As the world’s bride these words of anger spake, Narcissus went the Bulbul to rebuke, And said: “What means this elegy of woe? How is it thou hast fallen on lot so black? What wit, what manners, canst thou boast to have Who weepest in this paradise of heaven? Thou, in the lap of misery born and bred, Has added shamelessness to suffering. Thy utterances have wakened up the flowers, And robbed of sleep the eyelids of our queen. How is it fitting that a beggar-man, Should join a princess in delight of love? Our Princess Rose is from her chamber come, And filled with mighty anger at thy words. She says: ‘The varlet must bethink himself, And ne’er again so boldly speak my name. He has his secret to the world proclaimed, And made my name a byword among men. My name, through him, all babbling tongues shall speak, Who makes me figure as his night-long prize: Now let him check the clamor of his song, Or I will meet him with avenging wrath. Let him consort with those who share his lot, Else will my anger fall upon his head. My name no longer on his lips be found, And from his memory let my image fade. For now he is arousing naught but wrath, And evil will befall him at the last.’” ’Twas thus Narcissus freely spoke to him And with a sigh the Nightingale replied; And, while he dared no longer sing aloud, His silent sighs were rising in his heart. He sickened under separation’s pang, He stood aghast, amazed, and faint in heart; And now Narcissus backward took his way, And left him lying like a lifeless clod. His heart was raging with a furious heat, Wrapt in the flaming whirlpool of its pangs. The pain of separation made him dumb; And all unconscious to the ground he fell; Long time he lay as he were drunk with wine, As if his love were quenched in longings vain. At last his senses came again to him, As he looked forth, his eyes were drowned in tears. He then resolves he will renew his lay, If only he be equal to the task. So all the day in solitude he sighs, And patiently endures his hapless plight. Yet keeps he silent and no longer sings, And no man knows the suffering he endured. XXVII THE EAST WIND MEETS THE WANDERING NIGHTINGALE AND BRINGS HIM TIDINGS FROM THE TENDER ROSE