and Saints,' that the sweet-soul'd, God-absorb'd Rábia—the Saint Teresa
and Madame Guyon of Persia—was once asked: 'Dost thou hate the Devil?'
'_No!_' she replied. And they asked: 'Why not?' '_Because_,' said she,
'_my love to God leaves me no time to hate him_.'[22] We confess,
however, that we _have_ hated this new-patch'd Omar Khayyám of Mr.
Fitzgerald, and have even at times been tempted to scorn the miserable,
self-deluded, unhealthy fanatics of his Cult. But when we have looked
again into the shining face and the glad eyes of Jeláleddín, 'the Glory
of Religion,' our hate has passed into pity and our scorn into
compassion. In the light of that bright Vision we cannot pause—we have
'no time' nor inclination for it—to deal, as it deserves, with this
latest literary craze and delusion. The Persian Scholars have been
amazed, and earnest Critics who still believe in the spiritual purpose
of Poetry, have been distressed by this infatuation of the young free
English mind, whose issue can only be the humiliation of convicted
ignorance, spurious idolatry, and vain remorseful regret after the mad
midnight debauch. All that is highest and noblest and truest in manhood
is not to be thus wilfully flung away for nothing, or to be foolishly
bartered for the smart Epigrams of the rudest wit and shallowest
reflection. Mr. Fitzgerald by clever tailoring has indeed clothed his
Satan in the well-fitting robes of an Angel of Light so that he might
'seduce, if it were possible, the very Elect,'—but for _them_ all in
vain do such 'lean and flashy songs, grate on their scrannel pipes of
wretched straw.' He has not hesitated even to eke out his vapid
pessimistic song with verses of his own, and to make his poor old Omar's
voice more cracked, querulous and quavering than it ever really was. And
he has therefore rightly enough separated his Bacchanalian Rhymster from
the holy Choir of the sweet-voiced Persian Songsters who ever made all
the grove vocal with devout praise of God. Mr. Fitzgerald's Omar—he
himself declares—is not a Sufi poet at all; he is but an old tipsy
toper, whose drink is literally and really that of Bacchus; and he
drinks—and _drinks_!—and _drinks_! till we hear him snore even in broad
day, and till his dimm'd eyes and fuddled brain cannot distinguish the
plainest things even in the clearest light. With Fitzgerald's hero it is
the old, sad story over again; it is _drinking—not deep thinking at
all_!—that has brought him to this. Surely we know the 'Astronomer Poet'
quite well now. M. Nicolas, and still better, Mr. Whinfield, have given
us his own Persian Quatrains, and Mr. Payne has translated them best of
all; but Edward Fitzgerald has turned them into a strange haunting music
of his own, and in his hands the Astronomer Poet becomes _really_ what
our gifted friend Mr. Coulson Kernahan has so graphically and terribly
depicted: A LITERARY GENT, A Study in Vanity and Dipsomania! Who cares
now for his senile scepticism, his pessimistic whine, his withered
cynicism, his agnostic blindness and despair, his insolent misanthropy,
his impotent blasphemies? We know it all too well; it is only the work
of shattered nerves, a muddled brain, and irreligious self-dissipation.
See how the Astronomer Poet staggers along to his watch-tower, with that
tell-tale nose and flushed brow! How his trembling hands fumble as he
vainly tries to focus the stars! How his bleared eyes can find neither
Zenith nor Azimuth, Algol nor Aldeboran, nor the Pointers, nor the Pole
Star; and how impudently he swears in his blindness, that he too has
swept through the Heavens and found _no God_! that man is but a 'Pot _of
Clay_,' without freedom and without hope! and that all the World is
bitter and hollow and bad! _Great Thinker_, forsooth! Well and truly
does he himself say that he was 'never _deep_ in anything but—_Wine_'!
But Mr. Fitzgerald protests that while Omar was not a Mystic, but only a
Bacchanalian Poet, and 'that while the Wine Omar celebrates is simply
the Juice of the Grape, he _bragged_ more than he drank of it.' But this
surely is to make him worse morally than the poor will-broken,
self-abandoned drunkard! Yet after all, the excuse of 'the moderate
drinker' is never quite to be trusted, as Mr. Fitzgerald himself in this
case only too fully proves. The 'Tavern' too is a literal Tavern, and
his very first presentation of his Hero introduces him to us crying for
fresh air at cock-crow, after the night's carouse, and his kindred
thirsty votaries shouting from the outside to get in:
'And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted—"Open then the Door!"'
We soon find that he has only one fixed Article in his Creed—the
_certainty_ of Annihilation:
'One thing at least is certain—_This_ Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.'
The _only_ thing here _certain_ however, is that this, according to all
Persian Prosody, is a _bad_, illegitimate Quatrain, and Omar himself
would never have rhymed it thus! And notwithstanding these 'brave
words,' it seems almost certain that the poor soul of the 'Astronomer
Poet' did not entirely die out with his last unsavoury breath; for is
there not the strongest _internal_ evidence—and pray, mark it well, in
these days of the Higher Criticism—that it was Omar Redivivus, in an
ill-starred, yet most sincere and loveable Rustic Bard of our own, who
sang gloriously at the same psychological moment, with his own
boon-companions, after seven centuries of world-wide drinking, again:
'It is the moon, _I ken her horn_,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bricht to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!
