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Old 15-04-2012, 04:41 PM   #117
abhisays
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Default Re: The Arabian Nights

When the damsel heard this elegy in quatrains, she cried out "Alas! Alas!" 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 marveled 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 Ja'afar: "Didst thou not see the scars upon the damsel's 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." But Ja'afar answered: "O 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."
Then said the portress, "By Allah, O my sister, come to me and complete this service for me." Replied the procuratrix, "With joy and goodly gree." So she took the lute and leaned it against her breasts and swept the strings with her finger tips, and began singing:
"Give back mine eyes their sleep long ravished,
And say me whither be my reason fled.
I learnt that lending to thy love a place,
Sleep to mine eyelids mortal foe was made.
They said, `We held thee righteous. Who waylaid
Thy soul?' 'Go ask his glorious eyes,' I said.
I pardon all my blood he pleased to shed.
Owning his troubles drove him blood to shed.
On my mind's mirror sunlike 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.
And thou address my love thou'lt find a cause
For plaint and tears or ruth or lustilied.
In water pure his form shall greet your eyne,
When fails the bowl nor need ye drink of wine."
Then she quoted from the same ode:
"I drank, but the draught of his glance, not wine,
And his swaying gait swayed to sleep these eyne.
'Twas not grape juice gript me but grasp of Past,
'Twas not bowl o'erbowled me but gifts divine.
His coiling curllets my soul ennetted
And his cruel will all my wits outwitted."
After a pause she resumed:
"If we 'plain of absence, what shall we say?
Or if pain afflict us, where wend our way?
An I hire a truchman to tell my tale,
The lovers' plaint is not told for pay.
If I put on patience, a lover's life
After loss of love will not last a day.
Naught is left me now but regret, repine,
And tears flooding cheeks forever and aye.
O thou who the babes of these eyes hast fled,
Thou art homed in heart that shall never stray.
Would Heaven I wot hast thou kept our pact
Long as stream shall flow, to have firmest fay?
Or hast forgotten the weeping slave,
Whom groans afflict and whom griefs waylay?
Ah, when severance ends and we side by side
Couch, I'll blame thy rigors and chide thy pride!"
Now when the portress heard her second ode, she shrieked aloud and said: "By Allah! 'Tis right good!" and, laying hands on her garments, tore them as she did the first time, and fell to the ground fainting. Thereupon the procuratrix rose and brought her a second change of clothes after she had sprinkled water on her. She recovered and sat upright and said to her sister the cateress, "Onward, and help me in my duty, for there remains but this one song." So the provisioneress again brought out the lute and began to sing these verses:
"How long shall last, how long this rigor rife of woe
May not suffice thee all these tears thou seest flow?
Our parting thus with purpose fell thou dost prolong
Is't not enough to glad the heart of envious foe?
Were but this lying world once true to lover heart,
He had not watched the weary night in tears of woe.
Oh, pity me whom overwhelmed thy cruel will,
My lord, my king, 'tis time some ruth to me thou show.
To whom reveal my wrongs, O thou who murdered me?
Sad, who of broken troth the pangs must undergo!
Increase wild love for thee and frenzy hour by hour,
And days of exile minute by so long, so slow.
O Moslems, claim vendetta for this slave of Love,
Whose sleep Love ever wastes, whose patience Love lays low.
Doth law of Love allow thee, O my wish! to lie
Lapt in another's arms and unto me cry 'Go!'?
Yet in thy presence, say, what joys shall I enjoy
When he I love but works my love to overthrow?"
When the damsel heard this elegy in quatrains, she cried out "Alas! Alas!" 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 marveled 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 Ja'afar: "Didst thou not see the scars upon the damsel's 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." But Ja'afar answered: "O 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."
Then said the portress, "By Allah, O my sister, come to me and complete this service for me." Replied the procuratrix, "With joy and goodly gree." So she took the lute and leaned it against her breasts and swept the strings with her finger tips, and began singing:
"Give back mine eyes their sleep long ravished,
And say me whither be my reason fled.
I learnt that lending to thy love a place,
Sleep to mine eyelids mortal foe was made.
They said, `We held thee righteous. Who waylaid
Thy soul?' 'Go ask his glorious eyes,' I said.
I pardon all my blood he pleased to shed.
Owning his troubles drove him blood to shed.
On my mind's mirror sunlike 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.
And thou address my love thou'lt find a cause
For plaint and tears or ruth or lustilied.
In water pure his form shall greet your eyne,
When fails the bowl nor need ye drink of wine."
Then she quoted from the same ode:
"I drank, but the draught of his glance, not wine,
And his swaying gait swayed to sleep these eyne.
'Twas not grape juice gript me but grasp of Past,
'Twas not bowl o'erbowled me but gifts divine.
His coiling curllets my soul ennetted
And his cruel will all my wits outwitted."
After a pause she resumed:
"If we 'plain of absence, what shall we say?
Or if pain afflict us, where wend our way?
An I hire a truchman to tell my tale,
The lovers' plaint is not told for pay.
If I put on patience, a lover's life
After loss of love will not last a day.
Naught is left me now but regret, repine,
And tears flooding cheeks forever and aye.
O thou who the babes of these eyes hast fled,
Thou art homed in heart that shall never stray.
Would Heaven I wot hast thou kept our pact
Long as stream shall flow, to have firmest fay?
Or hast forgotten the weeping slave,
Whom groans afflict and whom griefs waylay?
Ah, when severance ends and we side by side
Couch, I'll blame thy rigors and chide thy pride!"
Now when the portress heard her second ode, she shrieked aloud and said: "By Allah! 'Tis right good!" and, laying hands on her garments, tore them as she did the first time, and fell to the ground fainting. Thereupon the procuratrix rose and brought her a second change of clothes after she had sprinkled water on her. She recovered and sat upright and said to her sister the cateress, "Onward, and help me in my duty, for there remains but this one song." So the provisioneress again brought out the lute and began to sing these verses:
"How long shall last, how long this rigor rife of woe
May not suffice thee all these tears thou seest flow?
Our parting thus with purpose fell thou dost prolong
Is't not enough to glad the heart of envious foe?
Were but this lying world once true to lover heart,
He had not watched the weary night in tears of woe.
Oh, pity me whom overwhelmed thy cruel will,
My lord, my king, 'tis time some ruth to me thou show.
To whom reveal my wrongs, O thou who murdered me?
Sad, who of broken troth the pangs must undergo!
Increase wild love for thee and frenzy hour by hour,
And days of exile minute by so long, so slow.
O Moslems, claim vendetta for this slave of Love,
Whose sleep Love ever wastes, whose patience Love lays low.
Doth law of Love allow thee, O my wish! to lie
Lapt in another's arms and unto me cry 'Go!'?
Yet in thy presence, say, what joys shall I enjoy
When he I love but works my love to overthrow?"
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