Speak, Nightingale, thy accents utter clear, And from thy secret haunt reveal thyself; Thou knowest full well the meaning that lies hid Within the rose-bed of the inmost mind. Long hast thou tarried, silent as a bud; Breathe out the meditation of the Rose, Let thy voice warble in the voice of love A song instinct with love’s own melody. So sweet that Sohre, when thy lay is heard, The lute shall fling in anger to the ground. And thus the Nightingale in Gulistan Began, with song, her legendary tale. Once, in the ancient days that long are past, Over a country pleasant above all, There lived a shah, the reigning king of Kum, And he was gracious, mild, and liberal. Good fortune followed every step he took; And he was fair in manner as in face. In every action was he moderate; And all his deeds were welcome to the folk. Pure was his mind, his lineage starred by fame; He drew all hearts by ruth and tenderness; He was a monarch of a high descent; They named him Springtime, for his look was spring. The earth he cheered, as if with vernal showers, His presence was a breath of paradise; Far famed for grandeur and for graciousness, For strictest justice bore he wide renown. His sovereign word flew wider than the wind, And poured its torrents like a foaming stream, Refreshing by its very righteousness, Like balmy eastern breezes, earth and time. For when he spoke, men heard no other sound, But his. So sang the happy Nightingale. And no man from the scabbard drew his sword; Even the sword-lily vanished from the heath; And never pointed weapon made a wound, Except the thorns that pierce the bulbul’s breast. And not a crown was ravished against right; And the east wind the tulip’s circlet spared. Though earth were mantled with a host of green, A leafy company that none may count, ’Twere easier far to number forest leaves Than count the flowers that in his palace grew. Like to a guard-troop, helmeted with gold, Narcissus flowers were ranged in countless bands; With lips and beakers blushing ruby red, The lovely flowers as cup-bearers attend; The lilies stand full-armed like sentinels, Mail clad in steely green, with flashing sword. There many cypresses toss high their heads, And verdant banners thickly cover them. From the high walls a shower of thorns is shot, As lances hurtle, and lay lions low. Ambassadors in crowds, from east and west, Bring crowns to him, and eager tribute yield-- Jewels that blaze like planets of the sky, And gems the prize of fortune’s brightest hour. Within his grove he has a stately rose. The grace of God is watching over it; And he is happy in a daughter fair, Who, like the rose-bush, beautifies the world. Her name is Rose, though she is still a bud--