THE ROSE AND THE NIGHTINGALE (Gül and Bülbül) (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The thorn, his thoughts on hate and vengeance fixed, Soon as he had outraged the Nightingale Went 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 low By his addresses could affront thy name? Thou art the pearl, the princess. Can it be A nameless beggar should draw nigh to thee? That night and day by his persistent song He causes all the grove to prate of thee? Is it that thou his daring would approve And smilest on his ardor and desires, And givest ear to such a rogue as this And listenest to the words he says to thee, So that the beggar in thy favor proud Shameless 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 wounds And 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 love Two 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 magnanimous To 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 cleave His 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 complete Have 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 form It 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.

He hurried 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 rogue By day and night, a rogue incurable Who by the Rose infatuated lives, And drunken with love’s goblet is distraught. Nor night nor day he ceases his complaint As 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-man And put him without pity into chains.” Soon as the firman of the king went out They quickly scoured the glades of Gulistan, And sought amid the rose-garden parterres For traces of the tuneful Nightingale.

He who sets out to adorn his countenance Makes plainer the expression of his face, And thus it fell that when the Nightingale Felt 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 comes Has 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 spoke Of 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 wretch A 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!

O heart, 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 narrative Shall lighten up the circle of the world. In Eastern lands there sat enthroned in might A 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 wrath To 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 fire The 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 heaven The 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.

Whoever sets afire this history Has fed with fuel a refulgent lamp; For August, sitting on his royal throne, Is mighty in his exercise of power; He gathered all the nobles of the land To heaven, to meet him at the great Divan. He was by fortune and by greatness warmed, And through his power and lordship, filled with pride. And thus he spake among his mighty lords: “Speed as ye may o’er earth’s remotest line, I now am lord of all the universe; See in my hand it melt, how weak it is! The ardor of my fury works in it, And my heat flies from brow to sweating brow. And lives there now on earth a single wight Who has not felt the ardor of my breath? And is there king of greatness and of might Who has not felt the flaming of mine eyes?” They answered: “Sire, the world is all aglow! ’Tis very true thy fury sways the world. And yet in Rūm there is a little town Such as the world has never seen before. ’Tis governed by a monarch of its own; His throne with budding honor is adorned; The town is called the Garden of the Rose, The king is named the monarch of the spring. There the green blade that tranquil lifts its head Has never felt the fury of thy heat.” Soon as these words the monarch August heard His bosom with tempestuous heat was filled. He said: “At once we undertake the task Of devastating that forgotten realm. And while its monarch joys with placid heart Disaster shall rain down upon his head. And yet ’tis necessary, first of all, A messenger from me be sent to them, To testify my grandeur in their sight And bear the tidings that I send to them. That when they learn of my design, through fear Their courage may dissolve like ice in spring. For he must say that I to conquer come And captive take the people of the town. The monarch must be yielded to my hand, And all must live in terror of my power.” There stands a courier at his behest, Who, like a flea, now here, now there is found; Like lightning sudden is he in his flight, And rapid as the flame, or as the thought. From his breath, warmed as by a fever’s heat, He had been Samum named and known to all. And he was with the East Wind closely bound, His elder brother, as it seemed to be; The first of them is the delight of Spring, The second is King August’s servant true. He waits to bear the message of the king, Who said, “O lightning-speeding messenger, Now hie thee swift to yonder rose garden, And to the king who rules there stoutly speak With thy warm breath and with thy violent speech. Stir up fierce fire within that little realm, For from thy mouth does fire like rain descend, Thy tongue can scatter devastation round. Take care thou speak not gently to the king, Take care that not too furiously thou speak. Say to him: “Thou to ruin doomed, keep still, For soon my fury burns thee up with fire. For what permission has been given to thee To reign in peace amid this rose garden Without a fear for my o’ermastering might, Without a thought upon the season’s rage? Wilt thou not listen to the word which tells Of the resplendent lightning of my rage? Take to thy mind and in thy brain revolve How thou mayst save thy country from my drought. Surrender like a slave thy throne and crown, And stand outside the threshold of my gate. Give up thy realm, withdraw thy hand from it, And thus win peace and pardon for the land. But if thou art rebellious to my will, And dost not yield to me thy land and throne, Be sure of this, that on thy luckless head Swift ruin shall descend without reprieve.” When Samum took this message from the king Swift as a storm he hurried on his way, He blighted every meadow land he crossed, And found his journey’s end in Gulistan.

