Section V

Sweet Lailí's kinsmen now describeTo the proud chieftain of their tribeA youth amidst the desert seen,In strange attire, of frantic mien;His arms outstretched, his head all bare,And floating loose his clustering hair:'In a distracted mood'—they say—'He wanders hither every day;And often, with fantastic bound,Dances, or prostrate hugs the ground;Or, in a voice the soul to move,Warbles the melting songs of love;Songs which, when breathed in tones so true,A thousand hearts at once subdue.He speaks—and all who listen hearWords which they hold in memory dear;And we and thine endure the shame,And Lailí blushes at his name.'And now the chieftain, roused to wrath,Threatens to cross the maniac's path.

But, haply, to prevent that barbarous deed,To Omri's palmy groves the tidings flew,And soon the father sends a chosen fewTo seek the lost one. Promptly they proceedO'er open plain and thicket deep,Embowering glen and rocky steep,Exploring with unwearied eyeWherever man might pass or lie,O'ercome by grief or death. In vainTheir sight on every side they strain,No Majnún's voice, nor form, to cheerTheir anxious hearts; but far and nearThe yell of prowling beasts they hear.Mournful, they deem him lost or dead,And tears of bitterest anguish shed.But he, the wanderer from his home,Found not from beasts a living tomb;His passion's pure and holy flameTheir native fierceness seemed to tame;Tiger and ravenous wolf passed by him,The fell hyena came not nigh him;As if, ferocity to quell,His form had been invisible,Or bore a life-protecting spell.Upon a fountain's emerald brinkMajnún had stooped its lucid wave to drink;And his despairing friends descriedHim laid along that murmuring fountain's side,Wailing his sorrows still; his feeble voiceDwelt, ever dwelt, upon his heart's sole choice.A wild emotion trembled in his eye,His bosom wrung with many a deep-drawn sigh;And groans, and tears, and music's softest lay,Successive marked his melancholy day.—Now he is stretched along the burning sand,A stone his pillow—now, upraised his hand,He breathes a prayer for Lailí, and againThe desert echoes with some mournful strain.As wine deprives us of the sense we boast,So reason in love's maddening draughts is lost.

Restored to home again, he dreads to meetHis father's frowns, and bends to kiss his feet;Then, gazing wildly, rises up, and speaks,And in a piteous tone forgiveness seeks:—'Sad is my fate, o'ercast my youthful morn,My rose's leaves, my life's sweet buds are torn;I sit in darkness, ashes o'er my head,To all the world's alluring pleasures dead;For me what poor excuse can soothe thy mind?Thou art my father still—O still be kind!'Syd Omri his unchanged affection proved,And, folding to his breast the child he loved,Exclaimed: 'My boy! I grieve to markThy reason erring still, and dark;A fire consuming every threadOf which thy thrilling nerves are made.Sit down, and from thy eyesight tearThe poisonous thorn that rankles there:'Tis best we should to mirth incline,But let it not be raised by wine:'Tis well desire should fill the breast;Not such desire as breaks our rest.Remain not under grief's control,Nor taunt of foe which stings the soul;Let wisdom every movement guide;Error but swells affliction's tide;What though thy love hath set thee all on fire,And thy heart burns with still unquenched desire,Despair not of a remedy;From seedlings spring the shady tree;From hope continued follows gladness,Which dull despair had lost in sadness;Associate with the wealthy, theyWill show to glittering wealth the way;A wanderer never gathers store,Be thou a wanderer now no more.Wealth opens every door, and givesCommand, and homage still receives:Be patient, then, and patience willBy slow degrees thy coffers till.That river, rolling deep and broad,Once but a narrow streamlet flowed;That lofty mountain, now in view,Its height from small beginnings drew.He who impatient hurries on,Hoping for gems, obtains a stone,Shrewdness and cunning gain the prize,While wisdom's self unprosperous lies:The fox of crafty, subtle mindLeaves the wolf's dulness far behind;Be thou discreet, thy thoughts employ,The world's inviting pomp enjoy.—In search of wealth from day to dayLove's useless passion dies away;The sensual make disease their guest,And nourish scorpions in their breast.And is thy heart so worthless grown,To be the cruel sport of one?Keep it from woman's scathe, and stillObedient to thy own free will,And mindful of a parent's voice,Make him, and not thy foes, rejoice.'Majnún replied: 'My father!—father still!—My power is gone; I cannot change my will:The moral counsel thou hast given to me(To one who cannot from his bondage flee)Avails me nothing. 'Tis no choice of mine,But Fate's decree, that I should thus repine:Stand I alone? Look round, on every sideAre broken hearts, by sternest fortune tried:Shadows are not self-made—the silver moonIs not self-stationed, but th' Almighty's boon.From the huge elephant's stupendous form,To that of the poor ant, the smallest worm,Through every grade of life, all power is given,All joy or anguish, by the Lord of Heaven.I sought not, I, misfortune—but it came;I sought not fire, yet is my heart all flame:They ask me why I never laugh nor smile,Though laughter be no sign of sense the while.If I should laugh in merry mood, agape,Amidst my mirth some secret might escape.—A partridge seized an ant, resolved to killThe feeble creature with his horny bill;When, laughing loud, the ant exclaimed—" Alas!A partridge thou! and art thou such an ass?I'm but a gnat, and dost thou think to floatA gnat's slight filmy texture down thy throat?'The partridge laughed at this unusual sound,And, laughing, dropped the ant upon the groundThus he who idly laughs will always findSome grief succeed—'tis so with all mankind.The stupid partridge, laughing, drooped his crest,And by that folly lost what he possessed.—This poor old drudge, which bears its heavy load,Must all life long endure the same rough road;No joy for him, in mortal aid no trust,No rest till death consigns him to the dust.'

Here paused the youth, and wept; and nowThe household smooth his furrowed brow,And with unceasing eagernessSeek to remove his soul's distress.But grief, corroding grief, allows no spaceFor quiet thoughts; his wounds break out anew;His kindred every change of feature trace,And unavailing tears their cheeks bedew;A deeper, keener anguish marks his face;His faded form so haggard to the view;Useless the task his sorrows to remove,For who can free the heart from love, unchanging love?

Few days had passed, when, frantic grown,He burst from his domestic prison,And in the desert wild, alone,Poured, like the morning bird, new risen,His ardent lay of love. Not longThe mountains echoed with his song,Ere, drawn by sounds so sweet and clear,A crowd of listeners hovered near:They saw him, tall as cypress, stand,A rocky fragment in his hand;A purple sash his waist around,His legs with links of iron bound;Yet, unencumbered was his gait;They only showed his maniac state.

Wandering he reached a spot of ground,With palmy groves and poplars crowned;A lively scene it was to view,Where flowers too bloomed, of every hue;In wonder lost, he saw the axe appliedTo fell a cypress-tree—and thus he cried:'Gardener! did ever love thy heart control?Was ever woman mistress of thy soul?When joy has thrilled through every glowing nerve,Hadst thou no wish that feeling to preserve?Does not a woman's love delight, entrance,And every blessing fortune yields enhance?Then stop that lifted hand, the stroke suspend,Spare, spare the cypress-tree, and be my friend!And why? Look there, and be forewarned by me,'Tis Lailí's form, all grace and majesty;Wouldst thou root up resemblance so complete,And lay its branches withering at thy feet?What! Lailí's form? no: spare the cypress-tree;Let it remain, still beautiful and free;Yes, let my prayers thy kindliest feelings move,And save the graceful shape of her I love!'—The gardener dropped his axe, o'ercome with shame,And left the tree to bloom, and speak of Lailí's fame.