Section III

The lover from his mistress parted,Lingering, oppressed, and broken-hearted,Sank, like the sun all rayless, down—Khosrú, without his throne or crown.With matted locks and bosom bare,Unshielded from the scorching air,This hapless youth, absorbed in grief,Hoped with his friends to find relief;The few, by strong affection bound,And, 'midst his woes, still faithful found.But vain the refuge—friendship's smileCould not his love-lorn heart beguile:Again he hastened to that place remote,Where all he loved in life had gone:He called her magic name, but she was not,Nor of her kindred, one, not one,In that sequestered lonely spot:He called a thousand times, but called in vain;None heeded, for none heard the strain;And thence no fond reply that hapless youth could gain.Lailí had, with her kindred, been removedAmong the Nijid mountains, whereShe cherished still the thoughts of him she lovedAnd her affection thus more deeply provedAmid that wild retreat. Kais sought her there;Sought her in rosy bower and silent glade,Where the tall palm-trees flung refreshing shade.He called upon her name again;Again he called, alas! in vain;His voice unheard, though raised on every side;Echo alone to his lament replied;And Lailí! Lailí! rang around,As if enamoured of that magic sound.Dejected and forlorn, fast-falling dewGlistened upon his cheeks of pallid hueThrough grove and frowning glen he lonely strayed,And with his griefs the rocks were vocal made.Beautiful Lailí! had she gone for ever?—Could he that thought support? oh, never, never!Whilst deep emotion agonised his breast,He to the morning-breeze these words addressed:—

'Breeze of the morn! so fresh and sweet,Wilt thou my blooming mistress greet;And, nestling in her glossy hair,My tenderest thoughts, my love, declare?Wilt thou, while 'mid her tresses sporting,Their odorous balm, their perfume courting,Say to that soul-seducing maid,In grief how prostrate I am laid!And gently whisper in her earThis message, with an accent clear:—"Thy form is ever in my sight,In thought by day, in dreams by night;For one, in spirits sad and broken,That mole would be the happiest token;That mole which adds to every lookA magic spell I cannot brook;For he who sees thy melting charms,And does not feel his soul in arms,Bursting with passion, rapture, allThat speak love's deepest, wildest thrall,Must be, as Kâf's ice-summit, cold,And, haply, scarce of human mould.Let him, unmoved by charms like thine,His worthless life at once resign—Those lips are sugar, heavenly sweet;O let but mine their pouting meet!The balsam of delight they shed;Their radiant colour ruby-red.The Evil eye has struck my heart,But thine in beauty sped the dart:Thus many a flower, of richest hue,Hath fallen and perished where it grew;Thy beauty is the sun in brightness,Thy form a Peri's self in lightness;A treasure thou, which, poets say,The heavens would gladly steal away—Too good, too pure, on earth to stay!"'