Headlong he rushed into the rose garden, And furiously he set it full afire; The tulip drew her tongue that burned like fire, And panted feverish in the rose garden. The tulip glittered like a spark of fire, Narcissus, like a lantern, shot her ray, Then danger threatened the inhabitants, And the Rose blushed more beauteous still for shame. The king himself was in the direst need, And with a glance of fire his voice he raised. He pondered well what had befallen the state, And saw the true proportions of the case. And as he took full knowledge of his plight, The parching heat consumed him to the heart. Then full of royal courage bold and high, He braced his soul and searched for counsel fit And said: “What conflagration visits us? Who is this tyrant August, and what deed Of mine has roused his fury that he seems So headstrong and so burning in his rage? The rancor of his flames I will repress, My sword shall quench his ire as water flame. He is to me no object of alarm, Nor twenty thousand furnaces like him, He shall not venture further on this sod, My sword shall slay him as heat is slain by stream. Go, say to him, and bid him be ashamed, And mitigate this devastating heat, And draw away his flames from out the land, And cease this wild campaign about our walls, Or he himself in his own flames shall soon Be brought to ashes by command of mine.” With such an answer Samum made return Unto the monarch of the summer time; He gave him tidings from the Shah of Spring, Speaking the answer faithful word for word, And August, when the message he had heard, Burst out into a rage of frenzied heat. And storming, he at once gave his command, “Let all my kingdom gather under arms, And hot and fast be preparation made. The rose garden in ruin must be laid.”

There was a messenger by nature high, From head to foot he shone with dazzling light. His nature was illumination’s soul, His traffic was the ministry of fire, He scattered light throughout the universe, And to the zenith reared his lofty brow. ’Twas fire that wrought the jewelry of light, His name was nothing but the morning sun. As lord and as field marshal forth he went And spurred his courser into Gulistan. King Spring was startled by the news he heard, That thus his foe had hither made his way. He gathered all his nobles for advice, And stirred up all his force for feats of arms. He roused them all for war, the residents Of rose garden he summoned to the strife. The lily drew her broadsword from the sheath, The thorns in hand their pricking arrows held. Even the cypress now prepared for war, Stood ready with her needles like a lance. The tulips spread their petals like a bow, And even the dew prepared its pebble-stones. The violets bent them to a hostile bow, The daisies shot their arrows into air, The stream put on its glittering coat of mail, And stood enclothed in panoply of steel. Like janizaries all the plants around, Held in their hand their pikes and partisans. And every bud a threatening bludgeon bore, And put themselves as shields before the Rose. They stood in ordered ranks as warriors ranged For war and conflict in the cause of right. Now when the sun into rose garden came A fiery volley straightway he discharged, And with his heat began to devastate, Like to some torch-bearer of Eastern kings. And lo! the dwellers in the rose garden Dwindled, consumed like tapers in a mosque. The lily wilted like a sinking flame, And quickly dropped the broadsword from her hand. The crimson tulips burnt to dusky black, And dropped their blazoned targes from their hand. In a rude mass the verdant bowers collapsed, And the whole city into ashes turned. Who can withstand the ravages of the fire? Who can wage war against its deadly line? When to Shah Spring this news at last was brought His splendor and his power faded away. Although he struggled to maintain the strife, He saw that he was fated to defeat, And straightway he betook himself to flight, Forsook the field of battle for retreat. Retreat is cowardly, yet there are times When stoutest valor counsels a retreat. When stronger foes o’ermaster those who fight Retreat is better than to rashly stand. Such was the thought that swayed the monarch Spring, And so he took the Rose and fled with her. He mounted quickly to an alpine crag, Which bordered on a chain of savage hills, And all his followers he took with him, And all the mountain side was peopled o’er, And so he rested on the towering peak, And lived henceforth in safety and in peace. And from that alp there sloped a verdant plain Where happiness and fruitfulness abode.

