“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.” The scorn of the father’s reply had been, if possible, more bitter than the insulting demand, and Syd Omri turned indignantly to his followers and ordered the homeward march. The desert fates were stern, and “When Majnūn saw his hopes decay, Their fairest blossoms fade away, And friends and sire who might have been Kind intercessors, rush between Him and the only wish that shed One ray of comfort round his head, He beat his hands, his garments tore, He cast his fetters on the floor In broken fragments, and in wrath Sought the dark wilderness’s path, And there he wept and sobbed aloud, Unnoticed by the gazing crowd.” The kinsmen of Lailī brought to the encampment the news that a youth, insane and wild, was haunting the desert wastes below the mountain, and the fair Lailī blushed when she heard the tidings, but dared not venture forth to meet her maniac lover. The Arab chief swore vengeance against the hapless youth, and ordered his followers to slay him in the desert. The father of Majnūn heard of the cruel decree and sent his own followers into the wilderness to rescue his son.... Again and again he was carried to his father’s home, and as frequently he made his escape, always wandering, with unerring instinct, near to his beloved. “Lailī in beauty, softness, grace, Surpassed the loveliest of her race. The killing witchery that lies In her soft, black, delicious eyes— Her lashes speak a thousand blisses Her lips of ruby ask for kisses; Her cheeks, so beautiful and bright, Have caught the moon’s refulgent light; Her form the Cypress tree expresses, And full and plump, invites caresses. With all these charms, the heart to win, There was a ceaseless grief within,— Yet none beheld her grief, or heard, She droop’d like broken-winged bird. Her secret thoughts, her love concealing, But softly to the terrace stealing From morn to eve, she gazed around In hopes her Majnūn might be found.”