The bridegroom, joyous, rose to see
The bride equipp'd as bride should be:
The litter, and the golden throne,
Prepared for her to rest upon :
But what avails the tenderest care,
The fondest love, when dark despair
And utter hatred fill the breast
Of her to whom that fondness is address'd? Quickly her sharp disdain the bridegroom feels, And from her scornful presence shrinks and reels :
A solemn oath she takes, and cries,
With frenzy flashing from her eyes, -
"Hop'st thou I ever shall be thine?
It is my father's will, not mine!
Rather than be that thing abhorr'd,
My life-blood shall distain thy sword.
Away! nor longer seek to gain
A heart foredoom'd to endless pain;
A heart, no power of thine can move;
A bleeding heart, which scorns thy love!"
When Ibn Salám her frenzied look beheld,
And heard her vows, his cherish'd hopes were quell'd.
He soon perceived what art had been employ'd,-
All his bright visions faded and destroy'd;-
And found, when love has turn'd a maiden's brain,
Father and mother urge their power in vain.
The Arab poets who rehearse
Their legends in imperishable verse,
Say, when Majnún these tidings knew,
More wild, more moody wild, he grew;
Raving through wood and mountain glen;
Flying still more the haunts of men.
Sudden a perfume, grateful to the soul,
O'er his awaken'd senses stole.
He thought from Lailí's fragrant couch it came,
And filled with joy his wearied frame.
Ecstatic with the unexpected pleasure,
The fond memorial of his dearest treasure,
He sank upon the ground, beneath the shade
Of a broad palm, in senseless torpor laid.
A stranger, quickly passing by,
Observed the love-lorn wanderer lie
Sleeping, or dead, and check'd his camel's pace
To mark the features of his face.
Loud roaring, like a demon, he awoke
The maniac from his trance, and gaily spoke :-
"Up, up, thou sluggard! up and see,
What thy heart's-ease has done for thee!
Better drive feeling from thy mind,
Since there's no faith in womankind:
Better be idle, than employ'd
In fruitless toil; better avoid
A mistress, though of form divine,
If she be fair and false as thine!
They 've given her charms to one as young-
The bride-veil o'er her brow is flung:
Close, side by side, from morn till night,
Kissing and dalliance their delight;
Whilst thou from human solace flying,
With unrequited love art dying.
-Distant from her adorer's view,
One in a thousand may be true:
The pen which writes, as if it knew
A woman's promise, splits in two.
While in another's warm embrace,
No witness to thy own disgrace,
Faithless, she wastes no thought on thee,
Wrapp'd in her own felicity.
Woman's desire is more intense
Than man's-more exquisite her sense;
But, never blinded by her flame,
Gain and fruition are her aim,
A woman's love is selfish all;
Possessions, wealth, secure her fall.
How many false and cruel prove,
And not one faithful in her love!
A contradiction is her life;
Without, all peace; within, all strife ;
A dangerous friend, a fatal foe,
Prime breeder of a world of woe.
When we are joyous, she is sad;
When deep in sorrow, she is glad.
Such is the life a woman leads,
And in her sorcery still succeeds."
These words confused the lover's brain; Fire ran through every swelling vein : Frantic he dash'd his forehead on the ground, And blood flow'd trickling from the ghastly wound. "What added curse is this?" he groaning said,"Another tempest, roaring round my head!"
Whenever did a bleeding heart
Betray no sign of blighted reason?
Can the most skilful gardener's art
Still keep his flowers or fruit in season ?
No; hearts dissolved in grief give birth
To madness, as the teeming earth
Yields herbs; and yet bewilder'd mind,
To all but one bright object blind,
Suffers no censure from the seer
Who guides the faithful Moslem here.
Love sanctifies the erring thought,
And Heaven forgives the deed by frenzy wrought.
"A rose, a lovely rose, I found,
With thorns and briers encompass'd round;
And, struggling to possess that prize,
The gardener in his wrath denies,
Behold my heart, all torn and bleeding,
Its pangs all other pangs exceeding:
I see the leaves expand and bloom,
I smell its exquisite perfume;
Its color, blushing in the light,
Gives to my raptured soul delight:
I weep beneath the cypress-tree,
And still the rose is not for me.
Alas! none hear, nor mark my moan;
Pride of my soul, my rose, is gone!
Another has, in open day,
Borne the heart-winning prize away.
Though wrapp'd in sweetest innocence,
The fell oppressor snatch'd her thence.
But who deserves the curse that's sped
Upon the foul betrayer's head?
The gardener, in his lust for gold,
That rose-the boast of Irem-sold.
"Poor wretch! if worlds of wealth were mine,
Full willingly I'd make them thine;
But not a dirhem for that rose,
The fatal cause of all my woes.
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