Section XV

Sweet slumber had diffused the charm of restThrough the poor maniac's agitated breast,And as the morn, magnificently bright,Poured o'er the cloudless sky its purple light,The smiling presage of a prosperous day,He rose refreshed, and hailed the heavenly ray.Graceful he stood amidst the varied herd,And, warmed with hope, his orisons preferred;When suddenly a horseman met his view,Who, as it seemed, the wandering lover knew.'Romantic youth! I see the timorous deerAnd the fierce lion meet in concord here,And thou the monarch—strange! but mark! I bearA secret tale of one, so loved, so fair.What wouldst thou feel, did I her name declare?What is the cypress to her form divine?What is the perfume from a martyr's shrine?What, should that idol's fate be mixed with thine?Her ringlets twisted like the graceful Jím,'Her shape an Alif, and her mouth a Mím;Her eyes like two Narcissuses, that growWhere the pure waters of a fountain flow;Her eyebrows, joined, a double arch express;Her beauteous cheeks an angel might caress.But what can I of such perfection say?How to the blind Creation's charms portray?I saw her weep—the tear-drops glistening fellIn showers from eyes which their own tale could tell;And yet I asked for whom she wept and mourned—For one untrue, or one to dust returned?Opening her ruby lips, she softly said:"My heart is desolate—my joys are fled;I once was Lailí—need I more reveal?Worse than a thousand maniacs now I feel:More wild than that dark star which rules my fate,More mad than Majnún's my distracted state.If that dark spirit thou shouldst haply find—That mournful wreck of an enlightened mind—How wilt thou recognise him? By that sadDisordered aspect, oft pronounced as mad;By that unutterable grief which preysUpon his heart; that melancholy gaze,Which has no sense of outward things; that loveSo pure, an emanation from above.O that I could escape this wretched thrall,And leave, for ever leave, my father's hall!But go, and seek the wanderer;—glen and cavePatient explore—his refuge, or his grave:Find him; and, faithful, with unwearied feetReturn, and tell me his forlorn retreat."

'Silent I heard her earnest prayer;Marked her desponding voice and air;And while she still, in tenderest mood,Bedewed with tears, before me stood,The story of thy woes, which longHad been the theme of many a song,Familiar to the country round,I sang, and deep affection found;So deep, that, sigh succeeding sigh,She trembled in her agony,And, senseless, sank upon the ground,Where pale and motionless she layAs if her life had ebbed away.But soon as that dread swoon was o'er,And sobs and tears relieved her heart;Again she pressed me to restoreHim she adored—" If kind thou art,And kind thou must be to a wretch forlorn,I feel thou wouldst not play a traitor's part;Thou canst not view my misery with scorn.Alas! though I may seem to him untrue,Pity is still to woman's sorrows due."'Her rosy fingers pressThe written tale of her distress;And, raising to her ruby mouthThat passionate record of her truth,Kissed it a thousand times, and shedA flood of tears, whilst mournfully she said—"To him this sad memorial give—To him for whom alone I live."'Majnún, perplexed, with painful feelings riven,Seemed to refuse what still to him was Heaven;Imputed falsehood swept across his mind,But left no dark distrustful thoughts behind.At length, the writing eagerly he took;But, as he read, he faltered, wept, and shook.Adoring the Creator, she began—'Beyond the praise of tongue, to mortal manHis love and goodness,'—thus her námeh ran—'He with the light of wisdom cheers the soul;He bids the cheek to glow, the eye to roll,And every mortal bends to His control.To this, He scatters jewels bright and rare,To that, good sense to strive with worldly care:To me He gave the love which time defies—The love I bear thee, spotless from the skies;Fountain of Khizer, sparkling in the shade!Fountain of life to thine own Arab maid!In truth and love to thee my heart was given,—That truth and love remain, the gift of Heaven.Though far from thee—a wife against my will,I am thine own affianced partner still:Still single—still, in purity and faith,Thine own unchanged—unchangeable in death.Thou'rt all the world to me—the very earthThou treadst on is to me of matchless worth;Yet in a different sphere my race is run;I am the moon, and thou the radiant sun:By destiny thus sundered—how can IMerit reproach, who at thy feet would die!Since thus divided, pity thou my lot,With all thy vows and raptures unforgot;Life's sweetest flowerets, in their brightest bloom,Turned to the bitterness of fell Zikúm.'

