And all the while he gave himself to grief, Turning aside from such strange festival. Then he began to sigh and make lament And utter all his sorrows to the world. His very form was fashioned like a lute, From which is stricken note by note the strain. His bosom throbbed like some sweet sorrow lute, His voice was like some lute’s desponding lay, He fluted his love anguish in the crowd, As if his heart gave voice to its desire. He sighed and sobbed with his loud “Lack-a-day,” And burned like incense in some shrine of love. And while the Rose in pleasure’s throng was gay, Poor Bulbul pined in his misfortune’s gloom. The Rose drank deep amid her favorites, Poor Bulbul languished in his song of pain; And so went by full many days that brought Joy to the Rose and sorrow to the bird. XXX THE FAR-WANDERING NIGHTINGALE FINDS NO HEALING FOR HIS PAIN, AND AT LAST WRITES A LETTER TO MAKE KNOWN HIS PLIGHT For a long time bewailed the Nightingale His agony in many a tender trill, And yet the Rose came never into view, And never saw one sparkle of the truth. He never saw her in his view appear, She never mentioned with her voice his name. The bird continued in his constancy, And her approach was ever far away. She had no true acquaintance with his grief, Though patience still was torture to his breast. Then said to him at last the fool of love, “Why is it that I do not write to her? I cannot speak to others my lament, I will to her myself my plight explain; I will the sufferings which o’erflow my heart And all my agony recount to her. My eyelashes shall serve me for a pen And from mine eyes I will my ink distil; The tears which drip like blood beneath my lids Are ink enough to write my love letter.” With pain he took the pen into his hand And wrote his letter with a bleeding heart. Praise formed the exordium of this love-letter, Praise both of God and of the prophets blest. Then said he: “O beloved of my heart, Thou uncompassionate of those who love, Is there no end to thy prevailing charm? Is there no end to my surpassing pain? Is thy hard-heartedness persistent still? And is thy love enchantment without bound? Is it indeed the custom of the fair That their great beauty should be pitiless? Oh, leave thine hardness, prayers of love regard, Look on the desolation of my heart. If lovely things were ever obdurate, Still might they with their hardness feel desire; Let not this soul in ardent passion faint, And this cleft bosom perish in its fire. From keen desire by night and day I mourn, My bosom and my eyes are wrought with grief. The sword of agony has pierced me through And altered quite the habit of my mind, For patience I no longer have the strength, Nor can I longer separation bear.