And dwindled like the crescent of the moon, He questioned him of each particular, And of his public conduct in the past. The Bulbul called down blessings on his head, And in the dust he bowed before his face; Then he ran on in ardent passion’s tone, As a gazelle in his swift circle turns; From his sweet lips he warbled to the Shah The whole expression of his gifted heart. And as his ardent trills and mournful notes Filled with astonishment the royal mind, He owned him, in the usage of his art, A singer perfect of consummate skill. And as the monarch listened to his strain, He felt the tide of pleasure flood his heart, And said: “Oh, what an artist do I hear! Well fit to fill my bosom with delight. It is injustice to this wretched man To put him pitiless in prison cell, Because forsooth within the rose garden He sets himself as friend beside the Rose. For since this beggar is a very seer, I think he is companion for a king. Now let the Nightingale attend the Rose, And let him stay with her where’er she bide. She has no slave so faithful to her heart, So let him speak with her where’er she be.” And instantly the monarch gave command Within the rose garden to bring the bird, That he might medicine and healing bring To all the suffering of the pining Rose. The Nightingale bowed low upon the ground, With songs of benediction did he praise The king, and beamed with longing and desire, And came at length unto the rose garden. LV THE GRACIOUS EAST WIND BRINGS NEWS TO THE ROSE OF THE NIGHTINGALE’S RELEASE