Yes, Majnún wept and shook; and nowWhat answer could he frame, and how?A wanderer, destitute—no reed,No tablets, to supply his need—But Lailí's messenger had broughtThe means—and thus the maniac wrote:—'To Him who formed the starry throneOf heaven, and rules the world alone;Who, in the dark mysterious mine,Maketh the unseen diamond shine;Who thus on human life bestowsThe gem which in devotion glows;To Him be gratitude and praise,The constant theme of Moslem lays!—A burning heart, in sorrow deep,What can it do but sigh and weep?And what can this memorial bearTo thee, but wailings of despair?I am the dust beneath thy feet,Though destined never more to meet.Thy beauty is my Kába shrine,The arc of heaven, for ever mine;Garden of Irem—hid from me,The Paradise I must not see;Yet thou hast quenched my genial light;My day is now like blackest night.With fondness on thy flattering tongueThou smilest, and my heart is wrung;For those whose tongues are gentlest foundAre wont to give the deadliest wound.The lily's petals oft appearAs fatal as the sword or spear.She, whom 'twas rapture to behold,Could she be basely bought and sold?Couldst thou to me thy promise break,And spurn me for another's sake?Acting a bland deceiver's part,And solacing another's heart!But, peace!—no more of thoughts so sad,Or I shall grow intensely mad;I yearn no more those lips to press;—But is the joy of memory less?The morning-breeze thy fragrance brings;And up my heart exulting springs;Still more when I reflecting seeHow once the cup was filled by thee.O Heaven! how rapturous to receiveThat which forbids the heart to grieve;To sit with thee in amorous play,And quaff the ruby every day;To kiss those lips, all honey-dew,Of liquid bright cornelian hue!O! could I kiss them once again!The fancy fires my wildered brain.—Need I the painter's art to traceThe lineaments of thy angel face?No—they're indelibly impressedWithin my ever-faithful breast.'Tis ours, divided, to deploreScenes we can never witness more;But, though on earth denied to rest,Shall we not both in heaven be blessed?'

Majnún's distracted state was not unknownWhere to the wretched kindness could be shown;—A wealthy chieftain (Selim was his name),Whose generous deeds had won the world's acclaim;Whose heart was still on others' woes engaged—He healed their wounds, their anguish he assuaged;Raiment and various food had oft supplied,Where'er the love-lorn wanderer might abide.Mounted upon his rapid steed, one day,He sought the distant place where Majnún lay;And him at length, with placid mien, he foundBy herds of forest-beasts encompassed round.Fearful of savage natures, he retired,Till Majnún, beckoning, confidence inspired;And then, approaching near, he told his name,And recognised him, though his wasted frameSeemed an uncoffined corse. Ashamed, he said—'O let these robes thy naked body shade,These robes for thee brought hither' 'Not for me;I want no covering,—without clothes I'm free.Behold these tattered fragments, thrown aside;These once were robes, and once my foolish pride.'But, pressed again, those tatters he resumed,And sat like one to death and darkness doomed.—Now savoury viands were before him spread,But not a morsel raised he to his head;He turned him round, and, scorning the repast,To his familiars all the banquet cast.Then Selim asked—'What is thy food, my friend?Without support, thy life must quickly end.'—'My spirit's freshness, and its secret power,Come from the breeze which marks the morning-hour;Yes, every zephyr from my mistress bringsLife to the soul upon its fragrant wings;When hunger presses, from the weeping treesI gather gums, its cravings to appease;And herbs and grass, and the transparent rill,Support me in the state thou seest me still;But though thy proffered food regale not me,The beasts around enjoyed the banquetry;And if I sought on living thing to feed,Birds might be caught; but I detest the deed;And he who is contented grass to eat,Defies the world—the world is at his feet;For what can pomp, and wealth, and feasts avail?I live on grass:—but hear the Záhid's tale.

'In ancient times a king, they say,Through a wild forest took his way;And marking, as along he rode,A Záhid's desolate abode,Asked his attendants if they knewWhat the Recluse was wont to do;What was his food, and where he slept,And why remote from man he kept.—A courtier to the Zahid ran,And soon brought forth that holy man;"And wherefore dost thou pass thy daysShunning the world's inviting ways,Choosing this dismal wretched hole,Grave of the body and the soul?""I have no friends to love me—none;No power, except to live alone."Then, where his fawns in quiet fed,Took up some blades of grass, and said—"This is my food—this, want supplies!'The courtier looked with scornful eyes,And answered,—"Taste but royal food,And thou 'lt not fancy grass so good.""Indeed!" the Záhid said, and smiled,"That is a sad mistake, my child!Worldlings are still to luxury prone;To thee its sweetness is unknown;Stranger to such delicious fare,No doubt thou 'rt charmed with food more rare;"—Soon as this speech the monarch heard,Noting, attentive, every word,And wondering such a seer to meet,Fell at the pious Záhid's feet,And kissed the greensward, as he kneltWhere that contented hermit dwelt.'