For a long time bewailed the Nightingale
His 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 heart
And all my agony recount to her.
My eyelashes shall serve me for a pen
And from mine eyes I will my ink distil;
The tears which drip like blood beneath my lids
Are ink enough to write my love letter.”
With pain he took the pen into his hand
And 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 fair
That 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 through
And 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 breast
And 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 appeared
Long 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 strange
Was Leila’s flawless beauty long renowned.
And if no moth had ever been consumed
The 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-content
Thou 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 messenger
To bring this letter to my best beloved?”
At last he found a fitting messenger
To take his love epistle to the queen.
XXXI
The Nightingale Despatches Through the Jasmine the Letter Written Out of the Fullness of His Heart
In those 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 him
And 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 queen
Of 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 thee
May show itself propitious to my prayer.”
The Sandbach the commission undertook,
And said: “’Tis well; cheer up. I only hope
Thy letter that is written by thy hand
May 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 the billet-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 tenderness
Assuage the fiery ardor of the wight.
And for a proof I feel in honor bound
To send an answer to these words of love.”
Then straight she took into her hands a pen,
And wrote an answer to the Nightingale.
XXXII
The Dainty Rose Sends Through the Tall Jasmine Sandbach an Answer to the Letter of the Distracted Nightingale
The letter 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 life
And bound thee up in this distraction’s coil.
How is it that the misery of thy love
And 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 amorous
That 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 need
Should be, and thou shouldst take me for a friend.
That I should yield my beauty to thy hand
So 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 love
Deserves 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 so
Let 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 sleep
And 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 heard
He 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 read
The 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 pen
The 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.
XXXIII
Description of the Night and of the Reproof Which the Treacherous Hyacinth Gave in Answer to the Poor Nightingale
It was a night in which the rose garden
Was clear illumined as with light of day,
When tints of darkness interblent with light
Went 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 discoursed
In dulcet notes the ardor of his soul.
He sang at first in his delight and joy
His 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 plunged
Befits 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 still
An 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 garden
So 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 one
So beggarly should at our threshold lie.”
And so excited was the hyacinth
That 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 devise
By which to purge the bowers of Gulistan.
XXXIV
The Insidious Hyacinth, Her Mind Darkened With Envy, Contrives That the Nightingale is Expelled From the Rose Garden
Just when the sun of full fruition dawned,
An obstacle that instant rose to sight.
Oft the possessor of a faithful friend
Is 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 heart
A foeman also rises to oppose,
A cruel foe had thus appointed been
To 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 belt
And 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 hand
Was 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 day
In 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 Gulistan
Bulbul 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 he
Is taken up with passion for the Rose?
That he by sighing and by songs of love
Should take the fair name of our queen away?
That he should choose her name to be the theme
Of 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 himself
And many a lying vow has breathed to her.
I fear that by his reckless impudence
Her noble name at last may suffer loss.
Soon as the thorn these treacherous tidings heard
Each hair upon his head became a sword,
And the assassin thorn spake full of wrath:
“God blame thee for a worthless loon! And why
Didst thou not long ere this the vagabond
In 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 thorn
And drew his dagger in a burst of rage.
The very moment he the Bulbul found
He dealt him many a wound with flashing blade,
And said to him: “Audacious beggar, thou
Who 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-day
Dost 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 shame
Thou 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 delay
I 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 pain
And thousand lamentations leaves the grove.
He left the grove, the rose garden of love,
And sang his sorrow to the break of morn.