Meanwhile the sun, field marshal of the fray, Had to surrender brought the rose garden. Then comes the monarch August with great joy, To take his seat on the vacated throne. The garden dwellers mourned in anxious care, For still the flame of fury burnt its way, And all the noblest houses were consumed, For the fierce glow of fire had drunk their blood. Its fury hastily the tulips parched, And burnt to blindness the narcissus’ eyes, The Rose parterre is wrapt in dazzling flame, And fire amid the thickets reigns supreme. And soon as he had blasted every bower, He sallied forth to find the monarch Spring. And said to each, “Where is the monarch Spring? And whither has retired the Princess Rose?” They told him they had fled to mountain heights, Where cool fresh alps looked down upon the scene. And when the King of Summer learnt of this, He sent his army in pursuit of him, He said: “Despatch and lay the monster waste, Let the fire burn it like a living heart. Seize and bring hither monarch Spring to me, And drag the Rose into the mire for me.” As soon as he this firman had pronounced, The sun his way directed to the alps. And with his army devastation wrought, As if he would the world in ruin lay, And when the monarch Spring appeared in sight, The tyrant would him fain assassinate. In a short time he held the king at bay, Seized on the Rose, and straight forsook the land. Where’er he went was nothing left behind. Nothing appeared where once his path had been. No trace was left of monarch Spring’s domain, The Rose was nowhere seen upon the mead. Both from the mountain side had disappeared, And no one knew to what point they had fled. The sun triumphant had a victory Complete o’er every remnant of the foe. He said, “The monarch Spring is banished quite, And not a foot-track can be found of him, And no one seems to know where he is gone, And where to seek the glory of the Rose.” And when the monarch August pondered this, No longer was a care left in his breast, And in one day he made the rose garden Naught other but a revel place of fire. And yet he blent advantages with waste, Pouring a thousand graces on the spot. What was unripe he mellowed and made sweet, To what was crude maturity he brought. Into the landscape sent tranquillity, And mingled a bland sweetness with his rage. At last he quite forsook his camping ground, And made his homeward journey to the East. He glided lightly forth on ether’s wing, And reached at last his station permanent. And as he left the placid meadow land, He heard the news of more important things.

There was a king, distributor of gold, Well skilled the world to deck in brilliant hues, Upon the world he shed magnificence, A glorious king munificent of gold. High in the North his palace home was set, There ever throned in clemency he sat. This king was of a disposition cold, And moderation was his ruling trait. His sole employment was to scatter gold, To give mankind the pleasure of its glow. In other excellencies he was rich, But there was none that scattered gold like him. He was a painter, too, of rarest skill, Unique in art and generosity. Before the glory of his varied tints Pale all the masterpieces of the world. He tints the leafy curtain of the earth, And Mani’s self might wonder at the work. He is a painter great, of faultless touch, A colorist of an unerring skill, He gives a soul to every quivering leaf, Until it shows a hundred tints of fire. He stamps it with the lustre of the gold, Until its very shadow is aflame. He colors with the potency of skill With haze of rose and saffron every copse. The master of a double art is he, And famous for his skill in either part, And every artist to whom he is known Him by none other name but Autumn calls. In might and wisdom he is affluent, And by his grace and kindness ever warm, And through his reign the world was kept at peace, Because he gave such freedom to the world. He showered his gifts on every land and clime, A paragon of generosity, And through his gifts, at last reduced to earth, He leaves at least the hungry satisfied. Through him of little worth was reckoned gold, He scattered it around like dust and soil. Though he was famous for his graciousness, Well did he know to injure by his might. When he was angry all his breath was frost, And those who saw him with affright grew pale. The world its face of summer loveliness Was changed to other colors at his touch, For fear of him the rose garden grew faint, And sallowed into tints of mellow gold. He was a wonder worker of his kind, Pity in him went hand in hand with rage. Cold was he by his nature, half of ice And half of water was his intellect. Yet ofttimes did he blaze with glance of heat, The blessing that he brought outweighed the bane, And when he gently spoke with anyone His countenance was lit with radiant warmth. Yet toward the end he turned to bitter cold, And kept that bearing to the very end. Shah August once in regal state assumed His seat among the nobles in Divan. He gathered round him all his ministers To greet his emirs and his noblemen, When suddenly there came to him the news That all the garden’s realm in ruin lay. That banished was the monarch of the mead, And the bower’s beauty all was devastate. And when the monarch August heard the news The tidings made him quiver like a leaf. Full of impatience and anxiety He hastened to explore the garden glade. Although he well believed the tidings true, He wished to have authentic evidence, And that this evidence he might attain, A spy must needs be on the errand sent.

