There at the ruler’s feet he kissed the ground, And said to her, “O righteous queen of light, Let it be written with exactest care, That above all the Rose is beautiful, Though I through many realms have travelled I have not found a beauty like to thine.” XVII HOW THE LAMENTING NIGHTINGALE COMES TO THE GARDEN OF THE ROSE Beset with pain and sorrow of the heart And overmastered by a longing keen, The Nightingale began to utter loud His love forlorn in notes of bitterness; An ardent longing throbbed within his throat, And he was stabbed by keen misfortune’s thorn. Struck by love’s pang, like tree that feels the axe, He fell at last inanimate to earth; Fainting from wounds of love and pulseless limbs, There lay he down as if by absence slain. From songs despondent thus his love desponds, And pining grown as thin as is a hair. At last the truth was wrought into his soul That inactivity but adds to ill. So up he rose, and in fit garments clad, Set out upon his way to see his love. Love seemed to spread out pinions for his flight, O’er field and hillock bearing him along. By the discreet direction of his friend He travelled day and night in ardent love. He reached the post town of United Hearts; Thence straight he travelled to the rose garden. And now at last arrived at Gulistan, There breathed on him the fragrance of his love. And on the outside of the garden fence There came a friend who waited sedulous, A traveller, who without an hour’s delay Was hurrying from this garden to the sea. The stainless Brook, whose spirit shone in light, The pilgrim wandering to see the world. Straight from the garden of the Rose he came, His bosom clad in spotless fluttering folds, And when the Nightingale beheld him come, With eager greeting he drew near to him. The Brook a low obeisance made to him, And scanned the new-comer with eager eye. He saw it was a beggar stood before him, A beggar sick and all distraught with woe. ’Twas love had brought him to that low estate And he was branded on the brow by love, Then said the Brook, “O thou by love distraught, And bowed to earth by love and suffering, Why wearest thou this lorn and lifeless air? Does now no heart’s blood warm thy inmost veins? Who branded this love-token on thy face? Who is it laid on thee the name of love? Where is the Mecca of thy heart’s desire, Which claims thee and demands thee for itself? And what has made thee drunken by its draught? What cedar with its shadow blighted thee?”