Thus the betrothed of that lorn lover sang, In verses such as these his song of pain: “There was a wanderer, the slave of want, Who had full many a wrong endured of love, His bosom had its pain, his heart its rage; He was a dervish, cowled like any monk. By day he gave full voice to his complaint, And in the night-time watched the skies of heaven. His sole existence nowadays was love, For love alone had claimed him for its slave. And in his day of trial was his dust In love compacted, and in love absorbed: With love his very essence was compounded, In love the letter of his life was writ. And now without an object in his life, He was in love’s consuming fire inflamed. At times he sang aloud a song of love, While sighs of bitter sorrow tore his breast. He sang Ghasele, winsome youth and fair, Who drew the souls of many a neophyte By his pure mind and by his brilliant charms; A noble stripling gay, and soft of heart. His voice brought cheerfulness to every heart, His music banished sorrow far away, And when his flute-like tones swelled out amain, In every soul he kindled passion’s fire. His breathing tones sent gladness through the land, And those who heard him plainly understood. In short, he was a tender juvenal, In all things ready for some enterprise. Though beggared now, forlorn, and sick for love, He was a noble in descent and birth, Who to the winds his lands and lineage threw, And gave himself to melancholy thoughts. His coronet and throne capricious spurned, And to the power of love surrendered all. For he indeed for very love was crazed, And as a doting maniac roved the world. His talk was nothing but the voice of love, And he was named the Wandering Nightingale. With rapid foot the East Wind sped his way Like a bird messenger o’er all the world; And lo! there reached his ear a strain of love, In tones of lamentation dolorous. Arrested by the song, the East Wind stood, Long listening with delight to that refrain; For such a _chanson_ made his heart to swell, And seemed like summer fragrance in the air. Forward he hasted to behold the wight, Who was so love-struck, and so woe-begone; And said: “Thou art indeed plunged deep in love, And from love’s goblet drunken with desire. Thy voice infuses passion in the soul, Why is it that thou kindlest thus our blood? Whence didst thy song its powerful spell obtain, That thus it sets on fire the human breast? Who art thou, by what name mayst thou be called? And from what master didst thou learn thy lay? Whence came to thee this chosen lot of thine? What inspiration is it makes thy soul? What means the ecstasy that rules thy strain, And gives thy voice its overmastering charm? Thou whom such gifts transcendent glorify,