XXIII.
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h the poor Lover!—In the changing HandsOf Day and Night no wretcheder than He!No Arrow from the Bow of Evil FateBut reaches him—one Dagger at his Throat,Another comes to wound him from behind.Wounded by Love—then wounded by ReproofOf Loving—and, scarce stauncht the Blood of ShameBy 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 BranchCut 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 handThey sprang into the Fire. The Shah who sawIn secret all had order'd; and the Flame,Directed by his Self-fulfilling Will,Devouring utterly Absál, pass'd bySalámán harmless—the pure Gold return'dEntire, but all the baser Metal burn'd.
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