A right swift messenger he had despatched, Like dust upon the wind the herald sped. His nature was of heat and frost combined, The Persians called him Scatterer of the Leaves; And when this title was accorded not, They called him Plucker of the Summer Leaves. The monarch August thus accosted him: “Now hear my words aright, thou speedy one, Beget thee at this instant to that bower, And bring me news of all that thou shalt see, And as thou flittest like a spirit free, Show thyself merciful to Gulistan. Let moderation all thy conduct rule, And gain the hearts of all the country side. Show not thyself a sudden blast of frost, But first appear a warm and sultry air; Begin to scatter round the kindly gold, And happiness through power and honor bring. As thyself thou art in color rich, Scatter thy tints o’er every leaf and blade.” As the leaf-plucker heard the monarch’s speech In silence he departed on his way. Quickly arrived he at the rose garden, Fulfilling the commission of his king. He scattered light and beauty as he went, And everything he overlaid with gold. And yet his bearing was not harsh or strict, And he brought blessing whereso’er he went. He mingled in the middle of the flowers, With kindly tenderness he played with them, He made inquiry, as he well was fit, With his impetuous pertinacity. And the parterres with many a hue were stained. Needless his operations to recount. When he the plight of the rose garden saw, Straight to the King he made a swift return. Telling to him of all that had befallen Of good and bad unto the rose garden. The king at once commanded that in arms His cavalry should charge the garden realm. He throned himself as monarch in the glade, And all the dwellers there were captive made. And as his wont, to happy make the world, He scattered wide his gold on every head. And everyone at once grew rich in life, And everyone a golden caftan wore. His hand was full of graciousness and gift, Wherewith he strewed the land on every side. He gave them such a mess of gold for prize That head to foot they glimmered with the ore. And thereupon the master of the realm His manner altered in a high degree. For where his voice was gracious and benign, He now displayed his fury and his hate. And all the garden people, white with fear, Fell to the earth overmastered by alarm, And as he was at first both sweet and kind, So now he ravaged with the wildest rage. He flung the dwellers of the garden out, The garden naked lay in horror vast. He threw the floral decorations low, The leaves and branches scattered o’er the sod, And as he devastated all day long, And at the last there followed placid calm. And thus while nature’s course its way pursues, Quiet and peace result from violence.

