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 Branch
Cut 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 hand
They sprang into the Fire. The Shah who saw
In secret all had order'd; and the Flame,
Directed by his Self-fulfilling Will,
Devouring utterly Absál, pass'd by
Salámán harmless—the pure Gold return'd
Entire, but all the baser Metal burn'd.
XXIV.
Heaven's Dome is but a wondrous House of Sorrow,
And Happiness therein a lying Fable.
When first they mix'd the Clay of Man, and cloth'd
His Spirit in the Robe of Perfect Beauty,
For Forty Mornings did an Evil Cloud
Rain Sorrows over him from Head to Foot;
And when the Forty Mornings pass'd to Night,
Then came one Morning-Shower—one Morning-Shower
Of Joy—to Forty of the Rain of Sorrow!—
And though the better Fortune came at last
To seal the Work, yet every Wise Man knows
Such Consummation never can be here!
Salámán fired the Pile; and in the Flame
That, passing him, consumed Absál like Straw,
Died his Divided Self, and there survived
His Individual; and, like a Body
From which the Soul is parted, all alone.
Then rose his Cry to Heaven—his Eyelashes
Dropt Blood—his Sighs stood like a Smoke in Heaven,
And Morning rent her Garment at his Anguish.
He tore his Bosom with his Nails—he smote
Stone on his Bosom—looking then on hands
No longer lockt in hers, and lost their Jewel,
He tore them with his Teeth. And when came Night,
He hid him in some Corner of the House,
And communed with the Fantom of his Love.
"Oh Thou whose Presence so long sooth'd my Soul,
Now burnt with thy Remembrance! Oh so long
The Light that fed these Eyes now dark with Tears!
Oh Long, Long Home of Love now lost for Ever!
We were Together—that was all Enough—
We two rejoicing in each other's Eyes,
Infinitely rejoicing—all the World
Nothing to Us, nor We to all the World—
No Road to reach us, nor an Eye to watch—
All Day we whisper'd in each other's Ears,
All Night we slept in one another's Arms—
All seem'd to our Desire, as if the Hand
Of unjust Fortune were for once too short.
Oh would to God that when I lit the Pyre
The Flame had left Thee Living and me Dead,
Not Living worse than Dead, depriv'd of Thee!
Oh were I but with Thee!—at any Cost
Stript of this terrible Self-solitude!
Oh but with Thee Annihilation—lost,
Or in Eternal Intercourse renew'd!"
Slumber-drunk an Arab in the
Desert off his Camel tumbled,
Who the lighter of her Burden
Ran upon her road rejoicing.
When the Arab woke at morning,
Rubb'd his Eyes and look'd about him—
"Oh my Camel! Oh my Camel!"
Quoth he, "Camel of my Soul!—
That Lost with Her I lost might be,
Or found, She might be found with Me!"
XXV.
When in this Plight The Shah Salámán saw,
His Soul was struck with Anguish, and the Vein
Of Life within was strangled—what to do
He knew not. Then he turn'd him to The Sage—
"On Altar of the World, to whom Mankind
Directs the Face of Prayer in Weal or Woe,
Nothing but Wisdom can untie the Knot;
And art not Thou the Wisdom of the World,
The Master-Key of all its Difficulties?
Absál is perisht; and, because of Her,
Salámán dedicates his Life to Sorrow;
I cannot bring back Her, nor comfort Him.
Lo, I have said! My Sorrow is before Thee;
From thy far-reaching Wisdom help Thou Me
Fast in the Hand of Sorrow! Help Thou Me,
For I am very wretched!" Then The Sage—
"Oh Thou that err'st not from the Road of Right,
If but Salámán have not broke my Bond,
Nor lies beyond the Noose of my Firmán,
He quickly shall unload his Heart to me,
And I will find a Remedy for all."
XXVI.
