And when the Rose these tidings had received She said: “Alas! him genius has endowed, Poor, wretched one, with melody of pain! Long has he lived devoted to my love, And many pains and anguish has he borne Because he cannot look upon my face. Yet since this mendicant is so forlorn, And so overwrought by his melodious pain, ’Tis time that I his disposition learn, And pay a visit to the lonely one. ’Tis duty bids us go and cheer the sick; And my great duty now concerns this bird. Come, thou East Wind, that cheerest earthly hearts, Point me the way unto his dwelling-place. ’Tis thine to bring the wandering outcast joy, And free him from the barriers of the cage.” Approvingly the Wind of East replied: “Thou, who, like gold, has stood the test of time, Long mayst thou all the bliss of life enjoy, And in both worlds mayst thou find happiness. Now it is time that thou shouldst yonder wretch Console in pity ere he breathe his last.” The graceful Rose straightway her journey took, And to the Nightingale her course she bent. And while the Nightingale his theme pursued, And still in disappointed ardor pined, His heart swelled high with tidings of delight, When all was told him of the Rose’s word. With full dependence on the grace of God, He decked himself in radiant array, And he bethought himself that he would be Like sunlight shining in the motes of earth; So should his face the happy sunlight show, When ’mid the stars the day god shines on high, And day has reached the zenith of the noon, And the orbed moon with its full radiance shines. And now the Rose to visit him appeared, And asked him the condition of his life. She saw him quite o’ermastered and undone, And all his strength by adverse fortune broken. And when she saw him, she astonished stood, And through astonishment was motionless. Soon as the Nightingale set eyes on her, He recommenced his melancholy song, And fainting, fell through passion to the ground, And motionless he lay from wounds of pain. He closed his eyes and to the dust he pressed His cheeks, by tears of absence long grown pale; While ardent passion through his bosom flamed. Like to a suppliant he lay grovelling there, And said: “O God, what dream is this I see? Am I transported into fancy’s realm, So that the sun of happiness shines out, And I behold the lustre of the moon? That happiness at last descends to me; And that the moon her face through tempests shows; That my disasters have an end at last; That exile in reunion comes to end; That healing falls upon the wounds of pain; And that my heart the balm of mercy meets?” While thus the bird in languishment reclined, The Rose regarded him with tenderness; And there was naught for him but kindly thought;