“To hope, dear wanderer, revive; Lo Zemzems,[265] cool and bright, Flow at thy feet—then drink and live Seared heart! be glad for bounteous heaven At length our recompense hath given, Beloved one, tell me all thy will And know thy Lailī faithful still. Here in this desert, join our hands, Our souls were joined long, long before; And if our fate such doom demands, Together wander evermore. Oh Kais! never let us part, What is the world to thee and me? My universe is where thou art And is not Lailī all to thee?” The tempted lover listened, with his soul in his longing eyes, but he knew that he could not make her his wife according to the Arab law—they could not be legally wedded, and his love for her was too pure and unselfish to accept the sacrifice that she proposed to make. To him, then, was given the hardest task ever given into lover’s hands—that of saving the woman that he worshipped from his own embrace. After the years of suffering that had been his, could he push the tempting cup from his thirsting lip? Was the weakened frame strong enough to carry out the dictates of his will? Nay, did God require such a sacrifice after all these years of loyalty and truth? Were they not already wedded in his pure sight? Had she not always been his own in the eyes of heaven? These questions surged through his throbbing brain as he held the woman he loved in his close embrace. One sweet taste of heaven, surely the Lord had given, in the desert of his wasted life—one moment of bliss wherein he might taste the lips he had hungered for, so long. But should he therefore outrage his own conscience, and sacrifice the woman he loved, for the temporary enjoyment of the present life? His manhood and his conscience answered, never. He clasped her closer to his aching heart—he kissed again the tempting lips—his eyes lingered with one long sad look upon the lovely face, and then he slowly answered: “How well, how fatally I love, My madness and my misery prove; All earthly hopes I could resign— Nay, life itself, to call thee mine. But shall I make thy spotless name— That sacred spell—a word of shame? Shall selfish Majnūn’s heart be blest And Lailī prove the Arab’s jest? The city’s gates though we may close We cannot still our conscience’s throes. No—we have met,—a moment’s bliss Has dawned upon my gloom in vain Life yields no more a joy like this, And all to come can be but pain.