THE ROSE AND THE NIGHTINGALE (Gül and Bülbül)

BLESSED is the phrase that praises Allah’s name; It is the very rosary of God’s word; For through it blooms the rose-bed of the soul; And through it sings the bosom’s nightingale. Each single letter has the rose’s hue, And thus adorns the rose-field of our faith. B is the bloom of the creation’s rise, The rose that stands on plains of Paradise. S is the sultan, ruling over M; The dew-drop sparkling on the lip of buds. A is the cypress of God’s kindliness, The buds of sanback, buds of promise true. The L leads on to leaves of happiness, Like the curled locks that deck the grove of truth; The H is like the eyes of hyacinths; Fresh as the rosebud when it starts to blow; The R is like the nation of the rose, Hither and thither tossed by morning wind. The H is the mild breeze that sweeps the plain, And is a symbol of eternal grace; What is the N but Eden’s Nenuphar The dot rests on it like a pistil point. The J is, as it were, a jasmine flower, Bending above a violet full in bloom. The double mark that stands above the L Is dew upon the leaf of hyacinths. The points are nothing else but drops of dew, That rest on tulip, rose, and violets. The vowels of the sentence breathe their sounds Like breezes scenting glades of Gulistan; Emblems of peace are seen on every side, Like to the peace of Eden in the world; So do we come at last to Gulistan, And on the new-blown roses gaze with joy. And you, oh Fasli! to the rose-bed come, And sing your ardent passion for the rose.

Thou didst with fire make red the rose’s heart, And kindle passion in the nightingale; Thou didst lend sweetness to the open air, And scatter in the East the scent of musk; To thee the spring-time owes her living crown; The groves of roses owe their fame to thee. ’Tis thou didst paint the rose’s gallery; And China’s flowery land had birth from thee. The festival of roses is from thee; The rose guests owe their genial hours to thee; Thine is the burning aloe of the East; Thine, the loud warbling of the nightingale; From thee, the rose her glowing color takes; From thee, the nightingale her melody; The tulip’s bosom glows with love for thee; Delight in thee perfumes the cypress boughs; Great nature’s heart is opened at thy smile; And by thy grace the vernal waters flow. Thy wrath bows down the violet to the dust. ’Tis at thine indignation that it wilts. Thou lightest tapers in the forest glade, And sometimes in thy flames the tulip dies; And the narcissus, like a beggar crouched, Thou dost ennoble with thy crowns of gold; Yet, ’tis their voices and their tongues that praise With melody, thy name in woodland glades. Yea, from the very seeds thy praises rise; And the spring’s tender nurslings speak thy name. The living and the dead recount thy praise, The fount, from which the light of living streams; No man can worthily extol thy name. Sing then thyself, the glory that is thine; Who art the only power that at a word Didst call into existence heaven and earth. The breezes of the west did softly blow Where solid land and ocean were to be. And, as thy simple fiat sounded forth, The earth was fashioned and the world was framed. ’Tis thou that gavest her station to the earth, Thou madest hidden treasures in the hills. Thou sendest down thy rain-drops on the dust; Refreshing all the leafage of the plants. Thou didst unite the earthly elements And raise the arches of the firmament. And yoke the four refractory winds of heaven; The great world-dragon is thy talisman. The stream of life to all things didst thou yield; To snake and ant alike thou givest meat; And the earth’s treasures by thy grace are known, And by thy grace are all things possible. Upon the page of night, with master hand, The shining precepts of thy law are writ. And gloriously emblazoned by the signs And letters of the azure firmament. For wisdom of Bismillah is the B, As Allah is great nature’s origin. Next comes the spirit of the universe; Our Scripture is the mother of all books, And on its page is written plain to see, “He in the heavens has made himself a throne.” And under it the scribe Almighty wrote The verses that depict the holiest throne. Next the seven heavens in order he described; In the first chapter of Alcoran’s scroll. The sea and land are separated there, And holy Scripture was the volume named. Then did he write those jewels of the world, The Proofs, the Ordinances, and the Laws. In the last chapter did he treat of man, And so the sacred record was complete.

Thou art the Maker, both of man and beast, Body and life, thou gavest unto both. Yet gavest man the attributes distinct Of beauty, and of intellectual light. Thou madest the face of man to be a glass, To mirror all thy beauty’s radiance; And as thy sun-like beauty shot its rays, So beauty in the beautiful is praised. In beauteous calm thou gleamest over all; Where’er I gaze, thy splendor I behold; And not a landscape owns a single charm But what thy shining beauty yields to it. Oh thou omnipotent, a pinch of dust Thou turnest to the splendor of the world. And a friend’s face becomes a face of fire, For there thy well-loved light is shining out. Thou to the fair dost give the radiant cheek, To those in love the light step of the dance. Thou makest wave the locks of Medschnuus, And every hair becomes a snare of love. Yet all this beauty flows again to thee; And every beauteous look reflects thy face; And in the eyes of lovers, thou dost see Naught but thine own perfection in a glass. Beloved in thine own beauty’s radiance, Art thou by all, as thou art meet to be. And wheresoe’er thy beauty shall be seen, The fame of thy great loveliness is loud. But when thy glance serenely shines on men, It makes the happiness of lovers full. For thou alone on earth art harmony; And aught beside is but an idle dream. The world’s life is illusive, nothing more Than the reflection on a mirror’s face; Things are no more than words to being brought, And names the sole realities of life. The sun of beauty casts its light abroad, And all it touches kindles into life. Thy power astounds the human reason; makes The mind to totter and the brain to reel. No human wit thine essence comprehends; Reason and intellect before it fail. No man can grasp thy nature, nor can plumb With intellectual glance thy truth’s abyss. Men’s understanding is a cradle-child; And only by thyself canst thou be known. O God, I was conceived and born to sin, And to the passion that degrades my soul; Fast held, enamored by the beautiful, Grief was my portion for my earliest years; In empty brains did sensual longing burn, And wine bedrenched me like an empty skin. Eager I yielded to the goblet’s charm, And lingered like a drunkard over cups; Draught after draught, I took the ruddy wine, And threw the pleas of virtue to the wind. And all of life’s religion I renounced, And turned from all devotion’s practices; Yet what would profit oft-repeated prayer To one like me who stand aloof from God? If to the mosque I sometimes turn my way ’Tis only to behold the beauty there. I lift mine hands in prayer toward the place Where the fair women of the assembly sit. Oft at the Portal Beautiful I wait, To mask my sins by such religious guise. Sad is the plight in which I find myself; O Lord, forgive the evil I have done. For under thy control, O Lord most high, Are works of good and works of evil set. Were it obedient for a thousand years, The world could never see thee as thou art And sins committed for a thousand years Could not impair one jot thy worthiness. And I, who can do nothing of myself, How could I, Lord, obedient prove to thee Yet in thy unity do I believe, And with a heart sincere observe thy law. Show me the pathway of the unity, That in it I may lead myself aright. Grant that mine eyes may still reflect thy face; My heart receive the light thy knowledge yields. Leave not my soul in darkness absolute, But cast the light of grace upon my path. Drive from my breast the instincts that degrade, And fill it with the radiance of thy love. Oh, make mine eyes reflect thee constantly; My tongue forever speak of thee alone; My heart be filled with love of thee, and lit With all the splendor of thy unity. Let me behold thy secret state unveiled, And manifest to me thyself alone. For why should human glances seek the light And turn toward the countenance of God? Make me with wine of love inebriate, And of my nothingness, thy creature form. I call for the delirium of love; And naught but thee, Jehovah, do I seek. Therefore the name of God is on my lips; And still I cry, “There is no god but God.” I care not that my soul perdition see So long as I behold the great Amen. Grant only that my soul be filled with truth. And my heart led along the path of light. Sincerity my rule I do ordain, And gratitude the watchword of my life. Of secret falsehoods shall my heart beware; Of pride and rancor’s desolating flame. Oh, change my being; open wide to me, Poor as I am, the treasury of thy grace, And quench the flame of anger in my soul. Kill in me avarice, and concupiscence; Let pleasure never dominate my life, Nor chastity be wanting in my heart. Inflame me not with wrath’s pernicious fire, But quench it in the steady stream of thought. Send me not forth on paths of cruelty And give thy justice to direct the world. Make truthfulness my guardian; and let me see The dear Kaaba stone of my desire. Contentment be my storehouse as I haste Upon my journey to the wished-for land, And when the vision dawns upon my sight, Grant that I never more may leave thy law. Grant that my habits ne’er may master me, But custom ever change at my command. May I be ne’er abandoned by thy grace, May my obedience ever perfect be; And bend my wishes to the mood of prayer, That they may burst in flowers of happiness. Cast, when I kneel, my intellect to earth, That thus my prayer may never be disturbed. When I am set on honor’s lofty seat, Give me the strength to bear prosperity. Keep me untainted by hypocrisy, And in thy service make my mind sincere. Grant daily growth to my obedience, May it be nourished on the Prophet’s lore, And let my tongue flow ever in thy praise.

