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Layla and Majnun
Herein is related the Manner of the Death of Ibni Salam and of Leyla’s
Freedom from that Affliction.
See how the wheel of Fortune still revolves,
O Saki; see the bubbles in the cup
Rise up and burst upon the ruby wine
That mirrors all the world: this alchemy
So quickly changes earth to gleaming gold.
Is not advantage here, and greater found
Than that which frees from trouble of the world?
The world is but a dream, a shadowing
Of all imagination may present.
Think not thy dreams give birth to happiness
Nor in imagination rest content,
For time and its condition? ever change,
And men of wisdom spurn its changing state.
O Saki; see the bubbles in the cup
Rise up and burst upon the ruby wine
That mirrors all the world: this alchemy
So quickly changes earth to gleaming gold.
Is not advantage here, and greater found
Than that which frees from trouble of the world?
The world is but a dream, a shadowing
Of all imagination may present.
Think not thy dreams give birth to happiness
Nor in imagination rest content,
For time and its condition? ever change,
And men of wisdom spurn its changing state.
It chanced that, mourning for a sorrow hid,
The wailer** raised a cry, like those who mourn
The dead. lamenting still that Fortune made
A target for the bitter, burning sighs
Of Mejnun, out of Ibni Salam brave.
From Leyla and from Mejnun both fell tears
To wash away the obstacle, the will,
Of Ibni Salam, powerless and sad
Enduring grief of painful longing sweet.
So evil is the pain of emptiness-
An evil guide that leads to Death alone.
His longing sadness and his bitter grief
Soon worked on Ibni Salam’s cypress frame,
Till, like a rattan, thin and quickly bent,
He dwindled in despair and ‘gan to lose
The charm that kept him company of old.
He sank and weakened in a sad decline
That ways and deeds of yesterday forgot
His name: his couch at last was left his only friend,
And he its frail and feeble ornament.
‘Tis sad, indeed, to tell in numbers true
How he, the exquisite, now lay abed
In sickly feebleness that daily grew
From weakness unto weakness: never cure
Was known, for none could know his grief.
No healing could be found to ease his pain.
At last, despairing, knowing life was void
Of all allure and comfort, knowing well
The joys that life had wantonly denied,
He gave his spirit in the hands of God
And entered into Paradise sublime.
A common fate was his, to gain the world
And then to have it pass. Who knows it not?
It is, indeed, the custom of all life
Should rise in Spring and into Autumn sink.
Now Leyla found a newer cause to weep.
His death now gave her openly excuse,
And thus the grieving maid had new lament,
And tore her weeping face with sharpened nails,
And rent her garment in a thousand shreds,
Disclosing unto all apparent cause
For every lamentation, burning now
The house wherein she dwelled: her lovely robes
She gave to pillage and destructive fire.
Her fragrant hair, as soft as musky rose
She soiled and tangled in a frenzy pure.
Her sighs and meanings knocked against the skies,
And, like the sky, of deepest black her garb.
Upon her lovely head were ashes cast
(A custom this, they say, of Arabs old,
That when the husband dies wife laments
If wife be left, a heavy year or two,
Bewailing and lamenting every day.)
This custom matched the Idol’s grieving wish:
It gave her cause ostensible to weep,
And made her house the home of mourning wild.
Each day, from dawn till eve, she cried her fate.
At last, when many days had sadly sped
She left her home and took her heavy path
Unto the house wherein her father dwelt,
And there continued still to weep her loss,
With bitter, heartfelt tears in ceaseless flood.
Unending were her tears, both soon and late,
And in her heart the weeping Moon would cry
To God for mercy on the dead man’s soul,
On Ibni Salam, he who, unaware
Had made her love to flourish in distress,
Who lifted high dissimulation’s veil
And caused her secret sorrow to be known.
The wailer** raised a cry, like those who mourn
The dead. lamenting still that Fortune made
A target for the bitter, burning sighs
Of Mejnun, out of Ibni Salam brave.
From Leyla and from Mejnun both fell tears
To wash away the obstacle, the will,
Of Ibni Salam, powerless and sad
Enduring grief of painful longing sweet.
So evil is the pain of emptiness-
An evil guide that leads to Death alone.
His longing sadness and his bitter grief
Soon worked on Ibni Salam’s cypress frame,
Till, like a rattan, thin and quickly bent,
He dwindled in despair and ‘gan to lose
The charm that kept him company of old.
He sank and weakened in a sad decline
That ways and deeds of yesterday forgot
His name: his couch at last was left his only friend,
And he its frail and feeble ornament.
