Section IV

As morning broke, the sun, with golden light,Eclipsed the twinkling stars of silvery white;And Majnún, rising, eagerly pursuedThe path which wound to Lailí's solitude,Grieved to the heart; and, as he went along,His lips breathed softly some impassioned song;Some favourite lay, which tenderly expressedThe present feeling of his anxious breast.In fancy soon her image he beheld;No shadowy cloud her lucid beauty veiled;He saw her fresh as morning's scented air—Himself exhausted. by incessant care:He saw her blooming as the blushing rose—Himself dejected by unnumbered woes:He saw her like an angel soft and bland—Himself consuming like a lighted brand:Her ringlets flowing loosely to the ground,His ringlets, fetters by affection bound;And still, all faint with grief, he passed his days,Pouring his soul out in melodious lays.

His friends, to whom his griefs are known,His altered aspect now bemoan;Alarmed to hear the sufferer stillIn frantic mood unceasing fillThe night-breeze with his plaintive woes;For sorrow with indulgence grows.They try to soothe his wildered mind,Where reason once was seen enshrined;His father, with a father's love,Sought his sad sorrows to remove,And gave him maxims full and clear,And counsel meet for youth to hear.But, though good counsel and adviceMay often lead to Paradise,When love has once the heart engrossed,All counsel, all advice is lost;And weeping Majnún not a wordOf his poor father's counsel heard.Ah! when did prudence e'er controlThe frenzy of a love-lorn soul?

Disconsolate the father nowBehind the Harem-screen appears,Inquiring of his females howHe best might dry the maniac's tears;And what had drawn the sparkling moonOf intellect from him so soon.The answer of both old and youngWas ready quivering on the tongue—'His fate is fixed—his eyes have seenThe charms of his affection's queenIn all their winning power displayed;His heart a captive to that Arab maid.Then what relief canst thou supply?What to the bleeding lover, doomed to die?What but fulfilling his desires?And this a father's generous aid requires.See them united in the bands of love;And that alone his frenzy will remove.'These words (for woman's words conveyA spell, converting night to day,Diffuse o'er troubled life a balm,And passion's fiercest fever calm)—These words relieve the father's heart,And comfort to his thoughts impart.Resolved at once, he now with speedMarshals his followers, man and steed;And, all assembled, bends his wayTo the damsel's home, without delay.

Approaching, quick th' inquiry rose—'Come ye hither as friends or foes?Whatever may your errand be,That errand must be told to me;For none, unless a sanctioned friend,Can pass the boundary I defend.'

This challenge touched Syd Omri's pride;And yet he calmly thus replied,—'I come in friendship, and proposeAll future chance of feud to close.'Then to the maiden's father said,—'The nuptial feast may now be spread:My son with thirsty heart has seenThy fountain pure with margin green;And every fountain, clear and bright,Gives to the thirsty heart delight.That fountain he demands. With shame,Possessed of power, and wealth, and fame,I to his silly humour bend,And humbly seek his fate to blendWith one inferior. Need I tellMy own high lineage, known so well?If sympathy my heart incline,Or vengeance, still the means are mine.Treasure and arms can amply bearMe through the toils of desert-war;Thou art the merchant, pedlar-chief,I the buyer; come, sell,—be brief!If thou art wise, accept advice;Sell, and receive a princely price!'

