The Visit to the Prison

When the sun, like Yusuf, afar in the west,
In his gloomy prison had sunk to rest ;
And, like Zulaikha, the mourning skies
Wept for his loss with their starry eyes ;
While the skirt of the heavens was dipped in a flood
Of rose-red hue from its tears of blood;
Hot tears for Yusuf Zulaikha shed.
And her eyes like the evening horizon were red.
She went to her chamber to sigh and grieve,
And the wail of the day was renewed at eve.
When the day of a lover is merged in night
Again wakes his pain with redoubled might.
For the loss of his love his lone day is dim ;
But the night is yet darker and sadder for him.
Dark is the day when she comes not back,
But the night is darker, deep black upon blade
For night to the lover comes heavy with gloom,
And fierce is the offspring that comes from her womb
When the terrible child is brought forth it lives
On blood for the milk which a mother gives.
Ah, think what -woe must the mother bring
From whom a child thirsting for blood can spring !
In the wild impatience that drove her mad,
The night to Zulaikha was gloomy and sad;
The darling who ravished her heart was away,
And her night was moonless and sunless her day.
There was splendour of torches, yet dark was each place
Where shone not the light of her loved one’s face.
Through the stress of her anguish she closed no eye ;
And she said with hot tears and a bitter cry :
“ How fares he this night ? Ah, how can I tell ?
Who is the bail that they serve him well ?
Who has smoothed the folds at his feet, and set
In order the bolster and coverlet ?
Whose hand has lighted a lamp by his bed,
And softened the pillow to rest his head ?
Who has loosened the zone from his waist, and told.
To lull him, tales of the times of old ?
Has the prison injured his tender frame ?
Like a bird encaged, is the captive tame ?
Have his roses paled in the dungeon air ?
Are his locks still bright as the spikenard’s hair ?
Is the bloom of the rose-garden faded and dead ?
Is the splendour that shone from the spikenard fled ?
Is his heart like a rosebud compressed with woes,
Or expanded ,in joy like the perfect rose ? ”
Thus till a watch of the night was spent
She poured out her anguish in wail and lament.
Then strength departed, endurance died ;
The brook of her patience was empty and dried.
Then the flame of her longing flashed forth : with
Streaming she called to her nurse : “ Arise,
I can wait no longer : arise, let us go
Unseen of all to the house of woe.
There we will hide in some corner ; thus
The moon of our prison will shine for us.
With the rosy cheek of one’s darling, there
No prison may be, but the spring is fair.
Let others be glad when gay gardens they see :
This bud of the prison is all to me.”
In graceful motion away she sped,
And the nurse followed close where the lady led.
She came like a moon to the prison wall,
And the warder rose at her secret call.
He opened the gate as he moved the bar
And showed her the moon of her love afar.
On the carpet of worship his head he bent,
As the sun declines, ere the day is spent.
Then he reared like a flambeau his stately height,
And threw o’er the captives long rays of light.
Then he curved his back to a moon whose glow
Tell on the carpet outspread below.
Then, like a rose-twig by the night-wind swayed,
He bowed and to God for forgiveness prayed ;
Then in humble hope with his head depressed
Like a modest violet sate at rest.
Silent and hidden she moved no limb,
'Far from herself but so near to him.
But she wept in her heart, and the tears she shed
Turned the jasmine hue of her cheek to red.
With pearl she mangled the ruby, and tore
The rich ripe dates that the palm-tree bore.
Then her grief burst forth, and while hot tears ran
From their fountain in torrents, she thus began :
“ Eye and lamp of the lovely ones, thou
Whom the fairest would follow with prayer and vow,
In my breast thou hast kindled a flame of fire;
From my head to my foot I am all desire.
But no drop of pity hast thou bestowed
To quench the flame when its fury glowed.
Thou hast gored my breast and no pity felt
For the cruel wound which thy hand has dealt.
Hast thou no ruth, O most heartless, none
For me rejected, oppressed, undone ?
I bear from thee daily fresh grief and scorn :
All, woe is me that I ever was born !
Or if she had borne me, a babe unblest,
Would I ne’er had lain on my mother’s breast,
Ne’er on kindly milk from her bosom fed,
But deadly poison had sucked instead.”
Thus sad Zulaikha wept and complained ;
But cold and unyielding his heart remained.
Unmoved was his soul, or no sign betrayed
That his ruth was stirred as she wept and prayed.
The night passed away: the pure skies o’erhead
Wept tears like those which the holy shed.
Loud sounded the drum from the palace, high
Rose through the air the Muezzin’s cry.
The watch-dog’s baying was hushed, and round
His throat for a collar his tail was wound.
Up started the cock from his sleep ; his throat
Sent forth to the morning its clarion note.
Then Zulaikha rose ; from the jail she withdrew,
But its threshold she kissed ere she bade it adieu.
Long as her moon in that prison lay,
To its portal nightly she found her way.
Thus ever she went and she came ; and this
Was her heart’s sole comfort, her only bliss.
None loves a garden where bright flowers blow
As she loved to visit that house of woe.
Yes, when your love is in prison, where
‘Will your soul find comfort save only there ?