What friend could wish me to resign
A love so pure, so true as mine?
What, though I like a taper burn,
And almost to a shadow turn,
I envy not the heart that's free
Love's soul-encircling chains for me!"
The love that springs from Heaven is bless'd;
Unholy passions stain the rest;
That is not love: wild fancy's birth,
Which lives on change, is constant never:
But Majnún's love was not of earth,
Glowing with heavenly truth for ever;
An earthly object raised the flame,
But 'twas from Heaven the inspiration came.
In silent sorrow the aged sire
Found all his cares were vain;
And back to his expecting tribe
Address'd his steps again;
For Mecca had no power to cool
The lover's burning brain;
No consolation, no relief
For the old man's heart-consuming grief.
Sweet Laili's kinsmen now describe
To the haughty chieftain of their tribe,
A youth amidst the desert seen,
In strange attire, of frantic mien;
His arms outstretch'd, his head all bare,
And floating loose his clustering hair :
“In a distracted mood," they say—
"He wanders hither every day;
And often, with fantastic bound,
Dances, or prostrate hugs the ground;
Or, in a voice the soul to move,
Warbles the melting songs of love;
Songs which, when breathed in tones so true,
A thousand hearts at once subdue.
He speaks-and all who listen hear
Words which they hold in memory dear;
And we and thine endure the shame,
And Laili blushes at his name."
And now the chieftain, roused to wrath,
Threatens to cross the maniac's path.
But, haply, to prevent that barbarous deed,
To Omri's palmy groves the tidings flew,
And soon the father sends a chosen few
To seek the lost one. Promptly they proceed
O'er open plain and thicket deep,
Embowering glen and rocky steep,
Exploring with unwearied eye
Wherever man might pass or lie,
O'ercome by grief or death. In vain
Their sight on every side they strain,
No Majnún's voice, nor form, to cheer
Their anxious hearts; but far and near
The yell of prowling beasts they hear.
Mournful they deem him lost or dead,
And tears of bitterest anguish shed.
But he, the wanderer from his home,
Found not from beasts a living tomb;
His passion's pure and holy flame
Their native fierceness seem'd to tame;
Tiger and ravenous wolf pass'd by him,
The fell hyena came not nigh him ;
As if, ferocious spirits to quell,
His form had been invisible,
Or bore a life-protecting spell.
Upon a fountain emerald brink
Majnún had stoop'd its lucid wave to drink;
And his despairing friends descried
Him laid along that murmuring fountain's side, 560
Wailing his sorrows still; his feeble voice
Dwelt, ever dwelt, upon his heart's sole choice.
A wild emotion trembled in his eye,
His bosom wrung with many a deep-drawn sigh;
And groans, and tears, and music's softest lay,
Successive mark'd his melancholy day.
-Now he is stretch'd along the burning sand,
A stone his pillow-now, upraised his hand,
He breathes a prayer for Lailí, and again
The desert echoes with some mournful strain.
As wine deprives us of the sense we boast,
So reason in love's maddening draughts is lost.
Restored to home again, he dreads to meet
His father's frowns, and bends to kiss his feet;
Then, gazing wildly, rises up, and speaks,
And in a piteous tone forgiveness seeks:-
"Sad is my fate, o'ercast my youthful morn,
My rose's leaves, my life's sweet buds are torn ;
I sit in darkness, ashes o'er my head,
To all the world's alluring pleasures dead;
For me what poor excuse can soothe thy mind?
But thou 'rt my father still-O still be kind!"
Syd Omri his unchanged affection proved,
And, folding to his breast the child he loved,
Exclaim'd:-" My boy! I grieve to mark
Thy reason erring still, and dark;
A fire consuming every thread
Of which thy thrilling nerves are made.
Sit down, and from thy eyesight tear
The poisonous thorn that rankles there:
'Tis best we should to mirth incline,
But let it not be raised by wine:
"Tis well desire should fill the breast;
Not such desire as breaks our rest.
Remain not under grief's control,
Nor taunt of foe which stings the soul;
Let wisdom every movement guide;
Error but swells affliction's tide;
Though love hath set thee all on fire,
And thy heart burns with still unquench'd desire, 600
Despair not of a remedy;
From seedling springs the shady tree;
From hope continued follows gladness,
Which dull despair had lost in sadness;
Associate with the wealthy, they
Will show to glittering wealth the way;
A wanderer never gathers store,
Be thou a wanderer now no more.
Wealth opens every door, and gives
Command, and homage still receives :
Be patient then, and patience will
By slow degrees thy coffers fill.
That river rolling deep and broad,
Once but a narrow streamlet flow'd;
That lofty mountain, now in view,
Its height from small beginnings drew.
He who impatient hurries on,
Hoping for gems, obtains a stone;
Shrewdness and cunning gain the prize,
While wisdom's self unprosperous lies:
The fox of crafty subtle mind
Leaves the wolf's dulness far behind;
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