He, the first cause of all created things; The bloom of planetary elements; In all the treasures of his mighty heart, Is the great light that lights existences; And in the order of celestial things He is the circle’s first and utmost line; And he, the all-respected, all-beloved, Mahomet, Mustapha, and Mahmoud named, Sprung from the house of Haschim, Koreish’ stem, First published to the world the Monuments. From out God’s secret treasure-house he came, Like to the light of morning in the East, To be on earth the prophets’ guide, to be The great director of the pure in heart. When on the world his features cease to shine, It seems as if the sun was veiled in heaven; And when his grandeur does not rear itself, The very heavens no longer soar aloft. Without the shadow of his mightiness, The throne itself would totter in decay. When he is wroth, he in confusion throws The water’s torrent and the dust of earth; His dazzling existence could not fail, But both the worlds of heaven and earth were gone. The world and all therein exist for him; Angels and men and demons of the air; And the nine heavens their being owe to him; For him the heavens their revelations make; He is the world’s foundation, cause, and end, And he preserves the beauty of the world. His law remains the age’s guiding light; And in his countenance does Allah shine. Mankind in guilt and dire perplexity Had wandered blindly from the way of truth. Until the loving-kindness of his law Recovered them, and brought them to the path, Before the splendor of his law arose, The human race was separate from God. Mahomet showed the path that led to God; He was the polestar in the arch of night; The leader of the pilgrims on their way; The refuge of the rulers of the world: For when Mahomet on the earth appeared, He shone the candle of intelligence. Mahomet, called the prophets’ prince to be, Was first in excellence of holiness. Mahomet rules the future of the world; In him existence is not bound by space; Mahomet is the source of light to all; The guide and guardian of the universe. Adam was once the glory of the world, But he is Adam’s greater counterpart. ’Twas he that rescued Noah from the flood; And so preserved the good of all the earth. Enoch ascended into paradise, But he, an earthly creature, mounted heaven. While Abraham was eminent for love, Mahomet only keeps the throne of love. And while on Sinai does Moses stand, Mahomet holds the highest place in heaven. ’Tis true that Jesus waked the dead to life; Life to the dust was by Mahomet given. Though Joseph was of comely countenance, Mahomet is the Saviour beautiful. God to King Solomon great wisdom gave, The prophet’s wisdom was Mahomet’s dower. Though David was God’s caliph on the earth, Truth in Mahomet is epitomized. Endless the pomp of his nobility, And endless is his honor and his power. When to his mighty power he gave free course, He ripped the curtain of the moon apart. And see what mighty miracles he wrought; “I have been poisoned,” said the lamb to him. Like the dim cypress that in summer springs, He cast no shadow on the ground he trod; But light invested him from head to foot, And people saw his pathway shadowless. Shadows from out the realm of darkness come, And never shadow yet has beamed with light. Yon full-orbed moon casts light, not shadow down, Yet on the cornfields flings the shadowed trees. So like a shade-tent did the people cast Their shadows on him in the sunlight clear. His beauteous eye, the window of his soul, Was raven black amid the dazzling light. He saw, at once, in all directions, all, Before, behind him, near him, or far off. For in that eye was light as sunbeam clear, And by it was the sun itself eclipsed. Vain were it all his miracles to count, Though I should labor to the judgment day; Though I should speak them with a thousand tongues, Ten thousand yet unsung I should omit. Only his passage to the highest heaven Can yield full witness of his excellence.

’Twas night, and yet, as in the light of day, The earth lay bathed in splendor brilliant. For like a company of princes ranged The happy stars were shining overhead. And the full moon her silver radiance poured; ’Twas the great feast time of the Ramazan. On such a night the moon was throned in heaven Above the thousand star specks of the world; A queen surrounded by nobility. His house was flooded by the moonlight clear. And from the moon, now fourteen nights in orb, Came Gabriel, the messenger of heaven. He said: “Oh thou who like the moon on earth, And like the sun in purity of light Art eminent, and lord of honors here, Accept the thousand greetings that I bring, For with this greeting God a summons sends, To the enjoyment of his majesty. This journey, then, with longing keen begin, For the All-Wise desires thee at his side. Forsake the crowd to meet the unity And taste the presence of all purity. The angels all are ranked below thy seat, Thou art the princely ruler of the heavens.” As Ahmed listened to the messenger He praised the Lord of heaven with fervent prayer. Calmly he mounted on the cherubim, And rose in haste toward his celestial friends. He moved like some fresh morning wind that blows, Toward the sanctuary of Zion’s hill. Soon he, the master of all grace, arrived; And, as the leader of the spirits pure, He stood in heaven, and through the stars he passed, While constellations honored his approach. As in the primal heaven he sat enthroned, The moon was waxing to her fullest orb. With deep obeisance did the queen of night Welcome the visit of the prophet form. Thence to the second heaven he bent his way; The heaven of Mercury blessed him as he came. There on heaven’s page were pointed out to him The dazzling wonders of creation’s work. To the third heaven at last he soared aloft, And Venus welcomed him with kindly grace. Deep bliss his ardent breast with rapture filled, As lutes of love their dulcet notes resound. In the fourth heaven o’er radiant meads he trod, His shadow lent a lustre to the sun. Peacefully fell that shadow on the star, Filling with light the spot that welcomed it. At the fifth heaven he glanced, and lo! he saw That Mars had drawn his falchion, full of fear, Yet with submissiveness the man of God He welcomed, greeting with obeisance due. On the sixth throne elate sat Jupiter, Once happy, festive, lord of heaven and earth. By him the Prophet was received with smiles And prospered on his way with happiness. Saturn, the ruler of the seventh ring, Received him in the circle of his light. “I come,” the Prophet said, “from dark to light; Repulse me not, I pray thee, from thy door.” Thence he ascended by the sunlit path, To that clear region where the stars are fixed, And in the radiance of his approach, Great joy was caused through all the region high. And as his gracious shadow there was cast, He found himself upon the meadow plain, Whose carpet spreads before the throne of God. And he who was the first in highest heaven, Heard in that radiant place a voice, that cried, “Oh, tread my plains, for in thy steps is peace.” O’er the whole region did he wend his way And stood at last before the Tree of Life. Before the Tree of Life he paused a while; For there his guide had bidden him to repose. Thence to the throne of his dear God he passed, The God unlimited by time or space. All the dark memories of the world were lost, For there the light of the one God beamed forth. And there he took his station next to God, Higher than prophet or than seraphim. His inmost soul was lost in ecstasy. For God within that circle sole exists; God infinite and absolute is there, In the full splendor of his attributes. There is the light of life divine revealed, Clear as a spotless diamond in heaven. There saw he what no eye before had seen, And heard what yet had reached no human ear. For speech in heaven is wordless, and the heart Speaks out aloud, yet with no uttered sound. From thence he was permitted to return To the waste hill land of his native home. He traversed heaven and blessed it with his face, Returning on his way to earth again. And when he reached his couch, he found that all That boundless journey through the infinite Had happened in the twinkling of an eye. The prophets greeted him with loud acclaim, And spread the joyous news of his return, And all who heard it, turned their minds to God. All were transported with celestial joy. All rendered thanks of gratitude to Heaven. The hearts and souls of all were filled with light, Plunged at the moment in the Sea of Truth.

All hail to thee, thou messenger of God! My heart goes out to thee, and ye, who stand As mediators in the path of truth, Weigh well the good and evil of the heart. Prophet, my spirit is with rapture filled. Be gracious to me, listen to my cry, For when thou pleadest for sinners all the band Of followers pay their homage at thy feet. For in the bygone days there was revealed A rule of right and wrong, and in the scale Of justice all was cast. The world for thee Has hoped, O mediator, all the world. Become thou, then, a mediator for me, And make me with the peace of Eden blest. Why fear I when my guilt is infinite, If infinite the grace that thou canst give? For my infirmities are without bound, And in transgression am I swallowed up. My sins, my sins are multitudinous And I have failed to see the end of God. Now at thy footstool do I prostrate lie, I touch thy hands, I supplicate thy face, For if thy kindness will not intercede What is the intercession of this sigh? And if thy tenderness refuse support My soul must wander in the maze of grief, And yet I hope thy interceding prayer Will win some respite to my tortured soul; And I call myriad blessings on thy head And upon all who follow in thy train, On all who travel on the path of good; To all the leaders of the saintly band; On those the four elect ones, on all friends; On the primordial powers of either world. Upon the sovereign king of wisdom’s realm, On Ebubeker, who is lord of truth, Then upon him who is the one just lord, Omer, the noblest, purest among men; Next upon him, the Koran’s faithful scribe, Upon the lordly Osman, Haffan’s son; On Ali, friend of me and friend of all; To whom all realms of knowledge were revealed. Next on the pair, for whom my vision thirsts— On Hassan and on Huscin, princes both, Noblest in purpose and in dignity; On Omar, Hamsa, Abbas, whom I greet, With myriad salutations, while I lay A thousand gratulations at their feet.