We are na fou, we're no that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee;
The _Cock may craw_, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree!'
We are sorry to believe, notwithstanding Mr. Fitzgerald's rather lame
and halting Apology, that it became, more and more, a confirmed habit;
and that 'willy-nilly' the old Nature-tyrant had it out with him too.
Alas! that it should so often be so with these genial poetic
souls-poets, who in their youth 'begin in gladness, and thereof in the
end doth come Despondency and Madness'! In vain does the much-admired
Translator protest; for again he shows poor parched old Khayyám 'by the
Tavern Door _agape_'!; the Nightingale only pipes to him 'Wine! Wine!
Wine!'; his burden of Clay 'with long Oblivion is gone _dry_'!; his last
hope and only prayer is: 'Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And
_wash the Body_ whence the Life has died'; and his last word and the
final horror is—'an _empty_ Glass!' But he is much more candid in his
'cups' than his ingenious Translator, as all such are wont at a certain
stage to be; for he quite frankly tells us his Rule of Life: 'Drink!—for
once dead you never shall return!' Nay, he takes us, in the most
friendly way and with irresistible candour, into his most intimate
confidence, and informs us how and when, and how deliberately, when he
found out 'the sorry Scheme of Things,' his glorified new Creed and
boasted new Life came about:—
'You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced _old barren Reason_ from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse!'
And what _possibly_ could come of it, but what _did_ come? When it could
no longer be disputed that the Day _was_ dawning, _then_ the Reckoning
_must_ be settled, and his last leering grin is for his drunken
boon-companions, now alas! ignominiously low:—
'Landlady, count the lawin',
The Day is near the dawin';
_Ye're a' blind drunk, boys,
And I'm but jolly fou_.
Hey tutti, taiti,
How tutti, taiti—
_Wha's fou now?_'
O ye self-blinded, neurotic Votaries of the Omar Khayyám Cult, be warned
in time: for be sincerely assured that on counting 'the lawin', Paying
the Reckoning will be all that you will ever get, even at your drunkest,
out of this bankrupt, blustering, purblind Braggart!
To crown all his fatal Candour, Omar insists, as with a sigh of vain
regret, on most truly telling us his own callous judgment of it all,
seeing some faint inextinguishable spark of Conscience still remained in
him, as in the Ancient Mariner:—
'Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have _drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup
And sold my Reputation for a song_!'
So, too, with Edward Fitzgerald, who, with consummate skill, has here
played the part of 'Mr. Sludge, the Medium' to perfection. And we only
wish that Robert Browning, in his Berserker rage over the painful
betrayal of what was dearest to him in life, had 'spit' _this_, and not
what he frantically did, 'in his face' as it burst from him in scorn of
one who confessed:—
'I cheated when I could,
Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work!...'
_'R-r-r ... Cowardly scamp!
I only wish I could burn down the house,
And spoil your sniggering._'[23]
But no! we have 'no time' to waste in hating even this dram-drinking,
drivelling, droning Dotard. For hark!—'That strain I heard was of a
higher mood'! Its very first note 'laps us in Elysium,' and we at once
forget man's self-inflicted misery and all his morbid diseases and
cares—'Do I wake or sleep?'...
... 'Tender is the Night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no Light
Save what from Heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what Flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft Incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable Month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child
The coming musk-rose full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves....
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The Voice I heard this passing Night was heard
In ancient days by Emperor and clown;
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic-casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.'
Yes; that is surely the sweetest, the tenderest, the heavenliest of all
the Persian Nightingales, come back to us in our sorest need, and
singing to us amid the glory of the Resurrection of Life, in the
Festival of another Spring, as he never sang in the English air before.
It is a Western youthful Poet's Dream of JELÁLEDDÍN renewing the first
notes of his immortal song, and chanting again the Hymn of Eternal Life,
solemn yet joyous, mystic yet clear: stirring what is deepest in our
heart and driving away our sorrow, till 'all the pulses of our being,
reanimated, beat anew!'
'O ye hopes, that stir within me,
Health comes with you from above!
God is with me, God is in me!
I cannot die, if Life be Love.'
Thus does our own deep, mystic Singer, Coleridge, echo, in kindred
strains, the deepest Faith of JELÁLEDDÍN.
W. H.
[1] Geschichte der schönen Redekünste Persiens, mit einer Blüthenlese
aus zweihundert persischen Dichtern. Von Joseph von Hammer. Wien, 1818.
Pp. 163-198. The petty criticism of some of Von Hammer's details has no
relevancy here, and is hardly worth referring to in connection with his
gigantic achievements. There are spots on the Sun!
[2] Mesnevi oder Doppelverse des Scheich Mewlânâ Dschelâl-ed-dín Rumi.
Aus dem Persischen übertragen von Georg Rosen. 1849.