The messenger upon his errand sped, With chilling words his message to convey. “A king,” he said, “was throned in the far West Whose breath was cold, whose very glance was frost. Chill was his breath and chill his aspect drear, His heart and every action cruelty. To moderation he was deadly foe, And plagued the people with his blasting frost. He was a sovereign who prevailed by cold, King of the world who men as Winter knew. Soon as his voice was heard amid the land The people shuddered at his fierce attack; His chilling breath could quench the heat of hell, For he was colder than the touch of ice, And as his power could cool the fire of hell, His rage could change an Eden into hell. For when his breath was fiercest, like a fire, He burnt and made men feel the pain of hell. His wild, inconstant, and unerring rage, In ruin laid the elemental world. When once his lance was on the people shot ’Twas like a poker stirring up the fire, And when a householder his face discerned, He swiftly turned him back into the house, And while his fury was without restraint, He drove the people to the ingle fire. And so he waxed in furiousness of frost That the world lit its fires and sat by them. The streets were blocked by his invading might, And in the houses piles of fuel blazed. The people in the mosques assembled thick, For refuge in the blaze of altar fires. To save herself from his invading power The rose garden became a blazing hearth, And yet he did not spare his breath of frost, But laid his hand on Autumn’s kindly glow. And when that monarch showed himself on earth He ran him neck to neck for victory, And like a flood his fury ran apace, And everything was stiffened in his way. The water curdled into solid ground, And the world’s eye was filled with crystal tears, And each one went about with covered head. The sun in heaven concealed himself for fear. The poor man and the rich alike were forced To warm themselves in skins and cloaks of felt. And each one of the city elegants Wound round his head a costly robe of fur. In short, the Winter reigns, a king supreme, Throughout the period of the dwindling days, And swift as water hurried his command, And like the wind o’er every country swept. While he himself in sombre dignity Scattered his silver frost on every side, His silver with such lavish hands he spread That house and heather shone with silvery gleams.

And then he gave command unto his hosts. “Make ready,” said he, “for a long campaign Let all our army speed to rose garden And fall upon it with the force of fire.” Upon the general a command was laid To overthrow the palace of the Rose. He stood at Winter’s beckoning, a slave, A minion, who attended his command. He was himself of Winter’s temperament, And in the world he bore the name of snow. White was he as the crystal camphor is, And he was as the crystal camphor cold, And he was soft as cotton to the touch, But chilly as the hardest cake of ice. He was the winter’s steadiest adjutant, And he was sent to ravage Gulistan. And straight he set himself upon the way To wage his warfare upon the rose garden. And suddenly as is the hand of fate The snow came down amain with fleecy cloud, And in one night within the rose garden Triumphant reigned in valley and in field. High was it piled above each arching roof, And over all the whitening cloak was spread. It threatened men and horses to ingulf, And like a camphor shower enshrouded all. When Gulistan this sad disaster saw A reign of terror rose in its domain. The snow was seen to dance on every roof, And glitter down like swords and lances bright. And as the snow covered the woodland limbs The winter on the garden settled down, And all his army in their tents encamped, And the whole city at their mercy lay. And Autumn, when of this he was aware, Shuddered and shook like aspen foliage. Though he would fain have entered on a fight, He saw ’twas vain to hope for victory. At last, quite conquered, in retreat he fled And sought his former dwelling and his seat. But Winter still his domination claimed, And sat enthroned as king in Gulistan. He gave command, “Let no one from this time Of bower and garden pleasance question make.” And while he stayed there all the rose garden Should to a heap of ashes be reduced, And he who would be rash enough to dare This edict to decry and disobey, He who should violate this strict command, With anger should be straightly visited. So everyone about that place was sad, And all the place was bound in bitter frost. And everyone who but held out his hand Was stripped and blighted like a withered bough. And by the direful tyranny of cold The happiness of all the folk was changed. And as this destiny befell the glade Each creature pressed impetuous round the fire. Gray hairs and hair still glossy bright with youth Pressed as to the high altar round the fire. Early and late the fire burned round the hearth, The fuel was as precious as the flame, And to give heat unto a single hearth Was worth the value of an aloe flower, And those who sold the fuel were in glee, And the wood market was a kingly realm, And he who bore with him a bag of gold Was poorer than the man who owned a wood. In short, the tyrant cold was lord o’er all, And each man found his house a prison cell. For Winter’s mighty tyrant reigned o’er all, And ravaged freely over all the wood. He scattered silver with a lavish hand, And all the world in silver frost was sunk. The cedars donned a silver coronet, And all the garden wore a silver braid. The very streams in silver mail were clad, And clumps of silvery ice adorned their banks. Thus Winter made his campaign for a time Within the precincts of the rose garden. But listen how it happened at the last That he retired and left the garden free.