The sire of Lailí marked his haughty tone,But smoothly answered,—'Not on us aloneDepends the nuptial union—but on Heaven,By which all power, and right, and truth are given.However just our reasoning may appear,We're still beset by endless error here;And proffered friendship may perchance becomeThe harbinger of strife and of the tomb;Madness is neither sin nor crime, we know,But who'd be linked to madness or a foe?Thy son is mad—his senses first restore;In constant prayer the aid of Heaven implore;But while portentous gloom pervades his brain,Disturb me not with this vain suit again.The jewel, sense, no purchaser can buy,Nor treachery the place of sense supply.Thou hast my reasons—and this parley o'er,Keep them in mind, and trouble me no more!'Abashed, his very heartstrings torn,Thus to be met with scoff and scorn,Syd Omri to his followers turned,His cheek with kindled anger burned;But, scorning more to do or say,Indignant homeward urged his way.And now for a disordered mind,What medicine can affection find?What magic power, what human skill,To rectify the erring will?—The necromancer's art they tried—Charms, philtres used, to win a bride,And make a father's heart relent,As if by Heaven in pity sent.—Vain efforts all. They now addressKind words his mind to soothe and bless,And urge in his unwilling ear(Treason and death for him to hear)'Another love, of nobler race,Unmatched in form, unmatched in grace;All blandishments and fairy wiles;Her every glance the heart beguiles;An idol of transcendent worth,With charms eclipsing royal birth;Whose balmy lips like rubies glow;Sugar and milk their sweetness show;Her words like softest music flow:Adorned in all the pride of spring,Her robes around rich odours fling;Sparkling with gold and gems, she seemsThe bright perfection of a lover's dreams;Then why, with such a prize at home,For charms inferior amid strangers roam?Bid all unduteous thoughts depart,And wisely banish Lailí from thy heart.'When Majnún saw his hopes decay,Their fairest blossoms fade away;And friends and sire, who might have beenKind intercessors, rush betweenHim and the only wish that shedOne ray of comfort round his head(His fondly cherished Arab maid),He beat his hands, his garments tore,He cast his fetters on the floorIn broken fragments, and in wrathSought the dark wilderness's path;And there he wept and sobbed aloud,Unwitnessed by the gazing crowd;His eyes all tears, his soul all flame,Repeating still his Lailí's name,And Lailí! Lailí! echoed round,Still dwelling on that rapturous sound.—In pilgrim-garb he reckless strayed,No covering on his feet or head;And still, as memory touched his brain,He murmured some love-wildered strain:But still her name was ever on his tongue,And Lailí! Lailí! still through grove and forest rung.Sad inmate of the desert wild,His form and face with dust defiled;Exhausted with his grief's excess,He sat him down in weariness.'Estranged from friends, he weeping cried,'My homeward course is dark to me;But, Lailí, were I at thy side,How blessed would thy poor lover be!My kindred think of me with shame;My friends they shudder at my name.That cup of wine I held, alas!Dropped from my hand, is dashed in pieces;And thus it is that, like the glass,Life's hope in one dark moment ceases.O ye who never felt distress,Never gay scenes of joy forsaking,Whose minds, at peace, no cares oppress,What know ye of a heart that's breaking!'

Worn out at length, he sank upon the ground,And there in tears the mournful youth is foundBy those who traced his wanderings: gently theyHome to his sire the faded form convey:Syd Omri and his kinsmen round him moan,And, weeping wildly, make his griefs their own;And, garrulous, recall to memory's eyeThe progress of his life from infancy—The flattering promise of his boyish days—And find the wreck of hope on which they gaze.They deemed that Mecca's sacred faneHis reason would restore again;That blessed boon to mortals given,The arc of earth, the are of heaven;The holy Kaba where the prophet prayed,Where Zam-Zam's waters yield their saving aid.'Tis now the season of the pilgrimage,And now assemble merchant, chieftain, sage,With vows and offerings, on that spot divine:Thousands and thousands throng the splendid shrine.And now, on that high purpose bent, awaitSyd Omri's camels, ready at his gate;Around their necks the tinkling bells are hung,Rich tasselled housings on their backs are flung,And Majnún, faint, and reckless what may be,Is on a litter placed—sad sight to see!—And tenderly caressed, whilst borne alongBy the rough moving camel, fleet and strong.The desert soon is passed, and Mecca's brightAnd glittering minarets rise upon the sight;Where golden gifts, and sacrifice, and prayer,Secure the absolution sought for there.The father, entering that all-powerful shrine,Thus prays: 'Have mercy, Heaven, on me and mine!O, from my son this frenzied mood remove,And save him, save him from the bane of love!'Majnún at this, poor wayward child,Looked in his father's face and smiled;And frankly said his life should proveThe truth and holiness of love.'My heart is bound by beauty's spell,My love is indestructible.Am I to separate from my own,From her for whom I breathe alone?What friend could wish me to resignA love so pure, so true as mine?What though I like a taper burn,And almost to a shadow turn,I envy not the heart that's free—Love's soul-encircling chains for me!'

The love that springs from Heaven is blessed;Unholy passions stain the rest;That is not love: wild fancy's birth,Which lives on change, is constant never:But Majnún's love was not of earth,Glowing with heavenly truth for ever;An earthly object raised the flame,But 'twas from Heaven the inspiration came.

In silent sorrow the aged sireFound all his cares were vain;And back to his expecting tribeAddressed his steps again;For Mecca had no power to coolThe lover's burning brain;No consolation, no reliefFor the old man's heart-consuming grief.