XXVI
XXVI.
Then The Sage counsell’d, and Salámán heard,
And drew the Wisdom down into his Heart;
And, sitting in the Shadow of the Perfect,
His Soul found Quiet under; sweet it seem’d,
Sweeping the Chaff and Litter from his own,
To be the very Dust of Wisdom's Door,
Slave of the Firmán of the Lord of Life.
Then The Sage marvell’d at his Towardness,
And wrought in Miracle in his behalf.
He pour’d the Wine of Wisdom in his Cup,
He laid the Dew of Peace upon his lips;
And when Old Love return’d to Memory,
And broke in Passion from his Lips, The Sage,
Under whose waxing Will Existence rose
Responsive, and, relaxing, waned again,
Raising a Fantom Image of Absál,
Set it awhile before Salámán's Eyes,
Till, having sow’d the Seed of Quiet there,
It went again down to Annihilation.
But ever, for the Sum of his Discourse,
The Sage would tell of a Celestial Love;
"Zuhrah," he said, "the Lustre of the Stars
"'Fore whom the Beauty of the Brightest wanes;
"Who were she to reveal her perfect Beauty,
"The Sun and Moon would craze; Zuhrah," he said,
"The Sweetness of the Banquet—none in Song
"Like Her—her Harp filling the Ear of Heaven,
"That Dervish-dances at her Harmony."
Salámán listen’d, and inclin’d—again
Repeated, Inclination ever grew;
Until The Sage beholding in his Soul
The Spirit quicken, so effectually
With Zuhrah wrought, that she reveal’d herself
In her pure Beauty to Salámán's Soul,
And washing Absál's Image from his Breast,
There reign’d instead. Celestial Beauty seen,
He left the Earthly; and, once come to know
Eternal Love, he let the Mortal go.