O nightingale, whose voice is ever loud, And ever sounds within the entrance hall, Of what avail has been thy clamorous lay, For has the hour of thy fruition come? Within the cage thou must thy sojourn make, Who once couldst walk amid the rose garden. Surely thou hast enough of suffering spread, And now must still in disappointment pine. Thy flight has brought thee but to contumely, Now to fruition spread thy eager wings. For when misfortune gains its highest point, Relief is given to the suffering one. And all thy lamentations, what are they Unto the Rose who laughs amid thy woe? He who has drunk his full from legend’s cup Sings thus, deep, low in dregs of misery. And when the king who burns the world with fire, And has the happy August for his name, Conquered the city of the rose garden, And subjugated it and held it fast And vanquished all the treasures of the Spring, To leave his palace and his court behind, The monarch Spring, forsaking his estate, Fled to the safest city of the South. Many a day with toil and pain he rode, And came at last into a distant land, In the dominion of a mighty czar, Whose brows were crowned with buds of happiness. He was a monarch of astounding might, Full of munificence and mightiness. His noble bearing was with mildness formed. Gentle his mind, friendly, and delicate. For he was born beneath auspicious stars, Of those high stars that herald in the day. A lord of light was he, exalted high From his nobility and mighty fame; His happiness the world flooded with light, His name was called the Harbinger of Spring. Well was the Spring acquainted with this shah, Who was direct descendant of his line. And as King Spring these tidings spread abroad, The Harbinger of Spring the message took, And went to meet the Spring on his approach, Giving him honor high in every way. The monarch who ’mid gentle breezes moved, Gave many honors to the prince of Spring, And as he came, unto the throne drew near, He took him by his side upon the throne. And for one day was feast and welcome held In honor and in glad festivity. And lo! among the guests the question rose What is the true condition of affairs? Then spake the monarch, asking of the Spring, Why he had fled away from Gulistan. “How art thou come,” he said, “and whither bound? What has directed your affection here, To leave the garden’s blest tranquillity, And o’er the routes of travel toil thy way?” So monarch Spring narrated to him all That had befallen the town of rose garden, And how that king who man had August named With violence had overrun the land, How he had wasted it with furious flame, And all the bowers of roses turned to ash; How Autumn had the spot to ruin brought, And how black Winter devastated it. And all that happened in the rose garden He told in detail to the mighty shah. And when the king the dismal tidings learnt, His soul within him was to fury turned, And soon as monarch Spring had related all The Harbinger of Summer cried aloud: “Lord of the world, let naught confuse thy soul, Away with sorrow from thy anxious breast; No longer shall thy patient mind be tried, For there is hope again for Gulistan. And if the Lord of heaven good fortune give, Thou shalt again unto thy realm return, And throned in power once more in rose garden Shall trample every foeman in the dust.” And when the monarch Spring this comfort heard He seconded the promise with a wish, And said: “O king, thou art a constant friend, And never may misfortune cross thy path. Mayst thou live long in honor and renown, And thy felicity be girt with power, Soon as I heard that lofty word of thine Into my soul tranquillity returned. Though the campaign has devastated all, It has not taken from me all my hopes.” The Harbinger of Spring, when this he heard, In silence placed his hand upon his brow, And hurriedly his preparations made For a campaign toward the garden bower. So that the shah elected to this place Might in the bower of roses pitch his tent.

When o’er the land the breath of morning came, The world was filled with blissful radiancy. The news of fresh arrivals filled the glade, And the trees ranged themselves in serried ranks. And everything that in the garden grew Was seared and mildewed by the past distress, And yet anew life’s waters woke again, And all was tinged with Spring’s perennial green, Though all in death had lain for many a day, Now living once again they raised their hand, And everything with ardent passion throbbed. And the East Wind came by with soft approach, And benediction followed on his course. And all the flowers their faces showed again, And over all the light of summer shone. The cypresses wore garments of delight, And danced in many a ring along the mead And each narcissus started from its sleep. The tulips raised again their shining brows, And as war’s cruel visage disappeared The land again was peopled as of yore. And when King Winter in the sunlight saw The people of the land come back again, And that the meadows which he had o’errun Were finally relinquished to the foe, He was o’ercome with grief and shame and ire, And heated by the sense of his defeat. The snow, o’ercome by advent of the Spring, In utter shame betook itself to earth. In sooth, already had it drabbled o’er The rose garden with her enkindled wrath, For snow now felt itself o’ermastered, weak; His host was overcome at every point. And as the snow dissolved into the ground, A flood of tears was spread on every field. The Winter could no longer stand his ground, And rapidly he started in retreat. He turned him back again toward the West, And gave up occupancy of the land. And on the land the light of justice shone And truth prevailed and error was abashed. And as Spring’s herald occupied the land, King Spring himself returned to claim his own He took his seat once more upon his throne, And then his herald vanished from the scene.

