Arabian Nights

Proclaim your high supremest might;

The tear-drop railing adown my cheek

Telleth my tale of ignomy:

And all the hid was seen by all

And all my riddle ree’d aright

Heal then my malady, for thou

Art malady and remedy!

But she whose cure is in thy hand

Shall ne’er be free of bane and blight;

Burn me those eyne that radiance rain

Slay me the swords of phantasy:

How many hath the sword of Love

Laid low, their high degree despite?

Yet will I never cease to pine

Nor to oblivion will I flee.

Love is my health, my faith, my joy

Public and private, wrong or right.

O happy eyes that sight thy charms

That gaze upon thee at their gree!

Yea, of my purest wish and will

The slave of Love I’ll aye be hight.’

When the damsel heard this elegy in quatrains she cried out ‘Alas! Alas!’ and rent her raiment, and fell to the ground fainting; and the Caliph saw scars of the palm-rod on her back and welts of the whip; and marvelled with exceeding wonder. Then the Portress arose and sprinkled water on her and brought her a fresh and very fine dress and put it on her. But when the company beheld these doings their minds were troubled, for they had no inkling of the case nor knew the story thereof; so the Caliph said to Ja’afar, ‘Disd’t thou not see the scars upon the damsel’s body? I cannot keep silence or be at rest till I learn the truth of her condition and the story of this other maiden and the secret of the two black bitches.’

But Ja’afar answered, ‘O our lord, they made it a condition with us that we speak not of what concerneth us not, lest we come to hear what pleaseth us not.’ Then said the Portress, ‘By Allah, O my sister, come to me and complete this service for me.’ Replied the Procuratrix, ‘With joy and goodly gree;’ so she took the lute; and leaned it against her breasts and swept the strings with her finger-tips, and began singing:

‘Give back mine eyes their sleep long ravished

And say me wither be my reason fled:

I learnt that lending to thy love a place

Sleep to mine eyelids mortal foe was made.

They said, “We held thee righteous, who waylaid

Thy soul” “Go ask his glorious eyes,” I said.

I pardon all my blood he pleased to spill

Owning his troubles drove him blood to shed.

On my mind’s mirror sun-like sheen he cast

Whose keen reflection fire in vitals bred:

Waters of Life let Allah waste at will

Suffice my wage those lips of dewy red:

An thou address my love thou’lt find a cause

For plaint and tears or ruth or lustihed.

In water pure his form shall greet your eyne

When fails the bowl nor need ye drink of wine.’

Then she quoted from the same ode:

‘I drank, but the draught of his glands, nor wine;

And his swaying gait swayed to sleep these eyne:

’Twas not grape-juice gript me but grasp of Past

’Twas not bowl o’erbowled me but gifts divine:

His coiling cur-lets my soul ennetted

And his cruel will all my wits outwitted.’

After a pause she resumed:

‘If we ’plain of absence what shall we say?

Or if pain afflict us where wend our way?

An hire a truckman to tell my tale