It is this which produces bitterness and strife
between brethren and friends; which causes treacherous murder and
desolating war. Care and sorrow, weary days and sleepless nights,
are its attendants. It withers the bloom and blights the joys of
youth, and brings on the ills and griefs of premature old age. Allah
preserve thee, my prince, in total ignorance of this thing called
love!"
The sage Eben Bonabben hastily retired, leaving the prince plunged
in still deeper perplexity. It was in vain he attempted to dismiss the
subject from his mind; it still continued uppermost in his thoughts,
and teased and exhausted him with vain conjectures. Surely, said he to
himself, as he listened to the tuneful strains of the birds, there
is no sorrow in those notes; every thing seems tenderness and joy.
If love be a cause of such wretchedness and strife, why are not
these birds drooping in solitude, or tearing each other in pieces,
instead of fluttering cheerfully about the groves, or sporting with
each other among flowers?
He lay one morning on his couch meditating on this inexplicable
matter. The window of his chamber was open to admit the soft morning
breeze, which came laden with the perfume of orange blossoms from
the valley of the Darro. The voice of the nightingale was faintly
heard, still chanting the wonted theme. As the prince was listening
and sighing, there was a sudden rushing noise in the air; a
beautiful dove, pursued by a hawk, darted in at the window, and fell
panting on the floor; while the pursuer, balked of his prey, soared
off to the mountains.
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