As monarch Spring now on his radiant throne Flourished, as in the glorious days of yore, He opened there the treasures of his might, And in the dust he scattered radiant pearls; He lavished honors on each denizen, And all were clad in mantles of the green, And Gulistan is once again restored; And grove and garden open wide their hearts, And light is shining in narcissus’ eyes, And joy is in the heart of all the world; The tulips don once more their ruby crowns; The glade of Gulistan is filled with flowers; The cypress once again his office takes, And stands as porter at the garden gate. And all the lilies drew their swords again, And every thorn whetted its arrow point, The sandbach opened out his gleaming rolls In harmony with nature’s odorous life. The tapestry of vegetation, new With satin green, the field and fallow clothed. And all the people of the world repaired Into the garden as a paradise. The world from happiness an Eden grew, And vernal freshness sparkled in the Spring. The Rose ascended to her throne again; The hyacinth her locks of purple wore, The messenger East Wind within the grove Awoke to life from out his skeleton; And every stream with ardent passion ran, And every flood with towering head advanced; The rose garden again its beauty takes, And peace and quiet reign on every side. And as the Rose her lofty throne ascends, In ranks the nobles at her bidding come; The dew her favorite beverage provides; The tulips in her service goblets bring, And each man drinks according to desire; And honor and good wishes follow wine. And all the time does festive gladness reign, By day and night the joyous feast goes on.

And once upon this festal holiday The Rose bethought her of the Nightingale, And said: “Where is that miserable fool Who was inebriate with wine and love? How fares it with the man of sighs and tears? How can he live dissociate from our grove? Shall we no longer hear that lute of his? What is it that has checked his thrilling lay? And has his heart been snatched away by pain? And was he haply driven from grief to dust? And has the flame of absence burnt him up? And is he slain by moody glance of mine? Is it the thorn has laid him suffering low, And him enlisted ’mid my deadliest foes?” They said to her, with salutation kind: “O Rose, the fairest paragon of charms, The wretch that was impaled upon the thorn Has since been prisoner made within a cage. By night and day behind the cage’s bar He sings aloud his melody of woe. Still he laments, and all his dolorous song Pierces the heart of hearers to the quick; And in the dreary prison-house enthralled Him no refreshment of delight consoles.” And when the tender Rose these tidings heard, She breathed a sigh over the beggar’s lot. “And shall the prisoner, detained in gyves, Never attain felicity again?” And full of pity, as his rescuer, She called for the East Wind, her messenger, And said: “East Wind, who cheerest every soul, Now let thy breath upon that beggar blow. Find him, and greet him wheresoe’er he be, And do him honor every way thou canst. And say to him, ‘O heart with suffering full, That without consolation feelest pain, How has the pang of absence slain thy soul? What is the blow that grief has dealt to thee? Thou art within this narrow cage confined, And overcome with pain and grief and fear. The dagger of thy grief has pierced thy heart; The agony of absence wastes thy breast; Long hast thou borne the languor absence brings; ’Tis time that thou should’st know fruition’s bliss. Though absence rages o’er thee like a storm, Thou still art worthy of the joy of love.’ Go, my East Wind, and with such words as these, Seek to console him with the news of bliss. Absence no more shall waste his mind away, Console him, then, and bring back heart to him.” The messenger East Wind, when this he heard, Answered “Long live the Queen,” and forth he went. He journeyed wide, and everywhere he sought To find where dwelt the mournful nightingale.

