[Illustration:
_"The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me—in vain!"_]
THE FITZGERALD CENTENARY EDITION
Rubáiyát
of
Omar Khayyám
AND
Salámán and Absál
RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE
BY
EDWARD FITZGERALD
TOGETHER WITH
A LIFE OF EDWARD FITZGERALD
AND AN
ESSAY ON PERSIAN POETRY
BY
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
PEACOCK, MANSFIELD & CO., LTD.
PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
MCMIX
BOYLE, SON & WATCHURST,
Printers, &c.
Warwick Square, London, E.C.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
TO E. FITZGERALD iv
LIFE OF EDWARD FITZGERALD 1
PREFACE TO RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM 11
RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM 21
SALÁMÁN AND ABSÁL 43
PERSIAN POETRY, AN ESSAY BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 101
TO E. FITZGERALD.
Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange
Where once I tarried for a while,
Glance at the wheeling Orb of change
And greet it with a kindly smile;
Whom yet I see, as there you sit
Beneath your sheltering garden tree,
And watch your doves about you flit
And plant on shoulder, hand and knee,
Or on your head their rosy feet,
As if they knew your diet spares
Whatever moved in that full sheet
Let down to Peter at his prayers;
* * * * *
But none can say
That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought,
Who reads your golden Eastern lay,
Than which I know no version done
In English more divinely well;
A planet equal to the sun;
Which cast it, that large infidel
Your Omar: and your Omar drew
Full-handed plaudits from our best
In modern letters....
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._
LIFE OF EDWARD FITZGERALD.
Edward FitzGerald was born in the year 1809, at Bredfield House, near
Woodbridge, Suffolk, being the third son of John Purcell, who,
subsequently to his marriage with a Miss FitzGerald, assumed the name
and arms proper to his wife's family.
St. Germain and Paris were in turn the home of his earlier years, but in
1821, he was sent to the Grammar School at Bury St. Edmunds. During his
stay in that ancient foundation he was the fellow pupil of James
Spedding and J. M. Kemble. From there he went in 1826 to Trinity
College, Cambridge, where he made the acquaintance of W. M. Thackeray
and others of only less note. His school and college friendships were
destined to prove lasting, as were, also, all those he was yet to form.
One of FitzGerald's chief characteristics was what might almost be
called a genius for friendship. He did not, indeed, wear his heart upon
his sleeve, but ties once formed were never unloosed by any failure in
charitable and tender affection on his part. Never, throughout a lengthy
life, did irritability and erratic petulance (displayed 'tis true, at
times by the translator of "that large infidel"), darken the eyes of
those he honoured with his friendship to the simple and whole-hearted
genuineness of the man.
From Oxford, FitzGerald retired to the 'suburb grange' at Woodbridge,
referred to by Tennyson. Here, narrowing his bodily wants to within the
limits of a Pythagorean fare, he led a life of a truly simple type
surrounded by books and roses, and, as ever, by a few firm friends.
Annual visits to London in the months of Spring kept alive the alliances
of earlier days, and secured for him yet other intimates, notably the
Tennyson brothers.
Amongst the languages, Spanish seems to have been his earlier love. His
translation of Calderon, due to obedience to the guiding impulse of
Professor Cowell, showed him to the world as a master of the rarest of
arts, that of conveying to an English audience the lights and shades of
a poem first fashioned in a foreign tongue.
At the bidding of the same mentor, he, later, turned his attention to
Persian, the first fruits of his toil being an anonymous version, in
Miltonic verse, of the 'Salámán and Absál' of Jámi. Soon after, the
treasure-house of the Bodleian library yielded up to him the pearl of
his literary endeavour, the verses of "Omar Khayyám," a pearl whose
dazzling charm previously had been revealed to but few, and that through
the medium of a version published in Paris by Monsieur Nicolas.
FitzGerald's hasty and ill-advised union with Lucy, daughter of Bernard
Barton, the Quaker poet and friend of Lamb, was but short-lived, and
demands no comment. They agreed to part.
In later life, most summers found the poet on board his yacht "The
Scandal" (so-called as being the staple product of the neighbourhood) in
company with 'Posh' as he dubbed Fletcher, the fisherman of Aldeburgh,
whose correspondence with FitzGerald has lately been given to the world.
To the end he loved the sea, his books, his roses and his friends, and
that end came to him, when on a visit with his friend Crabbe, with all
the kindliness of sudden death, on the 14th June, 1883.
Besides the works already mentioned, FitzGerald was the author of
"Euphranor" [1851], a Platonic Dialogue on Youth; "Polonius": a
Collection of Wise Saws and Modern Instances [1852]; and translations of
the "Agamemnon" of Æschylus [1865]; and the "Œdipus Tyrannus" and
"Œdipus Coloneus" of Sophocles. Of these translations the "Agamemnon"
probably ranks next to the Rubáiyát in merit. To the six dramas of
Calderon, issued in 1853, there were added two more in 1865. Of these
plays, "Vida es Sueno" and "El Magico Prodigioso" possess especial
merit.