Then The Sage counsell'd, and Salámán heard,
And drew the Wisdom down into his Heart;
And, sitting in the Shadow of the Perfect,
His Soul found Quiet under; sweet it seem'd,
Sweeping the Chaff and Litter from his own,
To be the very Dust of Wisdom's Door,
Slave of the Firmán of the Lord of Life,
Then The Sage marvell'd at his Towardness,
And wrought in Miracle in his behalf.
He pour'd the Wine of Wisdom in his Cup,
He laid the Dew of Peace upon his lips;
And when Old Love return'd to Memory,
And broke in Passion from his Lips, The Sage
Under whose waxing Will Existence rose
Responsive, and, relaxing, waned again,
Raising a Fantom Image of Absál
Set it awhile before Salámán's Eyes,
Till, having sow'd the Seed of Quiet there,
It went again down to Annihilation.
But ever, for the Sum of his Discourse,
The Sage would tell of a Celestial Love;
"Zuhrah," he said, "the Lustre of the Stars—
'Fore whom the Beauty of the Brightest wanes;
Who were she to reveal her perfect Beauty,
The Sun and Moon would craze; Zuhrah," he said,
"The Sweetness of the Banquet—none in Song
Like Her—her Harp filling the Ear of Heaven,
That Dervish-dances at her Harmony."
Salámán listen'd, and inclin'd—again
Repeated, Inclination ever grew;
Until The Sage beholding in his Soul
The Spirit quicken, so effectually
With Zuhrah wrought, that she reveal'd herself
In her pure Beauty to Salámán's Soul,
And washing Absál's Image from his Breast,
There reign'd instead. Celestial Beauty seen,
He left the Earthly; and, once come to know
Eternal Love, he let the Mortal go.
XXVII.
The Crown of Empire how supreme a Lot!
The Throne of the Sultán how high!—But not
For All—None but the Heaven-ward Foot may dare
To mount—The Head that touches Heaven to wear!—
When the Belov'd of Royal Augury
Was rescued from the Bondage of Absál,
Then he arose, and shaking off the Dust
Of that lost Travel, girded up his Heart,
And look'd with undefiléd Robe to Heaven.
Then was His Head worthy to wear the Crown,
His Foot to mount the Throne. And then The Shah
Summon'd the Chiefs of Cities and of States,
Summon'd the Absolute Ones who wore the Ring,
And such a Banquet order'd as is not
For Sovereign Assemblement the like
In the Folding of the Records of the World.
No arméd Host, nor Captain of a Host,
From all the Quarters of the World, but there;
Of whom not one but to Salámán did
Obeisance, and lifted up his Neck
To yoke it under his Supremacy.
Then The Shah crown'd him with the Golden Crown,
And set the Golden Throne beneath his Feet.
And over all the Heads of the Assembly,
And in the Ears of all of them, his Jewels
With the Diamond of Wisdom cut and said:—
XXVIII.
"My Son, the Kingdom of The World is not
Eternal, nor the Sum of right Desire;
Make thou the Faith-preserving Intellect
Thy Counsellor; and considering To-day
To-morrow's Seed-field, ere That come to bear,
Sow with the Harvest of Eternity.
All Work with Wisdom hath to do—by that
Stampt current only; what Thyself to do
Art wise, that _Do_; what not, consult the Wise,
Turn not thy Face away from the old Ways,
That were the Canon of the Kings of Old;
Nor cloud with Tyranny the Glass of Justice;
But rather strive that all Confusion
Change by thy Justice to its opposite.
In whatsoever Thou shalt Take or Give
Look to the _How_; Giving and Taking still,
Not by the backward Counsel of the Godless,
But by the Law of Faith increase and Give.
Drain not thy People's purse—the Tyranny
Which Thee enriches at thy Subjects' cost,
Awhile shall make Thee strong; but in the End
Shall bow thy Neck beneath a Double Burden.
The Tyrant goes to Hell—follow not Him—
"Become not Thou the Fuel of its Fires.
Thou art a Shepherd, and thy Flock the People,
To save and not destroy; nor at their Loss
To lift Thyself above the Shepherd's calling.