And Bulbul in the distance suffered pain, In the hard strait of absence from his love; And in the cage he sang his dolorous lay, Renouncing every hope of happiness. And in the cage he stood, lamenting loud, And mourning was his orison of morn; For every morning did he pray to God, To send him help in his disastrous plight, And said: “O God! I languish in the dust, A prey to anguish in this narrow cage; The halter of estrangement binds my neck; Estrangement from my love fetters me here. My soul within my sickening self confined Is like a wretched bird within a cage. Power and unrighteousness have dashed me down Into one narrow corner of the world. O God! Why does not life escape this cage And find its habitation in the stars? Sometimes thou art benign to mortal prayer, Oh, set me free from this accursed cage! I never cease to utter my lament, For I am slain by separation’s pain; And no one listens to my tale of woe, When I lament upon my absent love. And there is no one brings me, in my love, The tidings that I crave of my beloved. O that the Queen would some compassion show, And smile in recognition on her slave! O Lord, I flee to thee to gain thy help, And upon thee my firm foundation place; Therefore I melt thy Spirit with my sighs; Thou canst not fail at my petition’s plea. O God, my God, by all thy radiant light, Give succor to me, leave me not forlorn! Thou who the Author art of things that are, Open to me the door of my release.” As thus the wretched bird his song pursued, The deity the suffering suppliant heard; For when a tortured soul appeals to God God ever listens to his loud complaint. And all the time the Nightingale was heard, As is each soul that prays with earnestness. The sufferings that round that prisoner rose Were almost now unto their limit brought; For the East Wind, that cheers the souls of men, Arrived and saw the Nightingale encaged, And came and said, “My greeting to your Grace,” And bowed his forehead to the very dust. He said: “How fares it with thee, prisoner? How is it thou art prisoned thus by pain? And what transgression art thou guilty of, That thou art thus imprisoned in a cage? Who is it found thee guilty of a crime, That to confinement thou hast been consigned? Who is it that hath slandered thee abroad, And set thee thus behind the prison bar, When thou in freedom findest such delight, Who is it that has tortured thus thy heart? How is it thou art thus a prisoner found, Tormented with the anguish of thy heart? Come back again to glades of Gulistan, And let us hear thee speak thy heart’s desire.”

Soon as the Nightingale this message heard He was in ardent passion overwhelmed. He cried aloud with sighs and deep lament; “Hear me; I will my woe relate to thee. I, a poor man, for lovingness atone, And all the guilt is in the jailer found. Love is the only guilt that I avow, This is the cause of all my sorrows here. While love has thus enchained my inmost life, My song alone the note of freedom sounds.” And the East Wind responded to this speech. “Heroic sufferer,” he replied to him, “Torment thyself no more, the course of love At last is tending to the goal desired; Long hast thou borne this dire adversity, The hour of happiness at last draws near. The queenly Rose her greeting sends to thee, And makes the message through this herald known; Thy long-continued passion finds its end, ’Tis time the volume of thy pain be closed. Soon shalt thou from thy prison-house be freed. Lament no more, thy succor is at hand.” Then the East Wind the pleasant message gave, With which the Rose had sent him on his way; And when the bird received that sweet despatch, He fell to earth, quite overcome with joy. And said: “Oh, let me know the news she sends, For it has reached me in a happy hour; The hour in which I fell to earth for grief, There comes to me the news of happiness.” And with a thankful heart he thanked the Lord; And to the East Wind every blessing wished, And on his backward way the East Wind went, And songs of thankfulness the bird began. And when the East Wind reached the happy Rose He said: “O Light that glorifiest the world, The Nightingale is prisoner in a cage; The cage is like a dungeon to the bird; And he is overwrought with love for thee; And languishes amid the pangs of love. His strains betray the languor of his heart, Oft as he breathes them on the listening wind. And ofttimes he reflects, that all his life, Is now surrendered to a narrow cage; And soon his spirit will surrendered be, Unless the anguish of his song be stilled. And tho’ full many a sufferer I have seen, Saw I none ever in such languishment.”