His "Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám" was first issued anonymously on January
15th, 1859, but it caused no great stir, and, half-forgotten, was
reintroduced to the notice of the literary world in the following year
by Rossetti, and, in this connection, it is curious to note to what a
large extent Rossetti played the part of a literary Lucina. FitzGerald,
Blake and Wells are all indebted to him for timely aid in the
reanimation of offspring, that seemed doomed to survive but for a short
time the pangs that gave them birth. Mr. Swinburne and Lord Houghton
were also impressed by its merits, and its fame slowly spread. Eight
years elapsed, however, before the publication of the second edition.
After the passage of a quarter-of-a-century a considerable stimulus was
given to the popularity of the "Rubáiyát" by the fact that
Tennyson—appropriately enough in view of FitzGerald's translation of
Sophocles' "Œdipus"—prefaced his "Tiresias, and other Poems," with
some charmingly reminiscent lines written to "Old Fitz" on his last
birthday. "This," says Mr. Edmund Gosse, "was but the signal for that
universal appreciation of 'Omar Khayyám' in his English dress, which has
been one of the curious literary phenomena of recent years. The melody
of FitzGerald's verse is so exquisite, the thoughts he rearranges and
strings together are so profound, and the general atmosphere of poetry
in which he steeps his version is so pure, that no surprise need be
expressed at the universal favour which the poem has met with among
critical readers."
Neither the "Rubáiyát" nor his other works are mere translations. They
are better, perhaps, described as consisting of "largely new work based
on the nominal originals." In the "Omar," admittedly the highest in
quality of his works, he undoubtedly took considerable liberties with
his author, and introduced lines, or even entire quatrains, which,
however they may breathe the spirit of the original, have no material
counterpart therein.
In illustration of FitzGerald's capacity for conveying the spirit rather
than the very words of the original, comparison of the Ousely MS. of
1460 A.D., in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, with the "Rubáiyát" as we
know it, is of great interest.
The MS. runs thus:—
For a while, when young, we frequented a teacher;
For a while we were contented with our proficiency;
Behold the foundation of the discourse!—what happened to us?
We came in like Water, and we depart like Wind.
In FitzGerald's version the verses appear thus:—
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
Similar examples may be found elsewhere, thus:—
From the Beginning was written what shall be
Unhaltingly the Pen writes, and is heedless of good and bad;
On the First Day He appointed everything that must be,
Our grief and our efforts are vain,
develops into:—
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
The general tendency to amplification is shown again in the translation
of the two lines:—
Forsake not the book, the lover's lips and the green bank of the field,
Ere that the earth enfold thee in its bosom.
into the oft-quoted verses:—
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where the name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
And pity Sultán Máhmúd on his Throne.
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
And Wilderness is Paradise enow!
And in the lines of Omar:—
In a thousand places on the road I walk, thou placest snares.
Thou sayest: "I will catch thee if thou steppeth into them,"
In no smallest thing is the world independent of thee,
_Thou_ orderest all things—and callest _me_ rebellious!
majestically shaping into FitzGerald's rendering:—
Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give—and take!
To what school did FitzGerald belong? Who were his literary progenitors?
Lucretius, Horace and Donne, at any rate, had a considerable share in
moulding his thought and fashioning the form of his verse. The unrhymed
line, so often but by no means uniformly resounding with a suspended
clangour that is not caught up by the following stanza is distinctly
reminiscent of the Alcaics of Horace.
Epicurean, in the ordinary sense of the term, he certainly is, but it is
of the earlier type. Cyrenaic would be a juster epithet, the "_carpe
diem_" doctrine of the poem is too gross and sensual to have commended
itself to the real Epicurus. Intense fatalism, side by side with
complete agnosticism, this is the keynote of the poem. Theoretically
incompatible, these two "isms" are in practice inevitable companions.
The theory of reincarnation and that alone, can furnish a full
explanation of FitzGerald's splendid success as a translator.
Omar was FitzGerald and FitzGerald was Omar. Both threw away their
shields and retired to their tent, not indeed to sulk, but to seek in
meditative aloofness, the calm and content that is the proper reward of
those alone who persevere to the end. Retirement brought them all it
could bring, a yet deeper sense of the vanity of things and their
unknowableness. Herein for the mass of mankind lies the charm of the
Rubáiyát, in clear, tuneful numbers it chants the half-beliefs and
disbeliefs of those who are neither demons nor saints, neither
theological dogmatists nor devil-worshippers, but men.
