The letter thus began, “Now praise to God, A thousand greetings to his prophets be!” Then she continued: “O thou wanderer wild, O sick at heart that knowest no medicine, ’Tis love that has encumbered all thy life And bound thee up in this distraction’s coil. How is it that the misery of thy love And separation has so altered thee? How should my absence so affect thy heart, And what concern is my heart’s love to thee? Does separation’s knife thy spirit wound, And has concupiscence thy heart inflamed? And are thy eyes still wet with bitter tears, And sorrow, does it desolate thy soul? What ails thee, friend? Art thou not well in health? Or art thou always languishing in pain? Art thou of me so fiercely amorous That thou thus hastenest to enjoy my love? I see, poor wretch, that misery drives thee so, That I from sympathy must faithful be. ’Tis time that I obedient to thy need Should be, and thou shouldst take me for a friend. That I should yield my beauty to thy hand So long as thou art worthy of the gift. Thou hast so long been separation’s slave, Thou now should be fruition’s honored king. Long hast thou drunk dark separation’s draught. Now pledge me in enjoyment’s nectary cup. He who is bold upon the path of love Deserves to see his loved one face to face. Be happy, then, thy pain is ended now, The day of full fruition has arrived.” While thus the pen went over the lettered page, She closed the brief epistle with a kiss, Then gave it to the messenger, and so Let him who wept and sorrowed now rejoice. Into his hand the letter Sandbach took, The letter that should cheer the Nightingale, And said: “I bring to thee good news of joy, No more the wretch may sighing pass his hours, Now has happiness awoke from sleep And on the joyless now has joy bestowed.” With eagerness he gave to him the note. “The Lord is very merciful,” he said, “For after absence oft fruition comes. Cease, then, the clamor of thy lack-a-day.” Soon as the Nightingale the tidings heard He was beside himself from keen desire. He kissed the letter, read it with his eyes, Then opened it and closed it up again. He said: “The letter is an amulet, A written patent from the grace of God, A letter of reprieve in God’s own name, Of liberation from despair and grief.” And as the Nightingale the letter read The cry of ardent passion burst from him, A flood of inspiration seized his soul-- He worshipped every cipher one by one, He thanked the Lord with loud hilarity, And with a burst of gladness praised the pen The soul of all those letters gave to him, Fresh life supplanting now the death of love. His keen desire inspired his throbbing throat, And he could nothing sing but of the Rose. XXXIII