For which is for the other, Flock or Shepherd?
And join with Thee true Men to keep the Flock.
Dogs, if you will—but Trusty—head in leash,
Whose Teeth are for the Wolf, not for the Lamb,
And least of all the Wolf's Accomplices,
Their Jaws blood-dripping from the Tyrant's Shambles.
For Shahs must have Vizírs—but be they Wise
And Trusty—knowing well the Realm's Estate—
(For who eats Profit of a Fool? and least
A wise King girdled by a Foolish Council)—
Knowing how far to Shah and Subject bound
On either Hand—not by Extortion,
Nor Usury wrung from the People's purse,
Their Master's and their own Estates (to whom
Enough is apt enough to make them Rebel)
Feeding to such a Surplus as feeds Hell.
Proper in Soul and Body be They—pitiful
To Poverty—hospitable to the Saint—
Their sweet Access a Salve to wounded Hearts,
Their Vengeance terrible to the Evil Doer,
Thy Heralds through the Country bringing Thee
Report of Good or Ill—which to confirm
By thy peculiar Eye—and least of all
Suffering Accuser also to be Judge—
By surest Steps builds up Prosperity."
XXIX.
EPILOGUE.
Under the Outward Form of any Story
An Inner Meaning lies—This Story now
Completed, do Thou of its Mystery
(Whereto the Wise hath found himself a way)
Have thy Desire—No Tale of _I_ and Thou,
Though _I_ and Thou be its Interpreters.
What signifies The Shah? and what the Sage?
And what Salámán not of Woman born?
And what Absál who drew him to Desire?
And what the Kingdom that awaited him
When he had drawn his Garment from her Hand?
What means that Fiery Pile? and what The Sea?
And what that Heavenly Zuhrah who at last
Clear'd Absál from the Mirror of his Soul?
Learn part by part the Mystery from me;
All Ear from Head to Foot and Understanding be.
XXX.
The Incomparable Creator, when this World
He did create, created First of All
The First Intelligence—First of a Chain
Of Ten Intelligences, of which the Last
Sole Agent is in this our Universe,
Active Intelligence so call'd; The One
Distributor of Evil and of Good,
Of Joy and Sorrow, Himself apart from Matter,
In Essence and in Energy—his Treasure
Subject to no such Talisman—He yet
Hath fashion'd all that is—Material Form,
And Spiritual, sprung from Him—by Him
Directed all, and in his Bounty drown'd.
Therefore is He that Firmán-issuing Shah
To whom the World was subject. But because
What He distributes to the Universe
Himself from still a Higher Power receives,
The Wise, and all who comprehend aright,
Will recognise that Higher in The Sage.
His the Prime Spirit that, spontaneously
Projected by the Tenth Intelligence,
Was from no Womb of Matter reproduced
A Special Essence called The Soul—a Child
Fresh sprung from Heaven in Raiment undefiled
Of Sensual Taint, and therefore call'd Salámán.
And who Absál?—The Lust-adoring Body,
Slave to the Blood and Sense—through whom The Soul,
Although the Body's very Life it be,
Does yet imbibe the Knowledge and Desire
Of Things of Sense; and these united thus
By such a Tie God only can unloose,
Body and Soul are Lovers Each of other.
What is The Sea on which they sail'd?—The Sea
Of Animal Desire—the Sensual Abyss,
Under whose Waters lie a World of Being
Swept far from God in that Submersion.
And wherefore was it Absál in that Isle
Deceived in her Delight, and that Salámán
Fell short of his Desire?—That was to show
How Passion tires, and how with Time begins
The Folding of the Carpet of Desire.
And what the turning of Salámán's Heart
Back to the Shah, and looking to the Throne
Of Pomp and Glory? What but the Return
Of the Lost Soul to its true Parentage,
And back from Carnal Error looking up
Repentant to its Intellectual Throne.
