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 reeâd aright
Heal then my malady, for thou
Art malady and remedy!
But she whose cure is in thy hand
Shall neâer 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 Iâll aye be hight.â
When the damsel heard this elegy in quatrains she cried out âAlas! Alas!â 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 Jaâafar, âDisdât thou not see the scars upon the damselâs 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.â
But Jaâafar answered, âO 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.â Then said the Portress, âBy Allah, O my sister, come to me and complete this service for me.â Replied the Procuratrix, âWith joy and goodly gree;â so she took the lute; and leaned it against her breasts and swept the strings with her finger-tips, and began singing:
âGive 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, âWe held thee righteous, who waylaid
Thy soulâ âGo ask his glorious eyes,â I said.
I pardon all my blood he pleased to spill
Owning his troubles drove him blood to shed.
On my mindâs 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 thouâlt 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.â
Then she quoted from the same ode:
âI drank, but the draught of his glands, nor wine;
And his swaying gait swayed to sleep these eyne:
âTwas not grape-juice gript me but grasp of Past
âTwas not bowl oâerbowled me but gifts divine:
His coiling cur-lets my soul ennetted
And his cruel will all my wits outwitted.â
After a pause she resumed:
âIf we âplain of absence what shall we say?
Or if pain afflict us where wend our way?
An hire a truckman to tell my tale