Section VII

The gloomy veil of night withdrawn,How sweetly looks the silvery dawn;Rich blossoms laugh on every tree,Like men of fortunate destiny,Or the shining face of revelry.The crimson tulip and golden roseTheir sweets to all the world disclose.I mark the glittering pearly waveThe fountain's banks of emerald lave;The birds in every arbour sing,The very raven hails the spring;The partridge and the ring-dove raiseTheir joyous notes in songs of praise;But bulbuls, through the mountain-vale,Like Majnún, chant a mournful tale.

The season of the rose has ledLailí to her own favourite bower;Her cheeks the softest vermil-red,Her eyes the modest sumbul flower.She has left her father's painted hall,She has left the terrace where she keptHer secret watch till evening fall,And where she oft till midnight wept.

A golden fillet sparkling roundHer brow, her raven tresses bound;And as she o'er the greensward tripped,A train of damsels ruby-lipped,Blooming like flowers of Samarkand,Obedient bowed to her command.She glittered like a moon amongThe beauties of the starry throng,With lovely forms as Houris bright,Or Peris glancing in the light;And now they reach an emerald spot,Beside a cool sequestered grot,And soft recline beneath the shade,By a delicious rose-bower made:There, in soft converse, sport, and play,The hours unnoted glide away;But Lailí to the Bulbul tellsWhat secret grief her bosom swells,And fancies, through the rustling leaves,She from the garden-breeze receivesThe breathings of her own true love,Fond as the cooings of the dove.

In that romantic neighbourhoodA grove of palms majestic stood;Never in Arab desert wildA more enchanting prospect smiled;So fragrant, of so bright a hue,Not Irem richer verdure knew;Nor fountain half so clear, so sweet,As that which flowed at Lailí's feet.

The Grove of Palms her steps invites;She strolls amid its varied scenes,Its pleasant copses, evergreens;In which her wakened heart delights.Where'er the genial zephyr sighs,Lilies and roses near her rise:Awhile the prospect charms her sight,Awhile she feels her bosom light,Her eyes with pleasure beaming bright:But sadness o'er her spirit steals,And thoughts, too deep to hide, reveals:Beneath a cypress-tree reclined,In secret thus she breathes her mind:—'O faithful friend, and lover true,Still distant from thy Lailí's view;Still absent, still beyond her powerTo bring thee to her fragrant bower;O noble youth, still thou art mine,And Lailí, Lailí still is thine!'As thus she almost dreaming spoke,A voice reproachful her attention woke.'What! hast thou banished prudence from thy mind?And shall success be given to one unkind?Majnún on billows of despair is tossed,Lailí has nothing of her pleasures lost;Majnún has sorrow gnawing at his heart,Lailí's blithe looks far other thoughts impart;Majnún the poison-thorn of grief endures,Lailí, all wiles and softness, still allures;Majnún her victim in a thousand ways,Lailí in mirth and pastime spends her days;Majnún's unnumbered wounds his rest destroy,Lailí exists but in the bowers of joy;Majnún is bound by love's mysterious spell,Lailí's bright cheeks of cheerful feelings tell;Majnún his Lailí's absence ever mourns,Lailí's light mind to other objects turns.'

At this reproof tears flowed apaceDown Lailí's pale, dejected face;But soon to her glad heart was knownThe trick, thus practised by her ownGay, watchful, ever-sportive train,Who long had watched, nor watched in vain;And marked in her love's voice and look,Which never woman's glance mistook.Her mother too, with keener eye,Saw deeper through the mystery,Which Lailí thought her story veiled,And oft that fatal choice bewailed;But Lailí still loved on; the rootSprang up, and bore both bud and fruit;And she believed her secret flowerAs safe as treasure in a guarded tower.