What is The Fire?—Ascetic Discipline,
That burns away the Animal Alloy,
Till all the Dross of Matter be consumed,
And the Essential Soul, its Raiment clean
Of Mortal Taint, be left. But forasmuch
As any Life-long Habit so consumed,
May well recur a Pang for what is lost,
Therefore The Sage set in Salámán's Eyes
A Soothing Fantom of the Past, but still
Told of a Better Venus, till his Soul
She fill'd, and blotted out his Mortal Love.
For what is Zuhrah?—That Divine Perfection,
Wherewith the Soul inspir'd and all array'd
In Intellectual Light is Royal blest,
And mounts The Throne and wears The Crown, and Reigns
Lord of the Empire of Humanity.
This is the Meaning of This Mystery
Which to know wholly ponder in thy Heart,
Till all its ancient Secret be enlarged.
Enough—The written Summary I close,
And set my Seal:
THE TRUTH GOD ONLY KNOWS.
PERSIAN
POETRY
AN ESSAY BY
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
To Baron Von Hammer-Purgstall, who died in Vienna in 1856, we owe our
best knowledge of the Persians. He has translated into German, besides
the "Divan" of Hafiz, specimens of two hundred poets, who wrote during a
period of five and a half centuries, from A.D. 1050 to 1600. The seven
masters of the Persian Parnassus—Firdousi, Enweri, Nisami,
Dschelaleddin, Saadi, Hafiz, and Dschami[D]—have ceased to be empty
names; and others, like Ferideddin Attar and Omar Chiam, promise to rise
in Western estimation. That for which mainly books exist is communicated
in these rich extracts. Many qualities go to make a good telescope,—as
the largeness of the field, facility of sweeping the meridian,
achromatic purity of lenses, and so forth,—but the one eminent value is
the space penetrating power; and there are many virtues in books,—but
the essential value is the adding of knowledge to our stock, by the
record of new facts, and, better, by the record of intuitions, which
distribute facts, and are the formulas which supersede all histories.
Oriental life and society, especially in the Southern nations, stand in
violent contrast with the multitudinous detail, the secular stability,
and the vast average of comfort of the Western nations. Life in the East
is fierce, short, hazardous, and in extremes. Its elements are few and
simple, not exhibiting the long range and undulation of European
existence, but rapidly reaching the best and the worst. The rich feed on
fruits and game,—the poor on a watermelon's peel. All or nothing is the
genius of Oriental life. Favour of the Sultan, or his displeasure, is a
question of Fate. A war is undertaken for an epigram or a distich, as in
Europe for a duchy. The prolific sun, and the sudden and rank plenty
which his heat engenders, make subsistence easy. On the other side, the
desert, the simoom, the mirage, the lion, and the plague endanger it,
and life hangs on the contingency of a skin of water more or less. The
very geography of old Persia showed these contrasts. "My father's
empire," said Cyrus to Xenophon, "is so large, that people perish with
cold, at one extremity, whilst they are suffocated with heat, at the
other." The temperament of the people agrees with this life in
extremes. Religion and poetry are all their civilization. The religion
teaches an inexorable Destiny. It distinguishes only two days in each
man's history—his birthday, called _the Day of the Lot_, and the Day of
Judgment. Courage and absolute submission to what is appointed him are
his virtues.
The favour of the climate making subsistence easy and encouraging an
outdoor life, allows to the Eastern nations a highly intellectual
organization,—leaving out of view, at present, the genius of the
Hindoos (more Oriental in every sense), whom no people have surpassed in
the grandeur of their ethical statement. The Persians and the Arabs,
with great leisure and few books, are exquisitely sensible to the
pleasures of poetry. Layard has given some details of the effect which
the _improvvisatori_ produced on the children of the desert. "When the
bard improvised an amatory ditty, the young chief's excitement was
almost beyond control. The other Bedouins were scarcely less moved by
these rude measures, which have the same kind of effect on the wild
tribes of the Persian mountains. Such verses, chanted by their
self-taught poets, or by the girls of their encampment, will drive
warriors to the combat, fearless of death, or prove an ample reward, on
their return from the dangers of the _ghazon_, or the fight. The
excitement they produce exceeds that of the grape. He who would
understand the influence of the Homeric ballads in the heroic ages
should witness the effect which similar compositions have upon the wild
nomads of the East." Elsewhere he adds, "Poetry and flowers are the wine
and spirits of the Arab; a couplet is equal to a bottle, and a rose to a
dram, without the evil effect of either."