‘Tis sad, indeed, to tell in numbers true
How he, the exquisite, now lay abed
In sickly feebleness that daily grew
From weakness unto weakness: never cure
Was known, for none could know his grief.
No healing could be found to ease his pain.
At last, despairing, knowing life was void
Of all allure and comfort, knowing well
The joys that life had wantonly denied,
He gave his spirit in the hands of God
And entered into Paradise sublime.
A common fate was his, to gain the world
And then to have it pass. Who knows it not?
It is, indeed, the custom of all life
Should rise in Spring and into Autumn sink.
Now Leyla found a newer cause to weep.
His death now gave her openly excuse,
And thus the grieving maid had new lament,
And tore her weeping face with sharpened nails,
And rent her garment in a thousand shreds,
Disclosing unto all apparent cause
For every lamentation, burning now
The house wherein she dwelled: her lovely robes
She gave to pillage and destructive fire.
Her fragrant hair, as soft as musky rose
She soiled and tangled in a frenzy pure.
Her sighs and meanings knocked against the skies,
And, like the sky, of deepest black her garb.
Upon her lovely head were ashes cast
(A custom this, they say, of Arabs old,
That when the husband dies wife laments
If wife be left, a heavy year or two,
Bewailing and lamenting every day.)
This custom matched the Idol’s grieving wish:
It gave her cause ostensible to weep,
And made her house the home of mourning wild.
Each day, from dawn till eve, she cried her fate.
At last, when many days had sadly sped
She left her home and took her heavy path
Unto the house wherein her father dwelt,
And there continued still to weep her loss,
With bitter, heartfelt tears in ceaseless flood.
Unending were her tears, both soon and late,
And in her heart the weeping Moon would cry
To God for mercy on the dead man’s soul,
On Ibni Salam, he who, unaware
Had made her love to flourish in distress,
Who lifted high dissimulation’s veil
And caused her secret sorrow to be known.
Now Zayd, hearing of her sudden loss,
Again across the desert made his way
And saw again the sickened, sad Mejnun
Among the wilderness of savage beasts
Still standing all alone in misery.
Saluting, Zayd let his news be known,
And told how Ibni Salam fell, the prize
Of Time inexorable, and slowly said:
Again across the desert made his way
And saw again the sickened, sad Mejnun
Among the wilderness of savage beasts
Still standing all alone in misery.
Saluting, Zayd let his news be known,
And told how Ibni Salam fell, the prize
Of Time inexorable, and slowly said:
‘Thy rival, Ibni Salam, unto Death
Has gone to join his peers: hear now the news
I bring thee gladly of thy rival’s death.’
Has gone to join his peers: hear now the news
I bring thee gladly of thy rival’s death.’
But Mejnun sighed anew, bewailing deep
And mourned aloud the new disaster come
On him who suffered much, that marvelling
Unhappy Zayd gazed long at him and failed
Of understanding of his new found plaint.
And mourned aloud the new disaster come
On him who suffered much, that marvelling
Unhappy Zayd gazed long at him and failed
Of understanding of his new found plaint.
‘Sure, when a lover hears that Death has slain
His rival to the hand that he adores,
‘Tis fitting then to joy, not fall to tears
And weep the fate that makes thy pathway clear.’
His rival to the hand that he adores,
‘Tis fitting then to joy, not fall to tears
And weep the fate that makes thy pathway clear.’
So thinking, Zayd sought to find the cause
And asked the reason for his friend’s distress.
And asked the reason for his friend’s distress.
‘O, loyal friend’, said Mejnun, ‘have I now
No sense of shame and honour in my soul
That I should find an all unhallowed joy
In that which leaves me lesser than before?
Who gives his life attains to his belov’d,
While he who gives it not stays ever lost.
The dead was never foe to me, but friend,
For he and I both loved that Idol pure,
And thus a common love gave common cause.
Now he, in sweet surrender of his life
Attains perfection, holds his right degree,
While I remain deficient still of grace
And needs must weep. Now, therefore, do
No sense of shame and honour in my soul
That I should find an all unhallowed joy
In that which leaves me lesser than before?
Who gives his life attains to his belov’d,
While he who gives it not stays ever lost.
The dead was never foe to me, but friend,
For he and I both loved that Idol pure,
And thus a common love gave common cause.
Now he, in sweet surrender of his life
Attains perfection, holds his right degree,
While I remain deficient still of grace
And needs must weep. Now, therefore, do
