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The Song of the Reed
Written
by
Maulana Jalal al-Din Rumi (1207-1273)
Translated
by
Sir William Jones
Hear, how yon reed in sadly pleasing tales
Departed bliss and present woe bewails!
"With me, from native banks untimely torn,
Love-warbling youths and soft-ey'd virgins mourn,
O! let the heart, by fatal
absence rent,
Feel what I sing, and bleed when I lament:
Who roams in exile from his parent bow'r,
Pants to return, and chides each ling'ring hour.
My notes, in circles of the grave and gay,
Have hail'd the rising, cheer'ed
the closing day:
Each in my fond affections claim'd a part,
But none discern'd the secret of my heart.
What though my strains and sorrows flow combin'd!
Yet ears are slow, and carnal eyes are blind.
Free through each mortal form the spirits roll,
But sight avails not. Can we see the soul?"
Such notes breath'd gently
from yon vocal frame:
Breath'd said I? no; 'twas
all enliv'ning flame.
'Tis love, that fills the reed with warmth divine;
'Tis love, that sparkles in the racy wine.
Me, plaintive wand'rer from my peerless maid,
The reed has fir'd, and all my soul betray'd.
He gives the bane, and he with balsam cures;
Afflicts, yet soothes; impassions, yet allures.
Delightful pangs his am'rous tales prolong;
And Laili's frantick
lover lives in song.
Not he, who reasons best, this wisdom knows:
Ears only drink what rapt'rous tongues disclose.
Nor fruitless deem the reed's heart-piercing pain:
See sweetness dropping from the parted cane.
Alternate hope and fear my days divide:
I courted Grief, and Anguish was my bride.
Flow on, sad stream of life! I smile secure:
Thou livest! Thou, the purest of the pure!
Rise vig'rous youth! be
free; be nobly bold:
Shall chains confine you, thou they blaze with gold?
Go; to your vase the gather'd main convey:
What were your secrets? The pittance of a day!
New plans for wealth your fancies would invent;
Yet shells, to nourish pearls, must lie content.
The man, whose robe love's purple arrows rend
Bids av'rice rest, and toils tumultuous end.
Hail, heav'nly love! true
source of endless gains!
Thy balm restores me, and thy skill sustains.
Oh, more than Galen learn'd, than Plato wise!
My guide, my law, my joy supreme arise!
Love warms this frigid clay with mystik fire,
And dancing mountains leap with young desire.
Blest is the soul, that swims in seas of love,
And long the love sustain'd by food above.
With forms imperfectly can perfection dwell?
Here pause, my song; and thou, vain world, farewell.
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