THE WOUNDED NIGHTINGALE SEES THE VIOLETS, HIS COMPANIONS IN ADVERSITY; THEY APPROACH EACH OTHER, AND THE NIGHTINGALE IS SHUT UP IN A CAGE He who sets out to adorn his countenance Makes plainer the expression of his face, And thus it fell that when the Nightingale Felt his breast severed by the thorn’s assault, Far wandering from the glade of Gulistan, He traversed many a field and meadow plain. And as he thus for consolation sought, He saw a poor man in a quiet nook, Who sat in weakness and in misery, His figure bowed in deep despondency. He seemed down-trodden, blue, and broken-limbed, As is the life of those whom love has crowned. He sat in weeds of sorrow on the plain, For he was clad in robes of mourning blue, His head sank low upon the mossy sod, As if his mind wandered beyond the world. He breathed the fragrant love breath of the grove, His cup was filled with wine of suffering. He had a tongue which never uttered sound, ’Twas oft thrust out from very weariness. And since he filled his vials with his tears, They called him in the garden violet. The wounded Nightingale accosted him, Beholding one all destitute of strength, But he was overcome with hopeless love, His frame convulsed with suffering and dismay. Here Bulbul found a comrade in distress, And with a question tried to hearten him, And said: “My friend, what has befallen thee? How is it love has dealt so hard with thee? I see, thou art a worthy slave of love, From which thou art so weak and overwrought. What is it in thy mind which makes thee sigh? Pilgrim, why wearest thou this mourning blue? Is it that thy beloved has done thee wrong? Or has a rival stepped into thy place? For grief has bent thee double by its load, And all thy soul is out tune through grief. Who is it that has flung thee to the dust? Who is it gave thee to be rapine’s sport? The feet of men have trod thee to the ground, As a poor weakling in the gay parterre. Was it the loved one pierced thee to the soul? Or is it that a rival tortures thee? Say, wretched one, what ails thee, for thy pain, Binds thee at once in kinship with my heart.” He noticed how the violet, weak in speech, With stammering tongue at length replied to him, “I, too, am wounded by the darts of love, And thus my case is witness to thy wit, ’Tis love that bows my bosom to the dust, ’Tis grief that thus has flung me to the earth. For oh, my soul has taken the fire of love, I burn for satisfaction and relief. The breath which from my lips forever comes Has tinged my raiment with this mournful blue, And longing for the Rose has done to death. Absence from her has thus afflicted me; ’Tis love that makes me grovel in the dust. And in this guise I traverse all the world. I am tormented by the pangs of love,