The Persian poetry rests on a mythology whose few legends are connected
with the Jewish history, and the anterior traditions of the Pentateuch.
The principal figure in the allusions of Eastern poetry is Solomon.
Solomon had three talismans; first, the signet-ring, by which he
commanded the spirits, on the stone of which was engraven the name of
God; second, the glass, in which he saw the secrets of his enemies, and
the causes of all things, figured; the third, the east-wind, which was
his horse. His counsellor was Simorg, king of birds, the all-wise fowl,
who had lived ever since the beginning of the world, and now lives alone
on the highest summit of Mount Kaf. No fowler has taken him, and none
now living has seen him. By him Solomon was taught the language of
birds, so that he heard secrets whenever he went into his gardens. When
Solomon travelled, the throne was placed on a carpet of green silk, of a
length and breadth sufficient for all his army to stand upon,—men
placing themselves on his right hand, and the spirits on his left. When
all were in order, the east-wind, at his command, took up the carpet and
transported it, with all that were upon it, whither he pleased,—the
army of birds at the same time flying overhead, and forming a canopy to
shade them from the sun. It is related that when the Queen of Sheba came
to visit Solomon, he had built, against her arrival, a palace, of which
the floor or pavement was of glass, laid over running water, in which
fish were swimming. The Queen of Sheba was deceived thereby, and raised
her robes, thinking she was to pass through the water. On the occasion
of Solomon's marriage, all the beasts, laden with presents, appeared
before his throne. Behind them all came the ant, with a blade of grass:
Solomon did not despise the gift of the ant. Asaph, the vizier, at a
certain time, lost the seal of Solomon, which one of the Dews, or evil
spirits, found, and, governing in the name of Solomon, deceived the
people.
Firdousi, the Persian Homer, has written in the _Shah Nameh_ the annals
of the fabulous and heroic kings of the country: of Karum (the Persian
Crœsus), the immeasurably rich gold-maker, who, with all his
treasures, lies buried not far from the Pyramids, in the sea which bears
his name; of Jamschid, the binder of demons, whose reign lasted seven
hundred years; of Kai Kaus, in whose palace, built by demons on Alburz,
gold and silver and precious stones were used so lavishly, that in the
brilliancy produced by their combined effect, night and day appeared the
same; of Afrasiyab, strong as an elephant, whose shadow extended for
miles, whose heart was bounteous as the ocean, and his hands like the
clouds when rain falls to gladden the earth. The crocodile in the
rolling stream had no safety from Afrasiyab. Yet when he came to fight
against the generals of Kaus, he was but an insect in the grasp of
Rustem, who seized him by the girdle, and dragged him from his horse.
Rustem felt such anger at the arrogance of the King of Mazinderan, that
every hair on his body started up like a spear. The gripe of his hand
cracked the sinews of an enemy.
These legends,—with Chiser, the fountain of life, Tuba, the tree of
life,—the romances of the loves of Leila and Medschun, of Chosru and
Schirin, and those of the nightingale for the rose,—pearl-diving, and
the virtues of gems,—the cohol, the cosmetic by which pearls and
eyebrows are indelibly stained black,—the bladder in which musk is
brought,—the down of the lip, the mole on the cheek, the
eyelash,—lilies, roses, tulips and jasmines,—make the staple imagery
of Persian odes.
