XXIII
XXIII.
Ah the poor Lover!—In the changing Hands
Of Day and Night no wretcheder than He!
No Arrow from the Bow of Evil Fate
But reaches him—one Dagger at his Throat,
Another comes to wound him from behind.
Wounded by Love—then wounded by Reproof
Of Loving—and, scarce stauncht the Blood of Shame
By flying from his Love—then, worst of all,
Love's back-blow of Revenge for having fled!
Salámán heard—he rent the Robe of Peace
He came to loathe his Life, and long for Death,
(For better Death itself than Life in Death)
He turn’d his face with Absál to the Desert—
Enter’d the deadly Plain; Branch upon Branch
Cut down, and gather’d in a lofty Pile,
And fired. They look’d upon the Flames, those Two
They look’d, and they rejoiced; and hand in hand
They sprang into the Fire. The Shah who saw,
In secret all had order’d; and the Flame,
Directed by his Self-fulfilling Will,
Devouring utterly Absál, pass’d by
Salámán harmless—the pure Gold return’d
Entire, but all the baser Metal burn’d.