Those seeking further information as to the life and place in literature
of Edward FitzGerald are referred to Jackson's "FitzGerald and Omar
Khayyám" [1899]; Clyde's "Life of FitzGerald" [1900]; Tutin's
"Concordance to FitzGerald's Omar Khayyám" [1900]; and Prideaux's "Notes
for a Bibliography of FitzGerald" [1901], and his "Life" [1903].
For an interesting discussion as to the real nature of Omar, see the
Introduction to "Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám" in the "Golden Treasury"
Series.
W. S.
PREFACE
TO
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.
Omar Khayyám, or Chiam, was born about the middle of the 11th Century,
at Naishápúr, Khorassán, and he died in that town about the year 1123.
Little is known as to the details of his life, and such facts as are
available have been drawn principally from the _Wasíyat_ or _Testament_
of Mizam al Mulk (_Regulation of the Realm_), who was a fellow-pupil of
Omar at the school of the celebrated Imám Mowafek or Mowaffak. Reference
to this is made in Mirkhond's _History of the Assassins_, from which the
following extract[A] is taken.
"'One of the greatest of the wise men of Khorassán was the
Imán Mowaffak of Naishápúr, a man highly honoured and
reverenced,—may God rejoice his soul; his illustrious years
exceeded eighty-five, and it was the universal belief that
every boy who read the Koran, or studied the traditions in his
presence, would assuredly attain to honour and happiness. For
this cause did my father send me from Tús to Naishápúr with
Abd-u-samad, the doctor of law, that I might employ myself in
study and learning under the guidance of that illustrious
teacher. Towards me he ever turned an eye of favour and
kindness, and as his pupil I felt for him extreme affection
and devotion, so that I passed four years in his service. When
I first came there, I found two other pupils of mine own age
newly arrived, Hakim Omar Khayyám and the ill-fated Ben
Sabbáh. Both were endowed with sharpness of wit and the
highest natural powers; and we three formed a close friendship
together. When the Imám rose from his lectures, they used to
join me, and we repeated to each other the lessons we had
heard. Now Omar was a native of Naishápúr, while Hasan Ben
Sabbáh's father was one Ali, a man of austere life and
practice, but heretical in his creed and doctrine. One day
Hasan said to me and to Khayyám, "It is a universal belief
that the pupils of the Imám Mowaffak will attain to fortune.
Now, if we _all_ do not attain thereto, without doubt one of
us will; what then shall be our mutual pledge and bond?" We
answered, "Be it what you please." "Well," he said, "let us
make a vow, that to whomsoever this fortune falls, he shall
share it equally with the rest, and reserve no pre-eminence
for himself." "Be it so," we both replied; and on those terms
we mutually pledged our words. Years rolled on, and I went
from Khorassán to Transoxiana, and wandered to Ghazni and
Cabul; and when I returned, I was invested with office, and
rose to be administrator of affairs during the Sultanate of
Sultan Alp Arslán.'
"He goes on to state, that years passed by, and both his old
school-friends found him out, and came and claimed a share in
his good fortune according to the school-day vow. The Vizier
was generous and kept his word. Hasan demanded a place in the
government, which the Sultan granted at the Vizier's request;
but, discontented with a gradual rise, he plunged into the
maze of intrigue of an Oriental Court, and, failing in a base
attempt to supplant his benefactor, he was disgraced and fell.
After many mishaps and wanderings, Hasan became the head of
the Persian sect of the _Ismaílians_,—a party of fanatics who
had long murmured in obscurity, but rose to an evil eminence
under the guidance of his strong and evil will. In A.D. 1090
he seized the castle of Alamút, in the province of Rúdbar,
which lies in the mountainous tract, south of the Caspian sea;
and it was from this mountain home he obtained that evil
celebrity among the Crusaders, as the OLD MAN OF THE
MOUNTAINS, and spread terror through the Mohammedan world; and
it is yet disputed whether the word _Assassin_, which they
have left in the language of modern Europe as their dark
memorial, is derived from the _hashish_, or opiate of
hemp-leaves (the Indian _bhang_), with which they maddened
themselves to the sullen pitch of oriental desperation, or
from the name of the founder of the dynasty, whom we have seen
in his quiet collegiate days, at Naishápúr. One of the
countless victims of the Assassin's dagger was Nizám al Mulk
himself, the old school-boy friend.
"Omar Khayyám also came to the Vizier to claim his share; but
not to ask for title or office. 'The greatest boon you can
confer on me,' he said, 'is to let me live in a corner under
the shadow of your fortune, to spread wide the advantages of
Science, and pray for your long life and prosperity.' The
Vizier tells us, that when he found Omar was really sincere
in his refusal, he pressed him no further, but granted him a
yearly pension of 1,200 _mithkáls_ of gold from the treasury
of Naishápúr.