Upon a morn, a glorious morn of June, When eastern light, with many colored charm, Tinted the gentle birth throes of the year; And streams with ardent longing ran their race, And cloudless azure floated o’er the world, The rose and tulip oped their petals wide, Within a garden fair as paradise, Where sand and soil were clothed in dazzling green. All earth was blushing in the morning ray, As if a second Eden had arisen. The tulips ranged along the mountain walls, Held up their chalices with eager hands. And all the flowers were waking out of sleep, And day was changing watch with vanished night. Narcissus flowers had filled their golden cups, Stanching their thirst in draughts of diamond dew. Each rose within the garden seemed a king, And every floweret was a belted knight. The nightingales were sighing in the grove, And deep delight the stream and forest filled. The cypresses were bending in their dance, And all the world was radiant with joy. Within the garden stood a company Of friends, on joy and recreation bent; For great and small, either by night or day, In pleasure banquets to that garden came. But I within the wood remained aloof, And wandered, lost in solitary thought. Then came to me a man of a refined And gentle aspect, and of noble race. For many a year this friend of mine had laughed And wept with me, in pleasure or in pain. Then said he, “Friend of mine, arouse thyself.” Nor dally here in listless indolence, For spring has tinted bright the dewy world, And God’s enchantments fill the garden glade; On the world’s leaf he writes the message clear: “Oh, come and see God’s monument on earth! Why tarriest thou? Behold this circling realm! How beautiful is earth—’tis paradise. For vernal life revives the blooming year, And if thou live the thought must raise thy heart.” I, as I heard these pleadings of my friend, By his benignant influence was swayed. Into the garden as he led the way, I entered; there a grove of roses stood. We crossed a level area, where we saw The scene adorned with flowering elder-trees. The place was noble, for the hillside shone With the fresh loveliness of Eden’s bower. Such scenes unlock the heart and make it glad, And over all they spread the balm of peace. The fresh blown roses hung on every side; From every copse the nightingales were heard. And in this place of beauty marvellous A thousand words passed swift ’twixt friend and friend, And kindly greetings rose, and hearts were soothed With genial conversation; poesy Lent to the converse of the band her charm, And prose and verse alternately they quote; Mesnevi’s tale was subject of debate; And meaning and expression were discussed. Then with my friend I held a colloquy; And, in a kindly mood, he said to me; “The nightingale is singing loud to-day, And thou, whose heart is drinking in delight From the soul utterance of the nightingale, How comes it thou art silent in the world? Thy breath and utterance should impart new life; Thy word give healing, from thy mouth should come The stream that yields refreshment unto men. Why art thou dumb and lifeless; without song? Write thou a volume with poetic grace Replete, and show the compass of thy power; God gave to thee the poet’s destiny. Whence is thy mood of careless indolence? He in whom mind is more than fleshly might Alone can frame a song that moves the heart. Write, then, a book which shall transmit thy name Down to the records of remotest time. For certainly, the name of him whose mind Dwells on the beautiful shall never die.” Now as I listened to this kind advice, A keen ambition seized upon my soul. I answered: “Friend, thy counsel I approve; Thy words have made me opulent in soul; I lend my ear to all that thou hast said, For he who would gainsay thee is a fool. But, though with ample skill and wit enough I might a book in one short week compose, The world would scorn imagination’s work, Although my power of utterance be supreme.” Then all the circle to my plea demurred, Laying a thousand fetters on my heart. “But,” I continued, “’tis for daily bread We toil, and scarce the pen can meet the need; When with my brain as pilot I proceed, A thousand cares for corporal wants molest; Entangled thus, invention fails my mind, And all my spirit’s best emotions die.” “Stay,” said my friend, “this argument is vain, Vain are these timid pretexts. Courage take. Is not the nightingale in prison bars Forever wont to pour her dolorous chant? And in its cage the cheerful popinjay Learns to repeat the words of human folk, And chatters with untiring gaiety, And warbles in a rapture of delight.” “My friend,” I answered, “in these times of ours The world is nothing but the slave of gold; Honor and office is the aim of all, While merit follows like a slave on foot. How sordid is the spirit of the world! True fame alone from generous wisdom springs. Where can we find the scholar exquisite? Alas! the world is full of ignorance; Who cares to-day for books of verse or prose? Who dares to tread the path of poetry? There may be magic in the song you sing, But the dull world is dull to every note.” He answered: “What does all this babbling mean? No man of purpose can this plea allow. Think’st thou the world as empty as thou say’st? Leave off repining, and, with courage bold, If thou hast jewels, bring them to the mart; The buyer is not difficult to find. If thou hast merit wherefore this delay? How canst thou heedless waste the fleeting hour? Merit will always win the praise of men. But bring thy beauty boldly into view. The Shah will first of all make recompense; He knows to treasure up the worth of words; A critic he, in poetry and prose, Expert, munificent as well as wise. To him thy poem must thou dedicate, Thy poem rare and writ in double rhyme. And in this work thy name along with his Shall live unto the very judgment day.” Soon as the Shah was named, I felt in vain Were all excuses, and I answered him: “Friend of my soul, I will the work begin. I swear it on my head, this very day! Yet in what style shall it accomplished be? That I may execute a splendid work.” He said: “My dearest friend, what other theme But the rose legend can suffice for thee? The legend of the beauty of the rose, The legend of the lover nightingale. Tell us the lot, the plight of bird and flower, And all they did and were; set this to rhyme In that fine book of thine, and with the skill Of thine unerring genius, tell the tale.” Moved by these words, I took my pen in hand And went with eager longing to the task. The legend of the nightingale I wrote, And dedicated it to him who rules The land, and with the Shah’s name in the front I made a book that all the world has praised.

The Shah, our heavenly highness and our king, Is as an angel or a Jupiter; Face of the moon and beauty of the sun Are his; his fortune and his blood are peers. A prince is he of high and happy line, Of fair renown and intellectual power. The very glory of the Osman house, Elected as the Sultan of the land, Is Shah Mustapha Ben Suleiman, born A very shah from royal ancestors. He is the man, who by his skill to guide, Has filled the earth, the age, with happiness. Worth is alone the banner and the crown Which win, by merit, throne and diadem. Worthy successor of the Osman kings Among the sultans, like a monument He stands, a sun of bright prosperity. Shah of the moon and mirror of success. He in the shining jewel case of bliss We style the pearl of lofty destinies, A shah who is so filled with rectitude, That he is the Nuschernan of his time; So brilliant he in generosity That he eclipses Hatim Tais’ renown. His justice is the ruler of the world, Which by his grace is nourished and upheld. His righteous mind gives happiness to all, His loving-kindness is their highest gain. He visits with severity the bad, But on the good he heaps his favors high. And as he grace and wrath in men perceives He takes the goblet or he draws the sword. He is a hero of full gallant mien, Whose aspect is the dread of Rusteman. As blows across the mead the autumn breeze And the reeds quake, so quake the hearts of foes. When Gog and Magog thunder forth their threats Their vanquished power is driven back again; And when the lands with panic fear are struck, The armies of the foe are trod in dust. And Tahmas trembles at his gleaming sword As Euas once before great Timur quailed. The Persian’s head was ruddy with his gore; No wine ran ever in a redder stream. His royal heart had then divided cares, To terrify his foes, and heal his friends. Fear of the Shah dissolved the foeman’s rage, His pity melted friendly hearts in love. The fear of him made Rusteman grow weak, And fly, with bloody spoils behind him trailed. And while his loving-kindness calmed the world He won the love alike of young and old. And while his might and power waxed eminent He brought the hearts of all to beat with his. As the high cypress flings a shadow round, His presence crushed in agony his foes; Before his greatness and his loftiness, The spirit of earth’s peoples ebbed away. And were the doughty Dschemschid living yet, He’d give himself in slavery to the Shah. When Skender first his gleaming grandeur saw He wished to be the slave of such a king. Were Feridum to see his greatness now, He would have promised fealty to his house. And on his threshold Cæsar would have dropped, Like to a slave, his laurel-covered sword. O clemency, thou hast the whole round world Led captive by thy rule of righteousness. Through all thine age of sighs and bitter tears, Thou only art beloved by night and day, And in that age, great Alexander sees The wolf and lamb together take their food. No robber now in ambush waits to kill, Our only ambush is in woman’s looks; And no man beats his breast for grief and woe, But beats a drum tap in the mood of joy. How shall I estimate thy happy peace! The happy splendor of thy sanctity! Were all the trees and bushes turned to pens, And every leaf were changed into a book, And the seven seas were darkened into ink, And every space was written o’er and o’er, By thousand writers, only one exploit, Out of one thousand, would recorded be. And as we here would offer up our prayer, Let our petition be on justice based. For thou, as is the sun among the stars, Art potentate o’er all the climes of heaven; Sagacious Padishah and Lord of Light Art thou; for wisdom has enthroned thee Shah. May God decree full length of years to thee, And bring a just dishonor on thy foes. Thee may God’s grace conduct to happiness; And fill the earth with thy transcendent name. Long mayst thou wear the crown upon thy brow, And may thine enemies be brought to naught. God grant long life to all the royal house And give the land joy, rain, and industry. May age and peace and happiness arrive, And all thy reign with endless glory shine. Who to this prayer of mine responds Amen May no misfortune ever plague his life!