The Persians have epics and tales, but, for the most part, they affect
short poems and epigrams. Gnomic verses, rules of life conveyed in a
lively image, especially in an image addressed to the eye, and contained
in a single stanza, were always current in the East; and if the poem is
long, it is only a string of unconnected verses. They use an
inconsecutiveness quite alarming to Western logic, and the connection
between the stanzas of their longer odes is much like that between the
refrain of our old English ballads,
"The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,"
or
"The rain it raineth every day,"
and the main story.
Take, as specimens of these gnomic verses, the following:—
"The secret that should not be blown
Not one of thy nation must know;
You may padlock the gate of a town,
But never the mouth of a foe."
Or this of Omar Chiam:—
"On earth's wide thoroughfares below
Two only men contented go:
Who knows what's right and what's forbid,
And he from whom is knowledge hid."
Here is a poem on a melon, by Adsched of Meru:—
"Colour, taste, and smell, smaragdus, sugar and musk,—
Amber for the tongue, for the eye a picture rare,—
If you cut the fruit in slices, every slice a crescent fair,—
If you leave it whole, the full harvest moon is there."
Hafiz is the prince of Persian poets, and in his extraordinary gifts
adds to some of the attributes of Pindar, Anacreon, Horace, and Burns
the insight of a mystic, that sometimes affords a deeper glance at
Nature than belongs to either of these bards. He accosts all topics with
an easy audacity. "He only," he says, "is fit for company, who knows how
to prize earthly happiness at the value of a nightcap. Our father Adam
sold Paradise for two kernels of wheat; then blame me not if I hold it
dear at one grapestone." He says to the Shah, "Thou who rulest after
words and thoughts which no ear has heard and no mind has thought,
abide firm until thy young destiny tears off his blue coat from the old
graybeard of the sky." He says:—
"I batter the wheel of heaven
When it rolls not rightly by;
I am not one of the snivellers,
Who fall thereon and die."
The rapidity of his turns is always surprising us:—
"See how the roses burn!
Bring wine to quench the fire!
Alas! the flames come up with us,—
We perish with desire."
After the manner of his nation, he abounds in pregnant sentences which
might be engraved on a sword-blade and almost on a ring. "In honour dies
he to whom the great seems ever wonderful." "Here is the sum, that, when
one door opens, another shuts." "On every side is an ambush laid by the
robber-troops of circumstance; hence it is that the horseman of life
urges on his courser at headlong speed." "The earth is a host who
murders his guests." "Good is what goes on the road of Nature. On the
straight way the traveller never misses."
"Alas! till now I had not known
My guide and Fortune's guide are one."
"The understanding's copper coin
Counts not with the gold of love."
"'Tis writ on Paradise's gate,
'Woe to the dupe that yields to Fate!'"
"The world is a bride superbly dressed;
Who weds her for dowry must pay his soul."
"Loose the knots of the heart; never think on thy fate;
No Euclid has yet disentangled that snarl."
"There resides in the grieving
A poison to kill;
Beware to go near them,
'Tis pestilent still."
Harems and wine-shops only give him a new ground of observation, whence
to draw sometimes a deeper moral than regulated sober life affords,—and
this is foreseen:—
"I will be drunk and down with wine;
Treasures we find in a ruined house."
Riot, he thinks, can snatch from the deeply hidden lot the veil that
covers it:—
"To be wise the dull brain so earnestly throbs,
Bring bands of wine for the stupid head."
"The Builder of heaven
Hath sundered the earth,
So that no footway
Leads out of it forth.
"On turnpikes of wonder
Wine leads the mind forth,
Straight, sidewise, and upward,
West, southward, and north.
"Stands the vault adamantine
Until the Doomsday;
The wine-cup shall ferry
Thee o'er it away."
That hardihood and self-equality of every sound nature, which result
from the feeling that the spirit in him is entire and as good as the
world, which entitle the poet to speak with authority, and make him an
object of interest, and his every phrase and syllable significant, are
in Hafiz, and abundantly fortify and ennoble his tone.