"At Naishápúr thus lived and died Omar Khayyám, 'busied,' adds
the Vizier, 'in winning knowledge of every kind, and
especially in Astronomy, wherein he attained to a very high
pre-eminence. Under the Sultanate of Malik Shah, he came to
Merv, and obtained great praise for his proficiency in
science, and the Sultan showered favours upon him.'
"When Malik Shah determined to reform the calendar, Omar was
one of the eight learned men employed to do it; the result was
the _Jaláli_ era (so-called from _Jalal-ul-Din_, one of the
king's names)—'a computation of time,' says Gibbon, 'which
surpasses the Julian, and approaches the accuracy of the
Gregorian style.' He is also the author of some astronomical
tables, entitled 'Zíji-Maliksháhí,' and the French have lately
republished and translated an Arabic treatise of his on
Algebra.
"These severe Studies, and his verses, which, though happily
fewer than any Persian Poet's, and, though perhaps fugitively
composed, the Result of no fugitive Emotion or Thought, are
probably the Work and Event of his Life, leaving little else
to record. Perhaps he liked a little Farming too, so often as
he speaks of the 'Edge of the Tilth' on which he loved to rest
with his Diwán of Verse, his Loaf—and his Wine.
"His Takhallus or poetical name (Khayyám) signifies a
Tent-maker, and he is said to have at one time exercised that
trade, perhaps before Nizám al Mulk's generosity raised him to
independence. Many Persian poets similarly derive their names
from their occupations: thus we have Attár 'a druggist,' Assár
'an oil presser,' etc. Omar himself alludes to his name in the
following whimsical lines:—
"'Khayyám, who stitched the tents of science,
Has fallen in grief's furnace and been suddenly burned;
The shears of Fate have cut the tent ropes of his life,
And the broker of Hope has sold him for nothing!'
"We have only one more anecdote to give of his Life, and that
relates to the close; related in the anonymous preface which
is sometimes prefixed to his poems; it has been printed in the
Persian in the appendix to Hyde's _Veterum Persarum Religio_,
p. 449; and D'Herbelot alludes to it in his Bibliothéque,
under _Khiam_[B]:—
"'It is written in the chronicles of the ancients that this
King of the Wise, Omar Khayyám, died at Naishápúr in the year
of the Hegira, 517 (A.D. 1123); in science he was
unrivalled,—the very paragon of his age. Khwájah Nizámi of
Samarcand, who was one of his pupils, relates the following
story: "I often used to hold conversation with my teacher,
Omar Khayyám, in a garden; and one day he said to me, 'My tomb
shall be in a spot where the north wind may scatter roses over
it.' I wondered at the words he spake, but I knew that his
were no idle words. Years after, when I chanced to revisit
Naishápúr I went to his final resting place, and lo! it was
just outside a garden, and trees laden with fruit stretched
their boughs over the garden wall, and dropped their flowers
upon his tomb, so as the stone was hidden under them."'"
Much discussion has arisen in regard to the meaning of Omar's poetry.
Some writers have insisted on a mystical interpretation and M. Nicholas
goes so far as to state his opinion that Omar devoted himself "avec
passion à l'étude de la philosphie des Soufis." On the other hand Von
Hammer, the author of a _History of the Assassins_, refers to Omar as a
Freethinker and a great opponent of Sufism.
Probably, in the absence of agreement amongst authorities, the soundest
view is that expressed by FitzGerald's editor,[C] that the real Omar
Khayyám was a Philosopher, of scientific insight and ability far beyond
that of the Age and Country he lived in; of such moderate and worldly
Ambition as becomes a Philosopher, and such moderate wants as rarely
satisfy a Debauchee; that while the Wine Omar celebrates is simply the
Juice of the Grape, he bragged more than he drank of it, in very
defiance perhaps of that Spiritual Wine which left its Votaries sunk in
Hypocrisy or Disgust.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Quoted in the _Calcutta Review_, No. LIX.]
[Footnote B: "Philosophe Musulman qui a vécu en Odeur de Sainteté, dans
la religion vers la Fin du premier et la Commencement du second Siècle,"
no part of which, except the "Philosophe," can apply to _our_ Khayyám,
who, however, may claim the Story as _his_, on the Score of Rubáiyát,
77 and 78 of the present Version. The Rashness of the Words, according to
D'Herbelot, consisted in being so opposed to those in the Koran: "No Man
knows where he shall die."]
[Footnote C: Mr. W. Aldis Wright, M.A.]
RUBÁIYÁT
OF
OMAR KHAYYÁM.
I.
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light.
II.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky,
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
III.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted—"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
IV.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
V.
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows:
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
VI.
And David's Lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Péhlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
_Red_ Wine!"—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.
VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII.
And look—a thousand blossoms with the Day
Woke—and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.
IX.
But come with old Khayyám and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hátim Tai cry Supper—heed them not.