Speak, Nightingale, thy accents utter clear, And from thy secret haunt reveal thyself; Thou knowest full well the meaning that lies hid Within the rose-bed of the inmost mind. Long hast thou tarried, silent as a bud; Breathe out the meditation of the Rose, Let thy voice warble in the voice of love A song instinct with love’s own melody. So sweet that Sohre, when thy lay is heard, The lute shall fling in anger to the ground. And thus the Nightingale in Gulistan Began, with song, her legendary tale. Once, in the ancient days that long are past, Over a country pleasant above all, There lived a shah, the reigning king of Kum, And he was gracious, mild, and liberal. Good fortune followed every step he took; And he was fair in manner as in face. In every action was he moderate; And all his deeds were welcome to the folk. Pure was his mind, his lineage starred by fame; He drew all hearts by ruth and tenderness; He was a monarch of a high descent; They named him Springtime, for his look was spring. The earth he cheered, as if with vernal showers, His presence was a breath of paradise; Far famed for grandeur and for graciousness, For strictest justice bore he wide renown. His sovereign word flew wider than the wind, And poured its torrents like a foaming stream, Refreshing by its very righteousness, Like balmy eastern breezes, earth and time. For when he spoke, men heard no other sound, But his. So sang the happy Nightingale. And no man from the scabbard drew his sword; Even the sword-lily vanished from the heath; And never pointed weapon made a wound, Except the thorns that pierce the bulbul’s breast. And not a crown was ravished against right; And the east wind the tulip’s circlet spared. Though earth were mantled with a host of green, A leafy company that none may count, ’Twere easier far to number forest leaves Than count the flowers that in his palace grew. Like to a guard-troop, helmeted with gold, Narcissus flowers were ranged in countless bands; With lips and beakers blushing ruby red, The lovely flowers as cup-bearers attend; The lilies stand full-armed like sentinels, Mail clad in steely green, with flashing sword. There many cypresses toss high their heads, And verdant banners thickly cover them. From the high walls a shower of thorns is shot, As lances hurtle, and lay lions low. Ambassadors in crowds, from east and west, Bring crowns to him, and eager tribute yield— Jewels that blaze like planets of the sky, And gems the prize of fortune’s brightest hour. Within his grove he has a stately rose. The grace of God is watching over it; And he is happy in a daughter fair, Who, like the rose-bush, beautifies the world. Her name is Rose, though she is still a bud— A bud in beauty’s garden fresh as morn: Round were these buds, like ruddy lips that called For kisses with a passionate desire; Such was the beauty that belonged to them, That all the world enamored gazed on them.

Graceful indeed are all the Rose’s tints, Above, beneath, they move with equal charm, And all their life expresses beauty’s self; And each is dowered with equal loveliness. Her restless-streaming and dishevelled locks Were long life to the heart of those who loved. And she was beauty’s sum and monogram, By whom to earth descended human bliss; And many a heart within those meshes lay, And pined as mine did, from a thousand wounds. Her figure was like boughs from paradise, The lotus at the sight obeisance made; Her figure kills all other trees, and puts The cypress and the plane-tree out of mind. Never did cypress wave with such a grace; For soulful was that figure of the Rose. The constellations’ signet crystalline Shines out like Alexander’s looking-glass. Venus in Sagittarius is she, Where sun and moon together cross the sky. And so her countenance a tablet is On which the Lord has written—“A child of light,” And in her eyebrows, rising o’er her eyes, We see the double moon that comes in Mars. Joined like the double arches of a bridge Are those twin bows of beauty and delight. Without that portico of loveliness, The house of beauty would to ruin fall. And those two arches lead into the house, Where beauty’s self is fostered as a child. How skilfully the magic bow is strung, The double bow with but a single span! And every glance that from this bow is shot Flies to the mark and makes the red blood flow. That eye—enchantment’s self is resting there, And sorcery’s fountain springs beneath that brow. Whoever looks upon those lustrous eyes Must cry “Now God be with you, lady fair.” For like Narcissus flowers the eyes adorn The happy beauty garden of the face. Twin stars of flame are they, which archers shoot, Like arrows, from the strong and bended bow. Two Turks, who in the court of Shinar’s plain Fall drowsy, after drinking, to the floor. The glance that subjugates the heart of all Is like a dagger by the acid worn, Which keener grows with every wound it deals; For every arrowed glance the heart’s blood draws. The sidelong glances are as skirmishers— A band of lancers rushing into fight. Each waving ringlet is a teazing bolt, That gives unrest, not comfort, to the soul. Her nose is like a shadow’s streak of cloud, In which the signature of beauty lives; It is a jasmine, budding and unblown, Set in the beauty garden of the face. A finger, which, by power of sorcery, Has cut the circle of the moon in twain. Her cheeks, what are they but two roses fresh, Which with the great archangel converse hold? Two ruddy pages in which boys have read Their earliest lesson in the lore of love? Nay, they are likest to the rising sun, From which the earth illumination draws. The little mole upon the lady’s cheek Is but a foil to set her beauty off; ’Tis but a sign of noble ancestry, A seed of beauty on a field of flowers. There never fails on every countenance Some line or feature that commands the whole; No mole can such pre-eminence assert; It is her eyes that captivate our gaze. The ears with pearls that not a blemish own Reflected on the sea their beauty show; They are two roses upon which the dew Of dazzling pearls is radiantly set. The lips which quite eclipse the world’s delights Are like the holiness which Mary showed, They are like rubies which attract men’s souls And touch their spirit e’en without a word. And if I should make known those lips’ delight, What shall I say in reference to the mouth? ’Tis true that God created worlds from naught. But I am uncreative, vain my words. The tongue is like a singing nightingale Which nests above a murmuring waterfall; It is a bird whose words are brilliant As are the rubies in a jewel case. A wise interpreter whose words are true, Revealing all the secrets of the heart, The teeth are nothing but the dewy pearls, Which glitter on the rosebuds of the grove. They are the precious stones that form a link Between two rows of ruddy carbuncle; They are the jewels in a jewel case, Which in concealment have their radiance hid. Their sugared sweetness every sweet excels; And even honey doubly sweet outvie. The chin is like a beauty apple hung, With ever-changing charms it wins the eye; The apple is the fairest fruit of all. The Rose’s chin is more desirable, And as the quince that hangs unplucked, she says, “I am the fruit of beauty; pluck me not.” The dimple on the chin is like a well; And he who falls therein must captive bide. The chin is like to beauty’s tambourine, On which the dangling locks their soft blows ply; And when their sporting pattering they begin It is the march of beauty that they sound. Her neck is like a taper camphor white And darkened with the film of falling locks. Without is light, within a burning fire, A flame of pride and yet of fickleness. Most it resembles some white cloud of heaven, A silver column set in beauty’s hall. And we may well divine her arms are like The handles of some vase in silver wrought. By the trumpeter of these fair arms A thousand heads have fallen in blood and wrath; Hers are the whitest arms in all the land, White as the hand of Moses once became, Her arm rests in a sleeve it fills with light; Like to a crystal, which itself is clear. The hand is matchless both in charming shape And in the light which beauty gives to it. The Lord has given this hand the bracelet fair Of fascination that surrounds the wrist. Under that hand, by its desired caress, The country and the people rest subdued. Nor does the henna dye those fingers red, But naturally the tips are coralline. For each fair finger is a silver pen Which writes the winning verses of the heart. The hand is like the moon; the fist, the sun. The fingers are the pleasant beams they cast. And as the almighty Scribe their outline formed, So wrote he beauty in each finger nail. For like a rose-leaf is each finger nail, A rose-leaf that adorns the Rose’s stem; And as each nail is like the moon at full, Each fragment cut from them a crescent seems. Her bosom is a tablet crystal clear, A waterfall that gleams in Paradise. ’Tis the most glorious and the purest light That ever broke in waves from height of heaven. The feet are silver pillars, pedestals Supporting beauty’s palace, firm and fair. They soar like arrows to heaven’s highest throne; They stand twin graces ever side by side, And like an anchor is the steady foot, Holding in heaven the white moon’s argosy.

As in daytime does the moon appear, In beauty tender, yet but half revealed, So did the father see his daughter’s face Grow fair, and thanked his God by day and night. He watched her beauty with an anxious eye, And prayed it might to full perfection come. And brought a teacher, who might lead his child Along the path where knowledge could be plucked. He wrote upon a book of pages old As flame the precious lore which she should scan. Into her hand he placed the precious book; It was a new adventure for the Rose. And from the ancient tutor she began To read the lines of learning’s alphabet. Page after page the volume was explored, But all was dull and comfortless to her. She learned the history of Gulistan, She learned by heart the annals of Bostan, It soon had mastered all Vaharistan, She read the booke of history in Divan, Yet full of grace, her mind by no means dull, She had no skill in writing prose or verse.

