The Suitors

And her feet shall be set upon diadems strewn
In the streets of the city she makes her own.
If she pour on Damascus her soft moonlight
They will bless their lady from mom till night.
If Rum be her choice, her glad slaves will be
All nations from Bum to the Indian Sea.
Thus mid the envoys’ assembly; each
Spoke for his master a suitor’s speech.
Zulaikha, ’ware of the aims they sought,
Was tossed on the billows of anxious thought:
“ Has the land of Egypt no envoy sent ?
With the love of her people my heart is bent.
As Egypt’s land to tuy soul is most dear,
What boots it if none from that realm is here?
The soft wind blowing from Egypt’s sand,
Bringing dust to mine eyes from that happy Laud,
Sweeter a hundredfold would be
Than the musk-laden breezes of Tartary.”
Thus in the depth of her heart she cried ;
And thus spoke the king as she sate by his side :
“ Thou light of mine eyes and my spirit’s joy,
Sweet charter, exempting from care and annoy,
Kings through the world for their beauty known,—
Each lord of a crown and ancestral throne,—
Are suitors lor thee, while their bosoms bleed,
Filled with the growth of Love’s maddening seed.
Afire with the hope of my daughter’s hand,
They have sent their envoys from every land.
I will speak of the herald of each who sues,
And try which king it may please thee to choose.
Of the country to which thy free heart may incline
I will make thee queen, and its people thine.”
Still and silent Zulaikha remained;
Tor the loved one’s name her fond ear she strained,
Epr tis sweet to listen in hope to hear
The name breathed forth which we hold most dear.
He spoke of them all from the first to the last,
But the land of Egypt unnamed w T as past.
His tale was done ; and Zulaikha knew
That from Egypt — his home — there was none to woo.
She rose to her feet with one hopeless look,
And with grief, like the spray of a willow, shook.
Pearls on the lash of her eye were strung,
And she cried, as the blood from her heart was wrung :
“ O that my mother had never horn
Or fed from her bosom her child forlorn !
What star that frowned on iny natal hour
Has darkened my fate with its evil power ?
If a cloud were to rise from the distant main,
On every lip it would pour sweet rain,
But if to my thirsty mouth it came
It would bring no water but scorching flame.
What sin, O Heaven, in me hast thou known
That blood has reddened my skirts like, thine own ?
Though I may not fly to the love of my heart,
Think not ’tis distance that keeps us apart.
Wilt thou have me die ? I am dead even now,
And the cruel cause of my death art thou.
Wilt thou see me troubled and sore distressed ?
A mountain of woe hast thou laid on my breast.
What matter to thee if my life be glad,
Sweet or bitter, joyous or sad ?
What is my being, and what am I ?
What matter to thee if I live or die ?
Should I cast my life to the wind he would scorn,
Mid a hundred harvests, my single corn.
He hurries a thousand fresh roses away,
Which thou hast delivered to death and decay.
When bright blooms unpitied are torn from tin stem,
Will it trouble his heart if I perish with them ? ”
She wailed through the livelong day; like a bud
Her heart was filled full to the brim with blood.
A deluge of tears from her eyes she shed,
And the hand of sorrow threw dust on her head.
When her father knew that her troubled breast
With the love of Egypt’s Vizier was possessed,
He dismissed the envoys with friendly speech,
And with princely presents he honoured each :
" Already to Egypt’s Grand Vizier
Pledged was the troth of my daughter dear :
And ye know full well — for your hearts are wise-
That the first in the race ever wins the prize.
I hold this proverb the best of all,
‘ To the lot of the first must the treasure fall.’ ”
Jhus, baffled in hope, with defeated aim,
The royal envoys went as they came.