Section XIII

Meantime, the father mourned his wretched state,Like Jacob o'er his Joseph's unknown fate;No rest by day, no sleep by night;Grief o'er him shed its withering blight;Incessant yearnings wrung his heart,He sat in darkness, silent, lone:'Why did my child from home depart?Where has the hopeless wanderer gone?'Dreading that Death's relentless dartHis best-beloved had overthrown.Sudden he rose—despair gave forceAnd vigour to his aged frame;And, almost frantic with remorse,Gathering upon himself the blame,He trod the maze of wood and wild,Seeking his poor forsaken child;And when the day withdrew its light,He passed in cavern rude the night;But never ceased his venturous quest—No peace for him—no strengthening rest.In vain he paced the desert round,For not a trace of him was found.At length a herdsman, falling in his way,Described the spot where Majnún lay;Craggy, and deep, and terrible to view,It seemed a grave all damp with noxious dew.Thither proceeding, by the stranger led,He finds with horror that sepulchral bed;And, fearful of the worst, beholds the wreckOf Majnún, his once-lovely boy;—He sees a serpent winding round his neck,Playful, not destined to destroy:It stays but for a moment—all around,Limbs half-devoured, and bones, bestrew the ground.With cautious step descending, he surveysTh' unconscious youth, who meets his anxious gazeWith a wild look which could not recogniseThe tottering form before him: Who art thou?And what thy errand?' The old man replies—'I am thy father! I have found thee now,After long search?' Embracing, both remainedIn deep compassionate sorrow, fondly strainedEach to the other's bosom; and when he,The maniac, had regained his memory,And beams of light burst through his nighted brain,And he beheld and knew his sire again,Joy sparkled in his faded eye a while,And his parched lips seemed curled into a smile.The poor old father said, with feeble voice,'Thou makest my heart both tremble and rejoice:The path o'er which thy feet are doomed to passShows blades of swords, not harmless blades of grass;And I would warn thee never more to roam;Thy only safety is to stay at home.Dogs have a home, and thou hast none to boast:Art thou a man, to human comfort lost?If man thou art, then like a man appear,Or, if a demon, be a demon here.The ghoul, created to perplex the earth,Is still a ghoul, and answers to its birth;But thou'rt a man; and why, with human soul,Forget thy nature and become a ghoul?To-day if thou shouldst throw the reins aside,To-morrow thou mayst ask, and be denied.Soon shall I pass away, and be at rest;No longer this frail world's unhappy guest.My day is mingling with the shades of night;My life is losing all its wonted light.Soul of thy father! re-inspired with grace,Rise, and protect the honours of thy race,That, ere this frame be in the grave laid low,I may the guardian of my birthright know;That, ere I die, to sooth a parent's grief,Thou mayst be hailed in thine own home the chief.Forbid it, Heaven, that, when my hour is past,My house and home should to the winds be cast!That plundering strangers, with rapacious hand,Should waste my treasure and despoil my land!And Heaven forbid, that both at once should fall,(My greatest dread), and thus extinguish all!That when the summons reaches me to die,Thy death should also swell the funeral cry!'These words sank deep in Majnún's breast: he seemedAltered in mood, as through his senses streamedThe memory of his home, the fond regardOf his dear mother, and the joys he sharedFrom her affection. Days and nights he triedTo banish from his thoughts another's bride:Repentance came, and oft the strife renewed,But tyrant love that feeling soon subdued;(Love, a wild elephant in might, which growsMore powerful when opposed by friends or foes);And the poor maniac thus his sire addressed:'Thy counsel, father, is the wisest, best;And I would gladly to thy wish conform:But what am I? a helpless wretch, a worm,Without the power to do what I approve,Enslaved, the victim of almighty love.To me the world is swallowed up—I seeNothing but Lailí—all is lost to me,Save her bright image—father, mother, home,All buried in impenetrable gloom,Beyond my feeling;—yet I know thou'rt here,And I could weep;—but what avails the tear,Even were it at a father's funeral shed?For human sorrows never reach the dead.Thou sayst the night of Death is on thee falling!Then must I weep, thy fostering care recalling;But I shall die in utter misery,And none be left in life to weep for me.'Syd Omri, with unutterable grief,Gazed on his son, whose sorrows mocked relief;And, hopeless, wretched, every thought resignedThat once was balm and comfort to his mind.Then, showering blessings o'er his offspring's head,Groaning, he parted from that dismal cave;And, wrapt in deepest anguish, homeward sped;But 'twas, alas! to his expected grave.Gently he sank, by age and grief oppressed,From this vain world to that of endless rest.Vain world indeed! who ever rested here?The lustrous moon hath its eternal sphere;But man, who in this mortal prison sighs,Appears like lightning, and like lightning flies.A pilgrim-step approached the wild retreat,Where Majnún lingered in his rocky seat,And the sad tale was told. He fellUpon the earth insensible;And, grovelling, with a frantic air,His bosom beat—he tore his hair,And never rested, night or day,Till he had, wandering far away,Reached the sad spot where peaceful layHis father's bones, now crumbling with decay.His arms around the grave he flung,And to the earth delirious clung;Grasping the ashes of the dead,He cast them o'er his prostrate head,And, with repentant tears, bedewedThe holy relics round him strewed.O'erwhelming was the sharpened senseOf his contrition, deep, intense;And sickness wrapped his shattered frameIn a slow fever's parching flame;Still, ceaseless, 'twas his wont to raveUpon his father's sacred grave.He felt the bitterness of fate;He saw his folly now too late;And worlds would give again to shareHis generous father's constant care;For he had oft, in wanton guise,Contemned the counsels of the wise;Had with a child's impatience burned,And scorn for sympathy returned;And now, like all of human mould,When the indulgent heart is cold,Which would have sealed his happiness,He mourns—but mourns his own distress;For, when the diamond blazed like day,He cast it recklessly away.