Upon a morning when the glittering ray Flooded the meadow green where bloomed the Rose, And when the sun upon the world’s high throne Showed the Rose the radiance of his orb, The sun saw joyfully that his daughter dear Was in her freshest beauty full bedecked. He knew that she was worthy happiness, That she was worthy of her princely lot. Another was sovereign of a realm that brought Quiet and happiness throughout the world, His castle was a fortress green in hue, Green was the hue of its foundation stones; Inside was decked with high magnificence, There tulip beds and cypress boughs abounded. The master who had raised this lofty pile Had given to it the name of Rosary; By those who knew the beauteous city well It very often bore another name. And every grove and gelder-rose and mead Had each its proper and especial title. And in this city did the ruling king Give to the Rose the highest post of state, And that the city might be full of grace He gave to it the Rose to be its flower; And going with great joy into the grove, She sat upon the throne in honor there; And straightway all the world was filled with glee, And all the world by balmy winds was swept, The fragrance of whose odors filled the world. And by their charm lapped it in ecstasy; In calm felicity the hours went by, And stream and soil in blessed peace reposed.

Of rose gardens the Bulbul is the muse, And thus begins her clear and thrilling song: The Rose of simple mind and tender mood, With frank heart, and with disposition kind, Has chosen for the servants of her house A band of trusty followers true of heart. The first was guardian of the sherbet cup; Comrade of laughter, tears, and genial hours; Each morning she the rose-water prepared, The crimson-tinted wine that scents the glade. ’Twas the delight and joy of the Divan, And shared the name and honors of the dew. Another was the cheerful cup-bearer. Ruby his belt, and his cup a carbuncle; With rosy cheeks he was conspicuous, For loveliness of lip the painter’s choice. His inmost bosom was the home of love, And tinged blood-red with passionate desire. He drank the wine that fed his passion’s fire, And never failed the wine cup to his hand. He was the chief at each Rose festival, And the guests called him by the Tulip’s name. Another was the garden’s eye, and seemed The very lamp and eyelight to the grove. So full of contemplation was his face, So full of meditation’s sober glance. The radiance of his eye was in its orb, And wise men saw that it was crystal clear. This was the prophet of the sinless glance, Who stood the president of the Divan. Five golden coins he found, and in his hand He bore them on the petals of his cup: He handed round the goblet night and day, And late and early was he drunk with wine; So long as wine was flowing, at his board He would not close his eye till dawn of day. The eye-glance of the close in sooth was he, And in the rose-bed is Narcissus called; And since he holds his goblet in his hand The gold Cup is he among flowerets named. Sword-Bearer was another waiting-man; The guardian of the spacious Rosary; He bore his naked sword behind the Rose, And night and day he closely guarded her. A fencer of incomparable skill Was he, in short, the prefect of the burg. A valiant Cerberus and dragon he, Whose sword and dagger never left his hand. He was in very truth a trusty slave, And wide and free his reputation spread. In the rose garden his acquaintances Had styled him the Free Lily of the glade. And there was still another, free as he, Whose form had grown as lofty as his mind; Towering he stood, with high and graceful head, He was the very emir of the grove. Tall as a column did he seem to rise, And as an arrow straight his course he took; And so in Gulistan by day and night He watched as porter at the entrance gate. By night and day his faithful watch he kept, Upright to stand was what he most desired; He recked not that his day-long post was hard, While on one foot he stood before the gate; He was a man of stature eminent A mighty man, and Cypress was his name. There was another, like a messenger Becapped, who pilfered crowns for livelihood; No parallel of his this world has seen; He ever seemed to outstrip all rivalry. Soon as he burst from out the western post, He reached within a twinkling to the east. He was so light, that while his course he took, No cloud of dust arose beneath his feet. A youngster was he, boisterous in play, And East Wind was his title in the world. Another was of purest character, And simple in his mind, and frank in mien; His inmost bosom was a well unstained, And fair as were his cheeks, that all admired. And yielding was his tender heart to love; His artless nature moves another’s smile. And, while his heart was thus so pure and clear, He was the mirror-holder to the Rose; And winning was he from his babbling flow; And men had given to him the name of Brook. Another was a thief, as full of tricks Of knavery as a dusky Indian. Well could he snare his victim in a gin; He was a robber full of pranks and tricks. He could the thread spin out with marvellous skill And hang suspended by a single hair. His subtility was endless, and more crooks Were in it than in woman’s curling locks. His heart was full of trickeries and feints, And as a flower his name was Hyacinth. And each of these are ranged around the Rose As escorts at the throne of king and queen. And in the rose garden from time to time The Rose refreshment seeks in cups of wine. The Rose alone of all the flowers around Was decked with satisfying grace, and hence Fit opportunity she gained, in which She might for brighter happiness prepare.

It was in the bright morning of the day, And lo, her face was in the mirror shown; And in the radiance gleamed her lovely face, For it was mirrored in the placid brook. And in a thousand ways the Rose was ware That all the world believed how fair she was. She raised herself above her cloak of night, And freshly in the streaming sunlight waked; To lay her fair attire in fullest view She set herself upon a ruby throne; Radiant indeed her beauty there appeared; ’Twas red on red in brilliancy shone. She sat like monarch ’mid his people throned; All other kings were dust upon the road. But that her beauty may be manifest, Needs must she cast her image on the glass. And lo! the Brook before her ran his course, And laid the glittering mirror at her feet. And when she saw herself reflected there, So lovely, she was rapt in wonderment. And when she saw herself so fresh and bright And lovely, she was touched with vanity; And blushing red in her own charms delight, “Ah, God,” she cried, “there is no god but God! What beauty hast thou given to me, O Lord, What excellence among the flowers is mine! What gracious eyebrows arch above mine eyes! Like to a canopy they set them off. How diamond-like and gray those orbs appear! Their gaze might stir the pulses of the dead. How lustrous are those amber locks! Their light Must strike amazement to the minds of man. And oh, how dazzling are these cheeks of mine! For after these the moon itself is dim. And what a beauty mark that little mole, Which more becoming makes the tender cheek! Who now will value eyes that fiercely scowl, And the fell glances that like swords they wave? But here are eyelashes that twinkle fast, Like friends that stand together ranged in war. And then that mouth, whose breath is sweet enough To bring the mantling life-blush to the dead.” The bolt of self-love pierced her to the heart, And she was pride-struck by her loveliness, “And oh,” she said, “is houri in the world, Or peri, so delightsome to behold? Was ever one with beauty so bedecked, As I am in the universe beheld? Such beauteous charm as God has given to me, To none in this life has he given e’en this. And can my beauty now be paralleled, And is not this my face without compare? The world admits that ne’er in time before Has such a prize of beauty been revealed; I am the beauty that has never like, The only fair with whom not one can vie.” Thus she extolled herself to honor’s height, And made the claim of beauty absolute, Then called the Eastern Wind, her messenger, And said, “O faithful bearer of my words, Assist me in my dire perplexity, And lighten up for me the night of doubt. Traverse the realms of Syria and Kum, And glancing over all the plains you cross, (Either in Occident or Orient, Where evening darkles, or where morning glows), See if in any spot you chance to reach Aught fairer you can find in face than me; If anywhere there’s beauty like to mine, And whether there’s perfection reaching mine. Make thou my beauty known to all the world, That he who listens may with passion burn. Let people of the time be made aware, All beauty has been consecrate to me; That mortals have not had it as their dower In shape so faultless as belongs to me; The fair must learn to estimate their charms Aright, and know how few they do possess, And that I only may true beauty claim; The rest are slaves, while I alone am queen.” The herald East-Wind, as he heard her word, Kissed low the ground before the monarch’s feet. “Thou art indeed the only beautiful, My Queen, the beautiful, the Queen of Light. Who will refuse to say that this is true, Excepting him whose sight is lost to him? Who to thy beauty’s question answers ‘No’? All estimate thy grace as bright and pure, And own the whole wide world is filled with light From thy great beauty, as from dawn of day. I’ll make my circuit through the farthest nook, From the bright Orient to the cloudy West.” He spoke, and started straightway on his course, Blew a loud blast, and travelled with the wind; Like to the flocks of birds he shaped his course, And saw the beautiful in every place; He quickly travelled o’er the land of Kum, And soon on Persia’s confines found himself. Soon to the realms of India did he cross, Next to Manchuria, and to China’s plain. And here on beauty’s track he found himself, And heard of one called Beauty’s King Supreme. Into his presence eagerly he went, And, blowing softly, saw him face to face; So o’er the whole wide world he passed, and saw Naught far or near in beauty like his friend. By day and night he traversed hill and dale. Now hear what at the last befell to him.

