Can never taste the luxury of love.
The lover who is shamefaced and reserved
Can never see the beauty which is coy.
Until the lover scorns the public blame
He gains no trust nor kindness from his love.
Though I have no enjoyment of the Rose,
’Tis joy enough for me to speak of her.
Though no return reward my passion’s pain,
Yet love itself is fair enough for me,
And he who knows the harmony of love
Will think enjoyment less than absence is.
Who lives in full fruition of his love
Is always fearing it will fly away;
He who contentedly has watched its flight
Is happy hoping it will soon return.
Absence to me is love and dignity,
Although fruition be denied my heart.
I live in agony’s o’erflowing stream
And love’s fruition willingly renounce.”
The East Wind saw that it was vain to try
The ardor of this beggar wight to quench,
For counsel did not profit him a jot.
His love kept burning like an aloe-flower,
And all his words were emphasized by sighs,
And his heat withered him like foliage parched.
And so he left him, and pursued his way
Into the precints of the rose garden;
There at the ruler’s feet he kissed the ground,
And said to her, “O righteous queen of light,
Let it be written with exactest care,
That above all the Rose is beautiful,
Though I through many realms have travelled
I have not found a beauty like to thine.”
XVII
How the Lamenting Nightingale Comes to the Garden of the Rose
Beset with pain and sorrow of the heart
And overmastered by a longing keen,
The Nightingale began to utter loud
His love forlorn in notes of bitterness;
An ardent longing throbbed within his throat,
And he was stabbed by keen misfortune’s thorn.
Struck by love’s pang, like tree that feels the axe,
He fell at last inanimate to earth;
Fainting from wounds of love and pulseless limbs,
There lay he down as if by absence slain.
From songs despondent thus his love desponds,
And pining grown as thin as is a hair.
At last the truth was wrought into his soul
That inactivity but adds to ill.
So up he rose, and in fit garments clad,
Set out upon his way to see his love.
Love seemed to spread out pinions for his flight,
O’er field and hillock bearing him along.
By the discreet direction of his friend
He travelled day and night in ardent love.
He reached the post town of United Hearts;
Thence straight he travelled to the rose garden.
And now at last arrived at Gulistan,
There breathed on him the fragrance of his love.
And on the outside of the garden fence
There came a friend who waited sedulous,
A traveller, who without an hour’s delay
Was hurrying from this garden to the sea.
The stainless Brook, whose spirit shone in light,
The pilgrim wandering to see the world.
Straight from the garden of the Rose he came,
His bosom clad in spotless fluttering folds,
And when the Nightingale beheld him come,
With eager greeting he drew near to him.
The Brook a low obeisance made to him,
And scanned the new-comer with eager eye.
He saw it was a beggar stood before him,
A beggar sick and all distraught with woe.
’Twas love had brought him to that low estate
And he was branded on the brow by love,
Then said the Brook, “O thou by love distraught,
And bowed to earth by love and suffering,
Why wearest thou this lorn and lifeless air?
Does now no heart’s blood warm thy inmost veins?
Who branded this love-token on thy face?
Who is it laid on thee the name of love?
Where is the Mecca of thy heart’s desire,
Which claims thee and demands thee for itself?
And what has made thee drunken by its draught?
What cedar with its shadow blighted thee?”
The Nightingale replied: “O kindly one,
See what I am, and do not question me.
I am enamored of a pictured face;
And there are many thousands such as I;
I am a beggar, and my love a queen.
I am all destitute, but she is rich;
She is with beauty radiant as the sun,
And I am duskier than a sunbeam’s mote.
In beauty’s garden does she bloom a Rose,
And I am naught but the poor Nightingale.
I by no name am known, but she speaks out,
And by her very graces names herself.”
So spoke the Nightingale, and down he fell,
With dolorous cries of grief and notes of woe.
Then he began a song of love forlorn,
With trills and runs of a many a circling tone.
“And love,” he said, “intoxicates my sense,
Through ardent longing for that ruby mouth.
The lightning flash of love that struck my heart,
Laid ruin in the chambers of my breast.
The heart’s endurance can no longer stand,
It has been worn away by pangs of love.
For love to ashes has reduced my life;
Love only leaves to me the power of song;
And love has filled my inmost heart with fire,
’Tis love that draws the sweat-drops of the heart,
For love has banished me from house and home;
My soul in sickness languishes through love.
And love has wearied out my tuneful throat;
The secrets of my soul hath love betrayed.
The torch of love has fallen upon my heart,
My soul is set on fire by force of love;
For love has taken my heart to be its friend;
But like a halter is this love to me.
I am become a laughing-stock through Love,
And love has set my name among the fools.”
Now as these accents by his friend were heard,
His heart with tender sympathy was touched.
His heart with generous indignation burned,
And to the pain of fierce desire he woke.
He said: “Poor wretch, inebriate of love,
Afflict thyself no more, for God is kind.
For happier fortune has he destined thee,
For it was he who gave thy love her charm;
Thy breath of music penetrates my soul,
And I will straight conduct thee to the Rose.
Gaze once upon her beauty e’er thou die;
And in her joys thine ardent passion breathe.”