The Nightingale and Rose

From immemorial time
The Rose and Nightingale
Attune the Persian rhyme
And point the Arab tale:
Nor will you ever meet
So barbarous a man,
In any outer street
Of Balkh or Astracan,
In any lonely creek
Along the Caspian shore,
Or where, the tiger sleek
Pants hard in hot Mysore,
As never shall have heard
In tower or tent or grove
Of the sweet flower's true bird,
The true bird's only love.
They're known wherever shines
The crescent on the sword
And guiltless are the vines
And Bacchus is abhorr'd.
There was (we read) a maid,
The pride of Astrabad,
Who heard what song-men said,
And, all that day, was sad.
The moon hung large and round;
She gazed ere forth she went;
A bright ford seem'd the ground,
The sky a purple tent.
She hasten'd to the wood
Where idle bushes grew,
The Rose above them stood,
There stood her lover too.
Close were they, close as may
True lovers ever be!
She was his only stay,
Her only stay was he.
Her head appears to bend
A little over his:
Petal and plumage blend,
Soft sigh and softer kiss.
There was no other sound,
And scarce a leaflet stirr'd,
And heavy dews hung round,
The Rose and round the Bird.
Sure, some are tinged with red!
Whence comes it? Can the Rose
Have wept upon his head?
Her tears are not like those.
No; 'tis from his own breast,
Pierced by her thorns, they come:
Against them it was prest,
Of them it sought its doom.
Wanting was one delight,
The one she could not give,
He thought perhaps she might,
He thought so, nor would live.
Ever some cruel spell
Hangs fasten'd, tho' unseen,
On those who love too well
And sing too well between.
At the fond heart so riven
Mute was awhile the maid,
Then pray'd she unto Heaven,
And it was thus she pray'd:
"O Allah! if the fond
Must alway suffer so,
If love finds naught beyond
Its very birth but woe,
Protect at least the one
From what the other bore,
Nor let her stay alone,
Nor with faint breath droop o'er
The dead! Do thou confer
His spirit on her bloom,
And may it soothe in her
Lone shade its hour of gloom! "
Allah that gift bestows,
But only in those plains,
And only in one Rose,
The Bird's sweet voice remains.
Lady of all my lays!
Accept the service due!
And, if a word of praise
Or smile descend from you,
I will not look about
To catch the crumbs that fall
Among the rabble rout
That crowd the choral hall,
Nor chide the deaf man's choice
When o'er the Rose's bird
The low unvarying voice
Of Cuckoo is preferr'd.