To its lone eyrie in the heights of Kaf! And when the soft hand of a mother dear Arrayed her infant in the richest robes, Oh, that some sturdy robber of the road, For love of all my gold and finery, Had without pity drawn his rapier keen And from my shoulders struck my head to earth! Why does the world refrain from setting me, As its great foe, ’mid perils and mishaps? Why is it this calamity of woe Has failed to cleave my bosom unawares?” As thus he sang aloud his dolorous lay, The moon came out upon the clearing sky, And when he looked on heaven’s expanded field, Thus he addressed the goddess of the night. XXI THE NIGHTINGALE IN HIS AMOROUS PAIN ANXIOUSLY ADDRESSES THE RADIANT MOON He sang in agony, “O radiant moon, That fillest all the welkin with thy light, Dost thou in some bright sun thy mansion find, Whence thou derivest thine enraptured beam? And hast thou thence a borrowed splendor gained, With which to fill the world thou gazest on? The darkness that is dense and hideous Turns at thy coming into splendor clear. Leave me not comfortless this whole night long, But guide me to my darling’s wakeful bower. To me, a wanderer on the rough highway, Be guide and leader on a path direct. And, when thou movest in thine orbit blest, Let thy light flow like some enchanting lay. Thou art indeed the glowing sun of night, Flinging o’er heaven the light flecks of thy face. Oh, cast thy radiance on this friend of thine, Who wanders with no sunshine in his life. Be to the poor, who consolation need, The balm for every wound ’neath which they faint. One glance of thine has power to dissipate The fevered pangs of sufferance in the poor. Needy and friendless and of all forlorn, Fit object he of thy consoling aid. And since his sorrows are beyond compare, And with no changing breath he bears thee love, And since his love to thee is reckoned crime, Do thou absolve him of his guiltiness. For if thou turn thee from a beggar’s path, Before the people thou shalt blush with shame. When men rebuke him, and blot out his name, Or make his name forgotten by his kind, If thou at last become averse to him, There is no hope of pity for his soul.” While the poor lover thus his mourning made, The welkin sparkled with the glance of day. XXII THE LOVESICK NIGHTINGALE ACCOSTS THE RISEN MORNING IN A CLEAR AND FITTING MANNER