Be thou discreet, thy thoughts employ,
The world's inviting pomp enjoy.-
In search of wealth from day to day
Love's useless passion dies away;
The sensual make disease their guest,
And nourish scorpions in their breast.
And is thy heart so worthless grown,
To be the cruel sport of one?
Keep it from woman's scathe, and still
Obedient to thy own free will,
And mindful of a parent's voice,
Make him, and not thy foes, rejoice."
Majnún replied:-"My father!—father still!—
My power is gone; I cannot change my will:
The moral counsel thou hast given to me,
(To one who cannot from his bondage flee,)
Avails me nothing. "Tis no choice of mine,
But Fate's decree, that I should thus repine:
Stand I alone? Look round, on every side
Are broken hearts, by sternest fortune tried:
Shadows are not self-made-the silver moon
Is not self-station'd, but the Almighty's boon.
From the huge elephant's stupendous form,
To that of the poor ant, the smallest worm,
Through every grade of life, all power is given,
All joy or anguish by the Lord of Heaven.
I sought not, I, misfortune-but it came
I sought not fire, yet is my heart all flame:
They ask me why I never laugh nor smile,
Though laughter be no sign of sense the while.
If I should laugh in merry mood, a-gape,
Amidst my mirth some secret might escape.
-A partridge seized an ant, resolved to kill
The feeble creature with his horny bill;
When, laughing loud, the ant exclaimed-Alas!
A partridge thou! and art thou such an ass ?
I'm but a gnat, and dost thou think to float
A gnat's slight filmy texture down thy throat?'
The partridge laugh'd at this unusual sound,
And, laughing, dropp'd the ant upon the ground.
Thus he who idly laughs will always find
Some grief succeed-'tis so with all mankind.
The stupid partridge, laughing, droop'd his crest,
And by that folly lost what he possess'd.
-This poor old drudge, which bears its heavy load,
Must all life long endure the same rough road;
No joy for him, in mortal aid no trust,
No rest till death consigns him to the dust."
Here paused the youth, and wept; and now
The household smooth his furrow'd brow,
And with unceasing eagerness
Seek to remove his soul's distress.
But grief, corroding grief, allows no space
For quiet thoughts; his wounds break out anew; His kindred every change of feature trace,
And unavailing tears their cheeks bedew; A deeper, keener anguish marks his face; His faded form so haggard to the view; Useless the task his sorrows to remove,
For who can free the heart from love, unchanging love?
Few days had pass'd, when, frantic grown,
He burst from his domestic prison,
And in the desert wild, alone,
Pour'd, like the morning bird, new risen, His ardent lay of love. Not long
The mountains echoed with his song,
Ere, drawn by sounds so sweet and clear,
A crowd of listeners hover'd near :
They saw him, tall as cypress, stand,
A rocky fragment in his hand;
A purple sash his waist around,
His legs with links of iron bound;
Yet, unencumber'd was his gait;
They only show'd his maniac state.
Wandering he reach'd a spot of ground,
With palmy groves and poplars crown'd;
A lively scene it was to view,
Where flowers too bloom'd of every hue;
Starting, he saw the axe applied
To a cypress-tree-and thus he cried :-
"Gardener! did ever love thy heart control?
Was ever woman mistress of thy soul?
When joy has thrill'd through every glowing nerve,
Hadst thou no wish that feeling to preserve?
Does not a woman's love delight, entrance,
And every blessing fortune yields enhance?
Then stop that lifted hand, the stroke suspend,
Spare, spare the cypress-tree, and be my friend!
And why? Look there, and be forewarn'd by me,
"Tis Laili's form, all grace and majesty;
Wouldst thou root up resemblance so complete,
And lay its branches withering at thy feet?
What! Laili's form? no; spare the cypress-tree;
Let it remain, still beautiful and free;
Yes, let my prayers thy kindliest feelings move,
And save the graceful shape of her I love!"
—The gardener dropp'd his axe, o'ercome with shame, And left the tree to bloom, and speak of Laili's fame. 720
Lailí in beauty, softness, grace,
Surpass'd the loveliest of her race;
She was a fresh and odorous flower,
Pluck'd by a fairy from her bower;
With heart-delighting rosebuds blooming,
The welcome breeze of spring perfuming.
The killing witchery that lies
In her soft, black, delicious eyes,
When gather'd in one amorous glance,
Pierces the heart, like sword or lance;
The prey that falls into her snare,
For life must mourn and struggle there:
Her eyelash speaks a thousand blisses,
Her lips of ruby ask for kisses;
Soft lips where sugar-sweetness dwells,
Sweet as the bee-hive's honey-cells;
Her cheeks, so beautiful and bright,
Had stole the moon's refulgent light;
Her form the cypress-tree expresses,
And full and ripe invites caresses;
With all these charms the heart to win,
There was a careless grief within —
Yet none beheld her grief, or heard;
She droop'd like broken-winged bird.
Her secret thoughts her love concealing,
But, softly to the terrace stealing,
From morn to eve she gazed around,
In hopes her Majnún might be found,
Wandering in sight. For she had none
To sympathise with her-not one!
None to compassionate her woes—
In dread of rivals, friends, and foes;
And though she smiled, her mind's distress
Fill'd all her thoughts with bitterness;
|