Thus the betrothed of that lorn lover sang, In verses such as these his song of pain: “There was a wanderer, the slave of want, Who had full many a wrong endured of love, His bosom had its pain, his heart its rage; He was a dervish, cowled like any monk. By day he gave full voice to his complaint, And in the night-time watched the skies of heaven. His sole existence nowadays was love, For love alone had claimed him for its slave. And in his day of trial was his dust In love compacted, and in love absorbed: With love his very essence was compounded, In love the letter of his life was writ. And now without an object in his life, He was in love’s consuming fire inflamed. At times he sang aloud a song of love, While sighs of bitter sorrow tore his breast. He sang Ghasele, winsome youth and fair, Who drew the souls of many a neophyte By his pure mind and by his brilliant charms; A noble stripling gay, and soft of heart. His voice brought cheerfulness to every heart, His music banished sorrow far away, And when his flute-like tones swelled out amain, In every soul he kindled passion’s fire. His breathing tones sent gladness through the land, And those who heard him plainly understood. In short, he was a tender juvenal, In all things ready for some enterprise. Though beggared now, forlorn, and sick for love, He was a noble in descent and birth, Who to the winds his lands and lineage threw, And gave himself to melancholy thoughts. His coronet and throne capricious spurned, And to the power of love surrendered all. For he indeed for very love was crazed, And as a doting maniac roved the world. His talk was nothing but the voice of love, And he was named the Wandering Nightingale. With rapid foot the East Wind sped his way Like a bird messenger o’er all the world; And lo! there reached his ear a strain of love, In tones of lamentation dolorous. Arrested by the song, the East Wind stood, Long listening with delight to that refrain; For such a chanson made his heart to swell, And seemed like summer fragrance in the air. Forward he hasted to behold the wight, Who was so love-struck, and so woe-begone; And said: “Thou art indeed plunged deep in love, And from love’s goblet drunken with desire. Thy voice infuses passion in the soul, Why is it that thou kindlest thus our blood? Whence didst thy song its powerful spell obtain, That thus it sets on fire the human breast? Who art thou, by what name mayst thou be called? And from what master didst thou learn thy lay? Whence came to thee this chosen lot of thine? What inspiration is it makes thy soul? What means the ecstasy that rules thy strain, And gives thy voice its overmastering charm? Thou whom such gifts transcendent glorify, How is it thou art fallen thus so low? Why do thy brows this mournful cowl disgrace, And thou, why art thou seated in the dust? Love in thy very countenance is writ, And love’s wound plainly has transfixed thy heart. Art thou in love? How has thy passion fared? Now is the time to tell, so tell me true.” Now as these words the Bulbul listened to, She roused in Gulgul joy and love’s delight. “Thou seest here,” said he, “a mendicant, With tearful eyes, that plead to pity’s soul. ’Tis love has lessoned me in sorrow’s school, But never have I learned what is my name. Thou askest me the place from which I come, Love is my origin and native land. My foot turns backward still to beckoning love; ’Tis love inspires and gives me genius; For I am one whose mind is crazed by love; And in the world I wander lost for love. Heedless I hurry by, nor care for rest, Yet travel cannot give the balm I crave. And often to my love I give full rein, Until I am not master of my mind; And at the will of love, am driven adrift, And therefore ever wait I love’s behest; In short, this love pang quite o’ermasters me, And takes away from me the power of choice. Now I am brainless, footless, purposeless, Tossed like a plaything at the whim of Fate. I am constrained by love, and driven along Hither and thither like an autumn leaf. I have no other impulse in my soul, Where love and love alone predominates. The shame of love is more than honor’s meed To me, and more than fortune’s smile. The very gloom of love is sweet to me, For what were worldly bliss without this flame? The hand of pleasure has made smooth and clear The mirror of my heart with Love’s own glass. Love is no shame, for love is happiness; True shame in worldly happiness is found.” Soon as the East Wind heard these words of love He murmured loudly, thrilled with deep delight. Thus spoke he: “O thou, all afflicted one, Who from the love pang of thy secret wounds Groanest and sighest, like a man in love, Tell me where is the lady of thy love? Toward whom does thy soul’s intuition turn? Who is the Leila that enchains thee thus? Who is it that has burdened thee with grief? Where is the Schirin that thus plagues Ferhadan? Who is the Afra of thine ardent flame? Say to what king thou wouldst devote thy blood? For whom is it thou sufferest loss of rest? And whose compassion dost thou supplicate? What light in all the world has fame enough To keep thee moth-like hovering in its flame? And of what rose art thou the nightingale, That thou shouldst be the slave of music’s sound?” Thus spoke the warbler: “Gracious are thy words, And therefore will I make my chanson plain. From the first moment that I was conceived, Love with my inmost essence was entwined, And in my mother’s womb it came to me That love should be my only intellect. And that great painter Nature made for me The only form of beauty to be love. And since my life was in my spirit locked, Only by love can I my soul unlock. And without hindrance or reserve, so far, I have outpoured, unchecked, my song of love. Yet know I not for whom I burn, for whom By night and day I suffer in this flame. However may this flame continuous glow, I know not yet how it was kindled first. So runs my life; a solitary wight I live in ignorance of her I love, Of her who lit in me this flaming torch; To whom I ever lift this suppliant hand. Restless, ah me, these weary sighs I heave, Yet do not know the queen for whom I sigh. This bitter plight is all the life I know, Of all things else I am in ignorance. Now tell me, what thy current’s course may be, Whence comest thou, and whither dost thou wend? What message is it thou art sent upon, And who it is thou seekest in this land? What is the object of thy wandering search, And who thou art, and what thy name may be? What was the first beginning of thy life, And in what country was thine origin? Thou bringest fragrance of the truth sincere, And needst must be a creature trustworthy; Thy breath gives life to every human soul, And in thy fragrance is a human soul. The breath of health is certainly thy dower, Before it even the dead might come to life.” The East Wind to these golden words gave ear, Then answered: “Stranger, amiable and good, I, in return for all that thou hast told, Will tell my story with the strictest faith. I also, like Abdallah strenuous, Am in the same perplexity with thee. I think a child who is with beauty dowered As fickle and unstable as the wind; It is desire that sends me wandering, And yields to me the essence of my life. Like to a vortex runs my eddying course; And without head or foot I drift away. Nor can I stop a while and take repose; Desire is all the power to act I know. My origin is pleasure and desire, Which in the howling desert gave me life. And for my outward lot, my happy friend, I in a grove of roses have my home. And am a servant to the sovereign Rose, And wait upon her pleasure constantly, My breath refreshment brings to all the flowers, And cheers the rose parterre with cheerful light.” Then said the Nightingale: “O happy friend, Thy breath brings health and purity to me! But what is that you call a rose garden? And prithee tell me who this princess is?” Then said the Wind which fosters life in things: “Gladly I tell, and thou shalt joyful hear. There stands a place within the realms of Kum. ’Tis called the rose parterre, the Rose’s realm; There, in a climate genial, this burg Is equally renowned with paradise, Of paradise with Eden’s beauties blent; And flowers, fresh flowers are ever blooming there. The waters gleam like springs of paradise; The dust is fragrant as the purest musk; The watered plain is like the mirror stream That flashes over Eden’s happy realm; The dust is naught but amber all unpriced; This home of healing is a paradise. Within ’tis filled with all things beautiful, And siren strains incomparable resound. Well may it bear the name of paradise, For every glade with glowing houris shines. The Rose is queen and ruler of the town, Which holds the lordship over all the world. Unique for beauty is the reigning Rose, And her charm beautifies all other worlds. She is the princess of things beautiful, The moon of beauty in the arch of heaven. All spheres celestial lie below her feet When she sits throned on cushions of delight. Be she by me both praised and idolized, Whose sight might lap you into ecstasy! The bloom of love gives radiance to her eyes; Enchantment fills the meshes of her hair. Her brows are beauteous as the crescent moon; Her mole is like a glittering star of eve; The eye, when angry, like a dragon gleams; It draws the dagger against all who love. No courage can endure the terror spread By the arched brows that overstand her eyes. The flash, so soon as it is felt by man, Confounds his senses, and defeats his wit. Those eyes can rob the very soul of life; The whisper of the mouth alone restore it. He who their beauty looks upon, declares ’Tis God who sends a blessing on this face; In short, she only does the ideal show, As being the only beauty in the world. And I have wandered in a hundred realms, And never have I found the match of her. For beauty is in her so eminent That she is the perfection of the world. She is the padishah, the queen of light, And as a slave to such a queen I bow; I swiftly speed her errand when she bids, And flash along my journey like the wind.” When Bulbul had these words attentive heard, Straight to the earth he groaning fell for grief; For in his heart the love-fire had been lit And blazed like tapers in a holy place; Endurance now was overcome by love; He flung himself with cries into the dust. His breast was filled with passionate desire, And in the pain itself he found delight. The dew of ardent passion filled his eye, And pangs of love his inmost bosom tore; He cried aloud with anguish, sighed, and groaned, His eyes were wet with tears unworthy love. Then said he to the East Wind anxiously: “Why should this sudden flame consume my life? What is the arrow that unfeeling fate To my bared bosom has this instant shot? What is the goblet whose enticing draught Has robbed me of my senses while I drank? How shall I reason of the dazzling light That flutters round my spirit like a moth? What is this lightning flash, whose sudden blaze Kindles a world of terror in my soul? What blast is this that carries me away And strikes my very being as it flies? What stranger guest is this who comes to me And takes away my reason by his word? Peace like a bird escapes from out my hand, And all my soul in utter ashes lies. The old distress has taken the strength of new, And yonder beauty overwhelms my heart.”