X.
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
And pity Sultán Máhmúd on his Throne.
XI.
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
XII.
"How sweet is mortal Sovranty"—think some:
Others—"How blest the Paradise to come!"
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a _distant_ Drum!
XIII.
Look to the Rose that blows about us—"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the World I blow:
At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
XIV.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two—is gone.
XV.
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two and went his way.
XVII.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
XVIII.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
XIX.
And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean—
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XX.
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears—
_To-morrow?_—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
XXI.
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.
XXII.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend, ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?
XXIII.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
XXIV.
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after a To-morrow stare,
A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries,
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!"
XXV.
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVI.
Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
XXVII.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.
XXVIII.
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
XXIX.
Into this Universe, and _why_ not knowing,
Nor _whence_, like Water willy-nilly flowing:
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not _whither_, willy-nilly blowing.
XXX.
What, without asking, hither hurried _whence_?
And, without asking, _whither_ hurried hence!
Another and another Cup to drown
The Memory of this Impertinence!
XXXI.
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
XXXII.
There was a Door to which I found no Key:
There was a Veil past which I could not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There seemed—and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXIII.
Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
And—"A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied.
XXXIV.
Then to the earthen Bowl did I adjourn
My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd—"While you live
Drink!—for once dead you never shall return."
XXXV.
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss'd
How many kisses might it take—and give!
XXXVI.
For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd—"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVII.
Ah, fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!
XXXVIII.
One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—
The Stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!
XXXIX.
How long, how long, in definite Pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
XL.
You know, my Friends, how long since in my House
For a new Marriage I did make Carouse:
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
XLI.
For "Is" and "Is-not" though _with_ Rule and Line,
And "Up-and-down" _without_, I could define,
I yet in all I only cared to know,
Was never deep in anything but—Wine.
XLII.
And lately by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas—the Grape!
XLIII.
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
XLIV.
The mighty Máhmúd, the victorious Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.
XLV.
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,
Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
XLVI.
For in and out, above, about, below,
'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
XLVII.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.
XLVIII.
While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink;
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee—take that, and do not shrink.
XLIX.
'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days,
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
L.
The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
_He_ knows about it all—He knows—HE knows!
LI.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
LII.
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to _It_ for help—for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.
LIII.
With Earth's first Clay They did the last Man's knead,
And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LIV.
I tell Thee this—When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtara they flung,
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
LV.
The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
It clings my Being—let the Súfi flout;
Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LVI.
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
LVII.
Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?
LVIII.
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give—and take!
* * * * *
KÚZA—NÁMA.
LIX.
Listen again. One Evening at the Close
Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose,
In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
With the clay Population round in Rows.
LX.
And, strange to tell, among that Earthern Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more impatient cried—
"Who _is_ the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
LXI.
Then said another—"Surely not in vain
My substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
Should stamp me back to common Earth again."
LXII.
Another said—"Why ne'er a peevish Boy,
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
Shall He that _made_ the Vessel in pure Love
And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!"
LXIII.
None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
LXIV.
Said one—"Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
They talk of some strict Testing of us—Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
LXV.
Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
"My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by and bye."
LXVI.
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
* * * * *
LXVII.
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Winding-sheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.
LXVIII.
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True Believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
LXIX.
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong!
Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
LXX.
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
LXXI.
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
LXXII.
Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
LXXIII.
Ah, Love! could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
LXXIV.
Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me—in vain!
LXXV.
And when Thyself with shining Foot shalt pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass!
TAMÁM SHUD.
SALÁMÁN
AND ABSÁL
JÁMI NOUREDDIN ABDURRAHMAN, Persian Poet, was born at Jam, in Khorassán,
in 1414. His best known poems are "Yúsuf and Salikha," "Majnún and
Laili," and "Salámán and Absál." In addition to his poetry, he wrote a
History of the Sufí, and other prose works. He died in the year 1492.
FitzGerald's translation of "Salámán and Absál" in Miltonic Verse was
published anonymously in 1856.
SALÁMÁN AND ABSÁL
I.
PROLOGUE.
Oh Thou whose Memory quickens Lovers' Souls,
Whose Fount of Joy renews the Lover's Tongue,
Thy Shadow falls across the World, and They
Bow down to it; and of the Rich in Beauty
Thou art the Riches that make Lovers mad.
Not till thy Secret Beauty through the Cheek
Of Laila smite does she inflame Majnún,
And not till Thou have sugar'd Shírín's Lip
The Hearts of those Two Lovers fill with Blood.
For Lov'd and Lover are not but by Thee,
Nor Beauty;—Mortal Beauty but the Veil
Thy Heavenly hides behind, and from itself
Feeds, and our Hearts yearn after as a Bride
That glances past us Veil'd—but ever so
As none the Beauty from the Veil may know.
