FABLE AND FOLKLORE 49 



pressing its breast against a rose-thorn to ease its heart's 

 pain. Giles Fletcher, who had been attached to one of 

 Queen Elizabeth's missions to Russia, and perhaps in that 

 way picked up the suggestion, used it in one of his love- 

 poems in a stanza that is a very queer mixture of two 

 distinct fancies and a wrong sex, for the thrush that 

 sings is not the one that has any occasion to weep about 

 virginity: 



So Philomel, perched on an aspen sprig, 



Weeps all the night her lost virginity, 

 And sings her sad tale to the merry twig, 



That dances at such joyful mystery. 



Ne ever lets sweet rest invade her eye, 

 But leaning on a thorn her dainty chest 

 For fear soft sleep should steal into her breast 



Expresses in her song grief not to be expressed. 



The poetic vision over which Hafiz and others have 

 sighed and sung in the fragrant gardens of Shiraz seems 

 to owe nothing to the Greek tale, and to them the plain- 

 tive note in the bird's melody is not an expression of 

 bitter woe, but only bespeaks regret whenever a rose is 

 plucked. They will tell you tearfully that the bulbul will 

 hover about a rosebush in spring, till, overpowered by 

 the sweetness of its blossoms, the distracted bird falls 

 senseless to the ground. The rose is supposed to burst 

 into flower at the opening song of its winged lover. You 

 may place a handful of fragrant herbs and flowers before 

 the nightingale, say the Persian poets, yet he wishes not 

 in his constant and faithful heart for more than the 

 sweet breath of his beloved rose — 



Though rich the spot 

 With every flower the earth has got, 

 What is it to the nightingale 

 If there his darling rose is not. 



