In Honor Of Lalla

A fire burns at the bottom of my heart,
For love has conquered me, and I am now
His hostage and his prisoner. My soul
Is torn out from my body, and sweet sleep
Keeps far aloof from my tired eyelids' need.
'Tis Aycha causes this, the pretty one.
With blackest eyes, Aycha the pure, from whom
I'm parted now, whose name is finest gold.
Why? why? Oh, tell me, El Mannoubyya.

Why all this coldness, O my best beloved?
For thy dear love I have drunk deep of scorn.
For thy love, maiden with the darksome looks,
I wither while thou bear'st a port of oak.
The fire that burns me eats my very soul.
My spirit is distracted by these proofs.
O thou, rebellious to my warm desires,
My black-eyed beauty, if thou'rt vexed with me
I'll make apology before the world,
I'll bring an offering to thee at once,
The symbol of my homage. May it please!

Instruct me, sympathetic with my pain
Have you not said: "I'll bring thee soon good news"?
O come! That in my sleep my eyes may see
Thee coming toward me, my black-pupilled one!
Awaiting thy fair image I'm consumed,
I am exhausted. Why, El Mannoubyya?

I long have hoped to see thee, O my sweet.
And ever farther off appears the end
Of my awaiting. All my nights are passed
In cries for thee, as some poor mariner
Cries to the angry floods that dash aloft.
For thee I'm mad with love, my pretty one,
Struck with thy mien so full of nobleness.
And I alone must wither, 'mongst my friends.
O unpersuadable, with teasing eyes,
I am in a most pitiable state.
Since thou repell'st me and declin'st to keep
Thy promise to me, I'll not hesitate
To call thee before God.

Unless thou deign'st
To cast thy looks on me the coming day,
I shall, all clad in vestments rich, make plaint
Unto the envoy of our God, the last
Of all the prophets. For thou said'st to me,
"I'll draw thee from the sea of thy despair."
I worship at thy sanctuary, sweet,
My beauty, with large eyes of darkest night.
Why? why? El Mannoubyya, tell me why.

Let thyself bend and call thy servitor,
Inhabitant of Tunis--city green.
I will apologize and come to thee,
O cruel one, with heavy frontlets dark.
We've heard the story of thy deeds so fine.
From common brass whene'er thou walk'st abroad,
Thou drawest silver pure, queen of thy time,
'Mongst men illumined by thy piety.
The wretch, led on by love, accosted thee.
Receiving grace, despite his base design
He was, nathless, forgiven and saved from sin;
So was it from eternity decreed.
They all consulted thee, queen of thy day,
And thou didst answer: "This man truly loved.
Pour him a cup of wine." By thee he came
Unto perfection's acme, step by step.
Our Lord, all-powerful, gave to thee this power.

These are thy merits, fairest citizen!
To whom God gave strength irresistible.
O beauty with enchanting eyes, Aycha,
Our queen.

Si Alimed Khoudja, greatest bard
Of all that time, has said: "I wrote these words
The year one thousand one hundred just,
But thou who read'st these lines, where'er it be,
Add to these numbers, after ninety-eight."
Now I salute all those united here
And him who hates me here I steep in scorn.
Why? why? El Mannoubyya! Why?