The East Wind calmly on the vagrant gazed, Whose heart and soul were lit with raging flame, And said, “Now tell to me, thou shameless one, Where are thy courtesy and manners fled? Whence can a beggar claim such dignity, That he in love could ask a princess bride? What spurs and flogs thee on to such extremes? Beware, or thou will lose at last thy wits. Compare her loftiness with thy estate; What can a beggar want of royalty? The Rose is winsome in a thousand ways, The Nightingale is but a singer clear; Although a thousand times thy love thou sing, Hope not the Rose’s fragrant charm to win. Whence dost thou gain such fitting dower of worth, As makes thee fit to mate the balmy Rose? Abandon passion, with its torments sore, And shun this emptiness of wild desire. For even should’st thou live a thousand years, Ne’er wilt thou reach the level of the Rose. And though thou cry Gulgul a thousand times, Thou never wilt arouse the lady’s heart. Refrain, then, further to torment thyself, Nor strike on iron cold thine idle blows.” Now when the Nightingale had heard these words, He burst into a passionate lament; And said: “Although I but a dervish be, Yet still the wounds that pain my heart are fresh. A beggar am I in my outward guise, But I am none the less love’s padishah. Love makes me independent in the world, Such beggary as mine is worth a crown. I love the Rose, and shall forever love, And a fakir may sometimes love a shah; Sense is indeed the guide of sober life, But sense is never fostered by true love; The lover in his acts is privileged, As is the drunkard and the beggar-man. He who would moderation value first, Can never taste the luxury of love. The lover who is shamefaced and reserved Can never see the beauty which is coy. Until the lover scorns the public blame He gains no trust nor kindness from his love. Though I have no enjoyment of the Rose, ’Tis joy enough for me to speak of her. Though no return reward my passion’s pain, Yet love itself is fair enough for me, And he who knows the harmony of love Will think enjoyment less than absence is. Who lives in full fruition of his love Is always fearing it will fly away; He who contentedly has watched its flight Is happy hoping it will soon return. Absence to me is love and dignity, Although fruition be denied my heart. I live in agony’s o’erflowing stream And love’s fruition willingly renounce.” The East Wind saw that it was vain to try The ardor of this beggar wight to quench, For counsel did not profit him a jot. His love kept burning like an aloe-flower, And all his words were emphasized by sighs, And his heat withered him like foliage parched. And so he left him, and pursued his way Into the precints of the rose garden; There at the ruler’s feet he kissed the ground, And said to her, “O righteous queen of light, Let it be written with exactest care, That above all the Rose is beautiful, Though I through many realms have travelled I have not found a beauty like to thine.”

Beset with pain and sorrow of the heart And overmastered by a longing keen, The Nightingale began to utter loud His love forlorn in notes of bitterness; An ardent longing throbbed within his throat, And he was stabbed by keen misfortune’s thorn. Struck by love’s pang, like tree that feels the axe, He fell at last inanimate to earth; Fainting from wounds of love and pulseless limbs, There lay he down as if by absence slain. From songs despondent thus his love desponds, And pining grown as thin as is a hair. At last the truth was wrought into his soul That inactivity but adds to ill. So up he rose, and in fit garments clad, Set out upon his way to see his love. Love seemed to spread out pinions for his flight, O’er field and hillock bearing him along. By the discreet direction of his friend He travelled day and night in ardent love. He reached the post town of United Hearts; Thence straight he travelled to the rose garden. And now at last arrived at Gulistan, There breathed on him the fragrance of his love. And on the outside of the garden fence There came a friend who waited sedulous, A traveller, who without an hour’s delay Was hurrying from this garden to the sea. The stainless Brook, whose spirit shone in light, The pilgrim wandering to see the world. Straight from the garden of the Rose he came, His bosom clad in spotless fluttering folds, And when the Nightingale beheld him come, With eager greeting he drew near to him. The Brook a low obeisance made to him, And scanned the new-comer with eager eye. He saw it was a beggar stood before him, A beggar sick and all distraught with woe. ’Twas love had brought him to that low estate And he was branded on the brow by love, Then said the Brook, “O thou by love distraught, And bowed to earth by love and suffering, Why wearest thou this lorn and lifeless air? Does now no heart’s blood warm thy inmost veins? Who branded this love-token on thy face? Who is it laid on thee the name of love? Where is the Mecca of thy heart’s desire, Which claims thee and demands thee for itself? And what has made thee drunken by its draught? What cedar with its shadow blighted thee?” The Nightingale replied: “O kindly one, See what I am, and do not question me. I am enamored of a pictured face; And there are many thousands such as I; I am a beggar, and my love a queen. I am all destitute, but she is rich; She is with beauty radiant as the sun, And I am duskier than a sunbeam’s mote. In beauty’s garden does she bloom a Rose, And I am naught but the poor Nightingale. I by no name am known, but she speaks out, And by her very graces names herself.” So spoke the Nightingale, and down he fell, With dolorous cries of grief and notes of woe. Then he began a song of love forlorn, With trills and runs of a many a circling tone. “And love,” he said, “intoxicates my sense, Through ardent longing for that ruby mouth. The lightning flash of love that struck my heart, Laid ruin in the chambers of my breast. The heart’s endurance can no longer stand, It has been worn away by pangs of love. For love to ashes has reduced my life; Love only leaves to me the power of song; And love has filled my inmost heart with fire, ’Tis love that draws the sweat-drops of the heart, For love has banished me from house and home; My soul in sickness languishes through love. And love has wearied out my tuneful throat; The secrets of my soul hath love betrayed. The torch of love has fallen upon my heart, My soul is set on fire by force of love; For love has taken my heart to be its friend; But like a halter is this love to me. I am become a laughing-stock through Love, And love has set my name among the fools.” Now as these accents by his friend were heard, His heart with tender sympathy was touched. His heart with generous indignation burned, And to the pain of fierce desire he woke. He said: “Poor wretch, inebriate of love, Afflict thyself no more, for God is kind. For happier fortune has he destined thee, For it was he who gave thy love her charm; Thy breath of music penetrates my soul, And I will straight conduct thee to the Rose. Gaze once upon her beauty e’er thou die; And in her joys thine ardent passion breathe.” The Nightingale was gladdened by these words And joy that moment lighted up his mind, “O sir,” he said, “is this but sleep and dream? The fragrance of fruition hits my sense. Thou who has given me bliss, be happy thou, And fortunate in either universe. Thou who dost help me to my dearest wish, May all thy purpose lead to happiness. The best loved news dost thou convey to me; For guerdon, thou may’st take my very soul. I give to thee my soul, I give my life, O bring me to the jewel of my love.” He answered: “Patience and not haste be ours; And often in delay is safety found. Thou, dervish, must restrain thyself a while, For overhaste is slower in despatch. I bring thee to the bower of loveliness, To Cypress, who is porter of the gate. I hope by such expedient that the Rose May entertain thee as a man of truth.” So spoke to him the friend of purity And showed him where the Rose’s meadow lay; The Nightingale his footsteps followed fast Until they reached the garden of the Rose.

He saw a lofty building fair bedight Like the green castle of the firmament, A castle emerald-bright in radiance. It twinkled like a marshalled host in arms; Pure was the water, earth was sweet as musk. An air of sanctity and plenty reigned. Whoever came to this from Edentown Might think his resting-place was paradise. How could it fail to be a paradise For him who hoped to find his love therein? When the sad Nightingale beheld the place Breathless and lost in wonder did he stand. Above him was the arch of azure sky, And at his feet the lovely river ran. Then said the river: “Take good heed, and see Thou give some respite to thy burning heart; Meanwhile I stand me here, and as a man I introduce thee to the portal’s guard.” This said, he greeting to the Cypress sent. Right quick the Cypress was his word to heed. Low in the dust his countenance he laid And with his tears bedewed the thirsty ground. He said: “O Cypress, loftiest of mien, Thou sittest at the footstool of the great, I have a courteous word to speak to thee. Open thy lips to me, I beg of thee; For if thou lend me for a while thine ear, I know my prayer at once will be fulfilled. Here with a stranger destitute I come, To show how the road lay to this place. He is a man both kind and dutiful, Of purest disposition and intent; A dervish, and a man of loving heart. But he is lorn and sick from pangs of love, In outward guise he seems like a fakir, But in the realm of science he is prince. A genial friend, a comrade tender-hearted, Of blameless mind and sympathetic soul, A poet full of spiritual light Is he, and in imagination young.”

