Just when the sun of full fruition dawned, An obstacle that instant rose to sight. Oft the possessor of a faithful friend Is rescued from the clutches of despair, The Rose is circled round with many a thorn, And where the treasure lies do serpents coil. And where a friend appears to cheer the heart A foeman also rises to oppose, A cruel foe had thus appointed been To take his stand as guardian of the Rose. The royal watchman of her Majesty, Her careful master at her beck and call, Tyrannical, in nature envious, Evil in mind, rejoicing to give pain. Whose nod was dreadful as the cast of spears, Whose eyelashes were terrible as darts. He ever stood with dagger at his belt And in his hand the deadly partisan; Like Mars on guard within some prison-house, Armed was he on each limb with knife and spear, And he who merely offered him his hand Was ripped and mangled to the very quick. His every deed was full of rancorous wrath, And in the rose-garden his name was Thorn. The hyacinth fell in with him that day In her attempt to oust the Nightingale. And by the thorn she thought to bring him bane, And kept this secret in her darkling breast, That from the pleasant shades of Gulistan Bulbul might banished be for evermore. The hyacinth, in many an intrigue versed, Thus full of rage approached the deadly thorn, And said: “O thou, what dost thou rage for now? Hast thou no sense of honor and no pride? For in this rose garden a rover stands, A lover of the Rose, a noisy wight, A wanton fool, inspired by jealous whim, Who desecrates the Rose’s queenly name. But he is shameless, without reverence, And talks the whole night long of naught but love. Can it be possible, that such as he Is taken up with passion for the Rose? That he by sighing and by songs of love Should take the fair name of our queen away? That he should choose her name to be the theme Of common babble in the market-place? The Rose through him will now be scandal’s theme, And round the world will men revile the Rose. This vagabond hath thus behaved himself And many a lying vow has breathed to her. I fear that by his reckless impudence Her noble name at last may suffer loss. Soon as the thorn these treacherous tidings heard Each hair upon his head became a sword, And the assassin thorn spake full of wrath: “God blame thee for a worthless loon! And why Didst thou not long ere this the vagabond In fetters bind, a prisoner on the spot, And put the chain of serfdom round his neck, And lock him fast within the prison hold?” She answered: “Though I have not fettered him, Yet have I reasoned with him many times. My council yet was bootless to the churl, He answered every word with repartee.” The thorn replied: “Point out the wretch to me,