How long wilt thou continue thus the World
To cozen with the Fantom of a Veil
From which Thou only peepest?—Time it is
To unfold thy perfect Beauty. I would be
Thy Lover, and Thine only—I, mine Eyes
Seal'd in the Light of Thee to all but Thee,
Yea, in the Revelation of Thyself
Self-Lost, and Conscience-quit of Good and Evil.
Thou movest under all the Forms of Truth,
Under the Forms of all Created Things;
Look whence I will, still nothing I discern
But Thee in all the Universe, in which
Thyself Thou dost invest, and through the Eyes
Of Man, the subtle Censor scrutinize.
To thy Harím Dividuality
No Entrance finds—no Word of This and That;
Do Thou my separate and Derivéd Self
Make one with Thy Essential! Leave me room
On that Diván which leaves no Room for Two;
Lest, like the Simple Kurd of whom they tell,
I grow perplext, Oh God! 'twixt "I" and "Thou;"
If I—this Dignity and Wisdom whence?
If Thou—then what this abject Impotence?
A Kurd perplext by Fortune's Frolics
Left his Desert for the City.
Sees a City full of Noise and
Clamour, agitated People,
Hither, Thither, Back and Forward
Running, some intent on Travel,
Others home again returning,
Right to Left, and Left to Right,
Life-disquiet everywhere!
Kurd, when he beholds the Turmoil,
Creeps aside, and, Travel-weary,
Fain would go to Sleep; "But," saith he,
"How shall I in all this Hubbub
Know myself again on waking?"
So by way of Recognition
Ties a Pumpkin round his Foot,
And turns to Sleep. A Knave that heard him
Crept behind, and slily watching
Slips the Pumpkin off the Sleeper's
Ancle, ties it round his own,
And so down to sleep beside him.
By and by the Kurd awaking
Looks directly for his Signal—
Sees it on another's Ancle—
Cries aloud, "Oh Good-for-Nothing
Rascal to perplex me so!
That by you I am bewilder'd,
Whether I be I or no!
If I—the Pumpkin why on You?
If You—then Where am I, and Who?"
Oh God! this poor bewilder'd Kurd am I,
Than any Kurd more helpless!—Oh, do thou
Strike down a Ray of Light into my Darkness!
Turn by thy Grace these Dregs into pure Wine,
To recreate the Spirits of the Good!
Or if not that, yet, as the little Cup
Whose Name I go by, not unworthy found
To pass thy salutary Vintage round!
II.
And yet how long, Jámi, in this Old House
Stringing thy Pearls upon a Harp of Song?
Year after Year striking up some new Song,
The Breath of some Old Story? Life is gone,
And yet the Song is not the Last; my Soul
Is spent—and still a Story to be told!
And I, whose Back is crookéd as the Harp
I still keep tuning through the Night till Day!
That Harp untun'd by Time—the Harper's hand
Shaking with Age—how shall the Harper's hand
Repair its cunning, and the sweet old Harp
Be modulated as of old? Methinks
'Tis time to break and cast it in the Fire;
Yea, sweet the Harp that can be sweet no more,
To cast it in the Fire—the vain old Harp
That can no more sound Sweetness to the Ear,
But burn'd may breathe sweet Attar to the Soul,
And comfort so the Faith and Intellect,
Now that the Body looks to Dissolution.
My Teeth fall out—my two Eyes see no more
Till by Feringhi Glasses turn'd to Four;
Pain sits with me sitting behind my knees,
From which I hardly rise unhelpt of hand;
I bow down to my Root, and like a Child
Yearn, as is likely, to my Mother Earth,
With whom I soon shall cease to moan and weep,
And on my Mother's Bosom fall asleep.
The House in Ruin, and its Music heard
No more within, nor at the Door of Speech,
Better in Silence and Oblivion
To fold me Head and Foot, remembering
What that Beloved to the Master whisper'd:—
"No longer think of Rhyme, but think of Me!"—
Of Whom?—of Him whose Palace The Soul is,
And Treasure-House—who notices and knows
Its Incomes and Out-going, and _then_ comes
To fill it when the Stranger is departed.
Whose Shadow—being Kings—whose Attributes
The Type of Theirs—their Wrath and Favour His—
Lo! in the Celebration of His Glory
The King Himself come on me unaware,
And suddenly arrests me for his own.
Wherefore once more I take—best quitted else—
The Field of Verse, to chaunt that double Praise,
And in that Memory refresh my Soul
Until I grasp the Skirt of Living Presence.
One who travel'd in the Desert
Saw Majnún where he was sitting
All alone like a Magician
Tracing Letters in the Sand.