’Twas night, when in the azure sky above The stars as sleeping closed their sparkling eyes, When friends and foes alike in slumber lay, Yet, at the music of the Nightingale, Awoke, for Bulbul then all sleepless sate And uttered to the world his dolorous chant, While thinking on the beauty of the Rose. For vivid passion wakened in his heart, And with his sad and melancholy voice He ’gan to mourn above his well-beloved. And thinking on his melancholy plight, And on his desolation all forlorn, He thus began his sad and mournful lay: “O queen who dwellest in a careless realm, O thou who art the moon of beauty’s heaven, Half of all beauty’s bloom belongs to thee; Thou the Rose-bloom of beauty’s paradise, Oh, listen to the message that I bring, As I begin to utter my lament. For love of thee I sicken to my death; And all my understanding fails in me; Some secret pang my patience has destroyed, I am distraught in this fair world of thine, My fettered heart is struggling in a snare, And all my soul is manacled in woe. And through the dolor of my dazzled sight, I am as faint as is the new-born moon. Some power, as in the chase, my spirit hunts; E’en now the gleaming knife is at my heart. For, oh! the beauty of thy cheek has cast Fire in the dreary dwelling of my mind; And all the perilous lustre of thine eye, Like a sharp sword, is levelled against me. My suffering has cleft my heart in twain, And in dire desolation ruined me. I melt to nothing in the grief of love, And plunge deep buried in a flood of woe; For I am overcome with passion’s wound, My inmost being heaves in pain and blood; I am consumed, and absence tortures me. And like a mote I hover in desire. My love pain burns me like a heated iron, My eye is like a beaker filled with wine; Oh, help me, for endurance can no more; Oh, spare me further buffets of disdain. My strength is all unequal to this load, And all my feebleness is free from guilt. O slender Rose, and wilt thou that thy bird Should still descant of absence and neglect With thorn-pierced bosom ever hid from thee? Now beauty in the lightest slumber lies, And deeper sorrow checks my prayers to thee. O Rose, beware thou of the gale of sighs, For, like the morning wind, it mars the Rose. On this distracted heart some pity take, Be merciful and heal me of my pain.” So sang the silver-throated nightingale, So sang he, with his soul aflame in love. But there was naught that noted or allayed His pain, and tears were still his sole relief. No one gave heed to his sad cantilene, And no one knew the meaning of his woe. To him the world in utter darkness lay, He was encompassed by a trackless maze, On one side were the shadows of the night, And on the other was the force of fate. The world in dreariness and sorrow lay, The very stars were dimmed in slumber deep, And darkness would not yield before the light, And not a sign of morn was on the hills. And long and lonesome were those darkling hours Of agony, while refuge there was none.

While he was thus oppressed with many a woe, Thus he addressed his chanson to the night: “What means, O night, this dark and murkiness, Which so torments with terror every soul? Is it from absence from the loved one come, That now the moon withholds her welcome beam? Is all the radiance of the sunlight quenched? And all the circling Pleiads put to flight? Has my lament extinguished Saturn’s ray, So that his rings no longer flash their beams? Has Jupiter his happy seat forsaken Because of the unhappiness of earth? Is it that Mars has fallen by the sword, That therefore all the heavens are clothed in black? Why does the sun refuse to show his face? Is he, the fount of light, to darkness turned? Has Anahid, in hopeless apathy, Flung to the ground her lute of poesy? Is Mercury, heaven’s letter-writer, grown Black as the ink that dries upon his pen? Why does the world this face of darkness wear? Is it that my lament has brought it gloom? Why is it morning fails to show itself? Surely my chanson has not held it back. Why is the night so slow in its advance? Is it that day brings absence from my love? Surely the day of resurrection dawns, When all the stars fall down upon the earth! Who has thus closed the window of the moon? And broken the golden lampstand of the sun? Is it the operation of my sighs That tinges all the earth with dismal hues? And has the dart of light forsaken heaven? And does the sky wear mourning for my woe? The constellated eagle stops his flight. Or has he flitted to the realms of gloom? Has Vega fallen, with a broken heart, Down from her pinnacle of happiness?” When he had uttered loud this lone complaint, He with his spirit thus soliloquized: “Why is it that the ruler of the world Has set me in this valley of distress? For neither to my mother nor my sire Have I been aught but minister of pain. Oh, better were it I had ne’er been born, And all my blood had flowed away like milk! So that, before I closed my eyes in sleep, Death’s sword had doomed me to forgetfulness. Or while I yet in cradle bands reposed, My life had early passed away from me. Oh, that the mother’s milk that wet my lips Had turned to poison in that very hour! Oh, that an arrow swift had struck my heart, And parted at a stroke the thread of life! Oh, that some poison-fanged and treacherous snake Had bitten me to death upon my bed! Oh, that some vulture fierce had carried me To its lone eyrie in the heights of Kaf! And when the soft hand of a mother dear Arrayed her infant in the richest robes, Oh, that some sturdy robber of the road, For love of all my gold and finery, Had without pity drawn his rapier keen And from my shoulders struck my head to earth! Why does the world refrain from setting me, As its great foe, ’mid perils and mishaps? Why is it this calamity of woe Has failed to cleave my bosom unawares?” As thus he sang aloud his dolorous lay, The moon came out upon the clearing sky, And when he looked on heaven’s expanded field, Thus he addressed the goddess of the night.

He sang in agony, “O radiant moon, That fillest all the welkin with thy light, Dost thou in some bright sun thy mansion find, Whence thou derivest thine enraptured beam? And hast thou thence a borrowed splendor gained, With which to fill the world thou gazest on? The darkness that is dense and hideous Turns at thy coming into splendor clear. Leave me not comfortless this whole night long, But guide me to my darling’s wakeful bower. To me, a wanderer on the rough highway, Be guide and leader on a path direct. And, when thou movest in thine orbit blest, Let thy light flow like some enchanting lay. Thou art indeed the glowing sun of night, Flinging o’er heaven the light flecks of thy face. Oh, cast thy radiance on this friend of thine, Who wanders with no sunshine in his life. Be to the poor, who consolation need, The balm for every wound ’neath which they faint. One glance of thine has power to dissipate The fevered pangs of sufferance in the poor. Needy and friendless and of all forlorn, Fit object he of thy consoling aid. And since his sorrows are beyond compare, And with no changing breath he bears thee love, And since his love to thee is reckoned crime, Do thou absolve him of his guiltiness. For if thou turn thee from a beggar’s path, Before the people thou shalt blush with shame. When men rebuke him, and blot out his name, Or make his name forgotten by his kind, If thou at last become averse to him, There is no hope of pity for his soul.” While the poor lover thus his mourning made, The welkin sparkled with the glance of day.

“O light of morn, that beautifies the world, By force of truth and of sincerity, Thy heart is lit by the pure light of truth, And open to the world as day itself. Let thy pure joy illuminate my heart, Make thyself known to yonder moon of heaven; ’Tis she that sheds her rays upon this world, When thou hast flashed thy beams upon her disk; Oh, tear away this veil of gloom from me, And call to me the mistress of my heart. Say to her: ‘Sore is yonder poor man’s heart; He journeys o’er the world with silent lips. To this poor wanderer in the way of love Must thou show pity and compassion due, For want has torn the mantle from his back, And love has laid him prostrate on the earth. He sees before him nothing but the grave, And never turns his glance aside from it. Oh, do not tread the helpless in the dust, Dam up the flood of wrath that threatens him! When this poor man the needed morsel wants, The beggar still can boast a wallet full. He has nor wealth nor influence, my queen, Yet lacks he not accomplishment, my queen; And gold and silver failing, ’tis enough To see thy tears and sympathetic glance. Be gentle, then, to this accomplished man, And give assistance to a bard inspired. The prince who acts with kindness to the poor Proves by his deeds his loving gentleness.’” While in this wise the nightingale discoursed, The sun stood beaming in the arch of heaven, And as he marked it, from the moon he turned And fixed his contemplation on the sun.

He said: “O lord of light in heaven above, Thou art the lightener of the angel realm, Thy lustre fills with radiance all the world, And reaches to the garden of the Rose. ’Tis by thy diligence that all things are, And are from elemental atoms formed. Thou art the eye and lamp of all the world, Light to men’s sight, and lustre to the stars. Unless the moon derived her light from thee, She were in darkness to the judgment day; And but that thou dost gaze upon the morn, The gloom of night would never leave the east. Thou art indeed the morning gate of love, Spreading thy light in footprints of the morn; Oh, let my ardent passion shine on her, And fall with suppliant words before her gate. Go humbly to the place where she abides, And fling thyself before her fairy feet. Oh, speak to yonder moon about my love, And say to her, Fair regent of the heavens, For thy great beauty lies thy lover low, And like a shadow trodden in the dust. For him there is no daylight in the world, So sorely absence keeps him prisoner. The night of absence wounds him to the quick, Oh, give him but a glimpse of thy fair face. Oh, change the loneliness of one long night For the delightsomeness of cheerful day. Let him, who is with passion deep consumed, Look with his longing eye upon his love. This wretched one is prisoner of thine, Have pity on the wandering devotee. Suffering and despite is his only wealth, And he is despicable all for thee. He stands unnoticed in the world’s wide house, Stretch out thy hand to welcome the despised; The window-sill and threshold of thy house, Shall then his Sacred Stone and Mecca be. He watches through the night till morn arise, And speaks aloud thy name in his distress. Early and late he thinks alone of thee; Early and late his heart is set on thee. His prayers he utters in thine ear alone, He turns to thee alone his anxious eye. Thou art his creed, all others he forswears; Thou art the sect and ritual that he loves. The creed that he professes is thy love. Offend not, then, the Mussulman’s belief. Grant, queen, the prayer of thy fond devotee, O Queen, propitious be to his desire.” ’Twas thus he spake aloud his inmost thought, But vain was all his pleading and his pain. And so he turned him from the sun and moon, Like Abraham, and made appeal to God.