Protest: By Zahir-u-Din

Alas! alas! this wasted NightWith all its Jasmin-scented air,Its thousand stars, serenely bright!I lie alone, and long for you,Long for your Champa-scented hair,Your tranquil eyes of twilight hue;

Long for the close-curved, delicate lips--Their sinuous sweetness laid on mine--Here, where the slender fountain drips,Here, where the yellow roses glow,Pale in the tender silver shineThe stars across the garden throw.

Alas! alas! poor passionate Youth!Why must we spend these lonely nights?The poets hardly speak the truth,--Despite their praiseful litany,His season is not all delightsNor every night an ecstasy!

The very power and passion that make--Might make--his days one golden dream,How he must suffer for their sake!Till, in their fierce and futile rage,The baffled senses almost deemThey might be happier in old age.

Age that can find red roses sweet,And yet not crave a rose-red mouth;Hear Bulbuls, with no wish that feetOf sweeter singers went his way;Inhale warm breezes from the South,Yet never fed his fancy stray.

From some near Village I can hearThe cadenced throbbing of a drum,Now softly distant, now more near;And in an almost human fashion,It, plaintive, wistful, seems to comeLaden with sighs of fitful passion,

To mock me, lying here aloneAmong the thousand useless flowersUpon the fountain's border-stone--Cold stone, that chills me as I lieCounting the slowly passing hoursBy the white spangles in the sky.

Some feast the Tom-toms celebrate,Where, close together, side by side,Gay in their gauze and tinsel stateWith lips serene and downcast eyes,Sit the young bridegroom and his bride,While round them songs and laughter rise.

They are together; Why are weSo hopelessly, so far apart?Oh, I implore you, come to me!Come to me, Solace of mine eyes!Come Consolation of my heart!Light of my senses! What replies?

A little, languid, mocking breezeThat rustles through the Jasmin flowersAnd stirs among the Tamarind trees;A little gurgle of the sprayThat drips, unheard, though silent hours,Then breaks in sudden bubbling play.

Wind, have you never loved a rose?And water, seek you not the Sea?Why, therefore, mock at my repose?Is it my fault I am aloneBeneath the feathery Tamarind treeWhose shadows over me are thrown?

Nay, I am mad indeed, with thirstFor all to me this night deniedAnd drunk with longing, and accurstBeyond all chance of sleep or rest,With love, unslaked, unsatisfied,And dreams of beauty unpossessed.

Hating the hour that brings you not,Mad at the space betwixt us twain,Sad for my empty arms, so hotAnd fevered, even the chilly stoneCan scarcely cool their burning pain,--And oh, this sense of being alone!

Take hence, O Night, your wasted hours,You bring me not my Life's Delight,My Star of Stars, my Flower of Flowers!You leave me loveless and forlorn,Pass on, most false and futile night,Pass on, and perish in the Dawn!