"Oh distracted Lover! writing
What the Sword-wind of the Desert
Undecyphers soon as written,
So that none who travels after
Shall be able to interpret!"—
Majnún answer'd, "I am writing
'Laili'—were it only 'Laili,'
Yet a Book of Love and Passion;
And with but her Name to dote on,
Amorously I caress it
As it were Herself and sip
Her presence till I drink her Lip."
III.
When Night had thus far brought me with my Book,
In middle Thought Sleep robb'd me of myself;
And in a Dream Myself I seemed to see,
Walking along a straight and even Road,
And clean as is the Soul of the Sufí;
A Road whose spotless Surface neither Breeze
Lifted in Dust, nor mix'd the Rain to Mire.
There I, methought, was pacing tranquilly,
When, on a sudden, the tumultuous Shout
Of Soldiery behind broke on mine Ear,
And took away my Wit and Strength for Fear.
I look'd about for Refuge, and Behold!
A Palace was before me; whither running
For Refuge from the coming Soldiery,
Suddenly from the Troop a Sháhzemán,
By Name and Nature Hasan—on the Horse
Of Honour mounted—robed in Royal Robes,
And wearing a White Turban on his Head,
Turn'd his Rein tow'rd me, and with smiling Lips
Open'd before my Eyes the Door of Peace.
Then, riding up to me, dismounted; kiss'd
My Hand, and did me Courtesy; and I,
How glad of his Protection, and the Grace
He gave it with!—Who then of gracious Speech
Many a Jewel utter'd; but of these
Not one that in my Ear till Morning hung.
When, waking on my Bed, my waking Wit
I question'd what the Vision meant, it answered;
"This Courtesy and Favour of the Shah
Foreshadows the fair Acceptance of thy Verse,
Which lose no moment pushing to Conclusion."
This hearing, I address'd me like a Pen
To steady Writing; for perchance, I thought,
From the same Fountain whence the Vision grew
The Interpretation also may come True.
Breathless ran a simple Rustic
To a Cunning Man of Dreams;
"Lo, this Morning I was dreaming—
And methought, in yon deserted
Village wander'd—all about me
Shatter'd Houses—and, Behold!
Into one, methought, I went—and
Search'd—and found a Hoard of Gold!"
Quoth the Prophet in Derision,
"Oh Thou Jewel of Creation
Go and sole your Feet like Horse's,
And returning to your Village
Stamp and scratch with Hoof and Nail,
And give Earth so sound a Shaking,
She must hand you something up."
Went at once the unsuspecting
Countryman; with hearty Purpose
Set to work as he was told;
And, the very first Encounter,
Struck upon his Hoard of Gold!
Until Thou hast thy Purpose by the Hilt,
Catch at it boldly—or Thou never wilt.
IV.
THE STORY.
A Shah there was who ruled the Realm of Yún,
And wore the Ring of Empire of Sikander;
And in his Reign A Sage, who had the Tower
Of Wisdom of so strong Foundation built
That Wise Men from all Quarters of the World
To catch the Word of Wisdom from his Lip
Went in a Girdle round him—Which The Shah
Observing, took him to his Secresy;
Stirr'd not a Step nor set Design a-foot
Without that Sage's sanction; till so counsel'd,
From Káf to Káf reach'd his Dominion:
No Nation of the World or Nation's Chief
Who wore the Ring but under span of his
Bow'd down the Neck; then rising up in Peace
Under his Justice grew, and knew no Wrong,
And in their Strength was his Dominion Strong.
The Shah that has not Wisdom in Himself,
Nor has a Wise Man for his Counsellor,
The Wand of his Authority falls short,
And his Dominion crumbles at the Base.
For he, discerning not the Characters
Of Tyranny and Justice, confounds both,
Making the World a Desert, and the Fount
Of Justice a Seráb. Well was it said,
"_Better just Káfir than Believing Tyrant_."
God said to the Prophet David,—
"David, speak, and to the Challenge
Answer of the Faith within Thee.
Even Unbelieving Princes,
Ill-reported if Unworthy,
Yet, if They be Just and Righteous,
Were their Worship of The Fire—
Even These unto Themselves
Reap glory and redress the World."
V.
One Night The Shah of Yúnan, as his wont,
Consider'd of his Power, and told his State,
How great it was, and how about him sat
The Robe of Honour of Prosperity;
Then found he nothing wanted to his Heart,
Unless a Son, who his Dominion
And Glory might inherit after him,
And then he turn'd him to The Shah and said;
"Oh Thou, whose Wisdom is the Rule of Kings—
(Glory to God who gave it!)—answer me;
Is any Blessing better than a Son?
Man's prime Desire; by which his Name and He
Shall live beyond Himself; by whom his Eyes
Shine living, and his Dust with Roses blows;
A Foot for Thee to stand on, he shall be
A Hand to stop thy Falling; in his Youth
Thou shall be Young, and in his Strength be Strong;
Sharp shall he be in Battle as a Sword,
A Cloud of Arrows on the Enemy's Head;
His Voice shall cheer his Friends to Plight,
And turn the Foeman's Glory into Flight."
