Consume me not with separation’s flame, Give me enjoyment’s happiness supreme; Oh, softly warm her frozen heart for me, And soften it with gentlest influence; Pour out thy balm of pity in her heart, That so my pain at last may be allayed.” XXV THE BEAUTEOUS ROSE HEARS THE VOICE OF THE NIGHTINGALE, AND WHILE SHE FEELS AN INWARD DELIGHT IN IT, SHE PUTS ON AN AIR OF RESERVE AND DISDAIN And while the Nightingale his lay prolongs, And offers up his orisons to God, The Rose in slumber suddenly perceived A wondrous strain of music in the air; Upon her listening ear there stole a strain Which gave the joy of passion to her heart. And as she heard the amorous Nightingale She asked: “What sound of music do I hear? How does the spirit of life pervade the song! Who is it that is uttering the lay? Ah, what a songster, a musician, he! A songster and a hierophant in one. Has Venus come from heaven to visit us, And pour such floods of melody on earth?” And then that she might hear the truth aright, She called Narcissus to investigate. And soon as he appeared at her behest, She said, “O thou, our circle’s watchful eye, I heard but now a burst of music rare. Who is it that can boast such gift of song? The soul so fondly feeds upon that sound, That it is rapt in utter ecstasy. Go forth and seek and hither bring me word, What craftsman is it that so sweetly sings? Did he descend from heaven, like the dew? Or did he spring, like tulip, from the mead? Go, question make, and learn whence came the sound, And what the singer’s name and place of birth. Dear friend, inquiries strict and searching make, And bring to me the answer that you find.” Then said Narcissus: “’Tis with vast delight, I go to learn what you have asked of me; So soon as I his countenance behold I shall his character at once discern.” So at that very hour Narcissus went, To fetch her information of the bird. He found at last the outcast miserable, That with the Cypress tree stood hand in hand, And night and day his dolorous chanson poured, And told his ardent passion to the world. He questioned graciously the Cypress tree, And learned the true condition of the bird. He learned the Nightingale was amorous, And deeply troubled with the pang of love. And to the Rose returning, told her all-- His name, and in what mournful plight he lay. He was a wretch, he said, of reason reft, Consumed forever with the flame of love. An exile, whom his passion had inspired To rove in distant land from shore to shore. He now had come at last upon his way To lay his heart submissive at her feet. A creature full of virtuous qualities, And all accomplished in the tuneful art. Soon as the Rose had heard this narrative, Her heart was filled with secret joyfulness.