The world in dreariness and sorrow lay, The very stars were dimmed in slumber deep, And darkness would not yield before the light, And not a sign of morn was on the hills. And long and lonesome were those darkling hours Of agony, while refuge there was none. XX THE SLEEPLESS NIGHTINGALE IS TORMENTED IN THE DARK NIGHT, AND MOURNS ALOUD While he was thus oppressed with many a woe, Thus he addressed his _chanson_ to the night: “What means, O night, this dark and murkiness, Which so torments with terror every soul? Is it from absence from the loved one come, That now the moon withholds her welcome beam? Is all the radiance of the sunlight quenched? And all the circling Pleiads put to flight? Has my lament extinguished Saturn’s ray, So that his rings no longer flash their beams? Has Jupiter his happy seat forsaken Because of the unhappiness of earth? Is it that Mars has fallen by the sword, That therefore all the heavens are clothed in black? Why does the sun refuse to show his face? Is he, the fount of light, to darkness turned? Has Anahid, in hopeless apathy, Flung to the ground her lute of poesy? Is Mercury, heaven’s letter-writer, grown Black as the ink that dries upon his pen? Why does the world this face of darkness wear? Is it that my lament has brought it gloom? Why is it morning fails to show itself? Surely my _chanson_ has not held it back. Why is the night so slow in its advance? Is it that day brings absence from my love? Surely the day of resurrection dawns, When all the stars fall down upon the earth! Who has thus closed the window of the moon? And broken the golden lampstand of the sun? Is it the operation of my sighs That tinges all the earth with dismal hues? And has the dart of light forsaken heaven? And does the sky wear mourning for my woe? The constellated eagle stops his flight. Or has he flitted to the realms of gloom? Has Vega fallen, with a broken heart, Down from her pinnacle of happiness?” When he had uttered loud this lone complaint, He with his spirit thus soliloquized: “Why is it that the ruler of the world Has set me in this valley of distress? For neither to my mother nor my sire Have I been aught but minister of pain. Oh, better were it I had ne’er been born, And all my blood had flowed away like milk! So that, before I closed my eyes in sleep, Death’s sword had doomed me to forgetfulness. Or while I yet in cradle bands reposed, My life had early passed away from me. Oh, that the mother’s milk that wet my lips Had turned to poison in that very hour! Oh, that an arrow swift had struck my heart, And parted at a stroke the thread of life! Oh, that some poison-fanged and treacherous snake Had bitten me to death upon my bed! Oh, that some vulture fierce had carried me