Thus much of a Good Son, whose wholesome Growth
Approves the Root he grew from; but for one
Kneaded of Evil—Well, could one undo
His Generation, and as early pull
Him and his Vices from the String of Time.
Like Noah's, puff'd with Ignorance and Pride,
Who felt the Stab of "He is none of Thine!"
And perish'd in the Deluge. And because
All are not Good, be slow to pray for One
Whom having you may have to pray to lose.
Crazy for the Curse of Children,
Ran before the Sheikh a Fellow
Crying out, "Oh hear and help me!
Pray to Allah from my Clay
To raise me up a fresh young Cypress,
Who my Childless Eyes may lighten
With the Beauty of his Presence."
Said the Sheikh, "Be wise, and leave it
Wholly in the Hand of Allah,
Who, whatever we are after,
Understands our Business best."
But the Man persisted, saying,
"Sheikh, I languish in my Longing;
Help, and set my Prayer a-going!"
Then the Sheikh held up his Hand—
Pray'd—his Arrow flew to Heaven—
From the Hunting-ground of Darkness
Down a musky Fawn of China
Brought—a Boy—Who, when the Tender
Shoot of Passion in him planted
Found sufficient Soil and Sap,
Took to Drinking with his Fellows;
From a Corner of the House-top
Ill affronts a Neighbour's Wife,
Draws his Dagger on the Husband,
Who complains before the Justice,
And the Father has to pay.
Day and Night the Youngster's Doings
Such—the Talk of all the City;
Nor Entreaty, Threat, or Counsel
Held him; till the Desperate Father
Once more to the Sheikh a-running,
Catches at his Garment, crying—
"Sheikh, my only Hope and Helper!
One more Prayer! that God who laid
Will take that Trouble from my Head!"
But the Sheikh replied: "Remember
How that very Day I warn'd you
Better not importune Allah;
Unto whom remains no other
Prayer, unless to pray for Pardon.
When from this World we are summon'd
On to bind the pack of Travel
Son or Daughter ill shall help us;
Slaves we are and unencumber'd
Best may do the Master's mind;
And, whatever he may order,
Do it with a Will Resign'd."
VI.
When the Sharp-witted Sage
Had heard these sayings of The Shah, he said,
"Oh Shah, who would not be the Slave of Lust
Must still endure the Sorrow of no Son.
—Lust that makes blind the Reason; Lust that makes
A Devil's self seem Angel to our Eyes;
A Cataract that, carrying havoc with it,
Confounds the prosperous House; a Road of Mire
Where whoso falls he rises not again;
A Wine of which whoever tastes shall see
Redemption's face no more—one little Sip
Of that delicious and unlawful Drink
Making crave much, and hanging round the Palate
Till it become a Ring to lead thee by
(Putting the rope in a Vain Woman's hand),
Till thou thyself go down the Way of Nothing.
For what is Woman? A Foolish, Faithless Thing—
To whom The Wise Self-subjected, himself
Deep sinks beneath the Folly he sets up.
A very Káfir in Rapacity;
Clothe her a hundred Years in Gold and Jewel,
Her Garment with Brocade of Susa braided,
Her very Night-gear wrought in Cloth of Gold,
Dangle her Ears with Ruby and with Pearl,
Her House with Golden Vessels all a-blaze,
Her Tables loaded with the Fruit of Kings,
Ispahan Apples, Pomegranates of Yazd;
And, be she thirsty, from a Jewell'd Cup
Drinking the Water of the Well of Life—
One little twist of Temper,—all you've done
Goes all for Nothing. 'Torment of my Life!'
She cries, 'What have you ever done for me!'—
Her Brow's white Tablet—Yes—'tis uninscrib'd
With any Letter of Fidelity;
Who ever read it there? Lo, in your Bosom
She lies for Years—you turn away a moment,
And she forgets you—worse, if as you turn
Her Eye should light on any Younger Lover."
Once upon the Throne of Judgment,
Telling one another Secrets,
Sat Sulayman and Balkís;
The Hearts of Both were turn'd to Truth,
Unsullied by Deception.
First the King of Faith Sulayman
Spoke—"Though mine the Ring of Empire,
Never any Day that passes
Darkens any one my Door-way
But into his Hand I look—
And He who comes not empty-handed
Grows to Honour in mine Eyes."
After this Balkís a Secret
From her hidden Bosom utter'd,
Saying—"Never Night or Morning
Comely Youth before me passes
Whom I look not longing after;
Saying to myself, 'Oh were he
Comforting of my Sick Soul!—'"
"If this, as wise Ferdúsi says, the Curse
Of Better Women, what should be the Worse?"
VII.