[3] Works of Sir William Jones, Vol. IV., On the Mystical Poetry of the
Persians and Hindus. See Note A.
[4] History of Persia. 1815. Sir John Malcolm was surprised in Persia,
as Rosen was at Constantinople, by the knowledge which the common people
had of the great Persian Poets. He says:—'I was forcibly struck with
this fact during my residence in Persia. I found several of my servants
well acquainted with the poetry of their country; and when I was at
Isfahan in 1800, I was surprised to hear a common tailor that was at
work repairing one of my tents, entertain his companions with repeating
some of the finest of the mystical odes of Háfidz.'
[5] Biographical Notices of Persian Poets, etc. 1846. A conscientious
bit of work for the time, but inadequately edited, and now practically
superseded.
[6] One e.g. by F. Falconer (but not in the Persian form) in July, 1839.
[7] The Mesnevi (usually known as the Mesneviyi Sherīf, or Holy Mesnevi
of Mevlānā (our Lord) Jelálu-'d-dín, Muhammed, er-Rumi). Book the First,
etc., by James W. Redhouse. London, 1881.
Masnavi i Ma'navi. The Spiritual Couplets of Maulána Jalálu-'d-dín
Muhammad Rumi, Translated and abridged by E. H. Whinfield, M.A., Late of
H.M. Bengal Civil Service. 2nd Ed. 1898 (with an interesting
Introduction).
[8] Selected Poems from the Dīvāni Shamsi Tabrīz. Edited and Translated
with an Introduction, Notes, and Appendices, by Reynold A. Nicholson,
M.A., Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. Cambridge University Press,
1898.
[9] A Literary History of Persia From the Earliest Times until
Firdawsí. By Edward G. Browne, M.A., M.B., Sir Thomas Adams' Professor
of Arabic and sometime Lecturer in Persian in the University of
Cambridge, 1902.
[10] Hegel's Encyklopädie der philosophischen Wissenschaften im
Grundrisse. § 573. Werke, Bd. VII, 461.
[11] Wallace's Hegel's Philosophy of Mind translated. Oxford, 1894, p.
190.—The four Gazels from which Hegel quotes, are given in the following
Series in the Rückert-Persian form—as XLVIII, XII, XLIII, II.
[12] As regards Hegel's Philosophy of Art generally, and the particular
point under consideration, reference may be allowed to my little book:
'The Philosophy of Art, by Hegel and C. L. Michelet,' 1886. See
especially pp. 94-6.
[13] Hegel's Werke, X, 473. For Hegel's view of the character of the
Persian Lyrical Poetry, see note _B_. M. Bénard's French Translation,
which has been much praised, gives the passage quoted above, only in a
summary form, and in it the reference to Rückert is entirely left out.
He too, like so many other translators, has the happy knack of slipping
over a troublesome phrase at times, while gracefully flourishing an
elegant sentence before the delighted eyes of his guileless Reader!
[14] Ssufismus sive Theosophia Persarum Pantheistica quam ex MSS.
Persicis, Arabicis, Turcicis, fruit atque illustravit F. A. G. Tholuck.
1821.
[15] Blüthensammlung aus der Morgenländischen Mystik, nebst einer
Einleitung über Mystik überhaupt und Morgenländische insbesondere. Von
F. A. G. Tholuck, Professor zu Berlin. 1825.
[16] Werke, x. 468.
[17] Specimen Poeseos Persicae. Vienna, 1771.
[18] A specimen of Persian Poetry, or Odes of Hafez: with an English
Translation and Paraphrase ... chiefly from Baron Revizky. By John
Richardson, F.S.A., 1774. 2nd Ed. by Rousseau, 1802.
[19] Grammatik, Poetik und Rhetorik der Perser. Nach dem siebenten
Bande des Heft Kolzum, Dargestellt von Friedrich Rückert. Neu
herausgegeben von W. Pertsch, 1874, p. 57.
[20] A History of Ottoman Poetry, 1900, p. 80. See also Mr. Gibb's
Ottoman Poems, 1882, p. xxxvi. Both contain excellent Gazels.
[21] Hafiz of Shiraz: Selections from his Poems by H. Bicknell. 1875.
[22] E. G. Browne, _Op. cit._ p. 399.
[23] If anyone is inclined to think anything in this criticism—which
has been much curtailed—too severe, let him or her turn to Von Hammer's
Account of Omar Khayyám in Note C and following Remarks.
Gazels of Jeláleddín
Done into English
'Why heed the Critics who delight to dart
Their sneer-tipped arrows at translator's art?
The poet's work remains his own at last
Though it in other languages be cast.
And in the sky of Fame it still will shine,
By that which made it at the first divine.
But in this foreign dress some soul may see
A hint of that which fascinated me;
Some deep impression be still deeper made
When by our muse-beloved tongue conveyed;
Some beauty be with newer beauty set;
Some thought that will with fresh emotion fret
Some gentle breast, or with strange music sweep
O'er heaving waters of the spirit's deep.'
EDWARD ROBESON TAYLOR of San Francisco.
Light
I.
Until the glorious Sun hath vanquished Night,
The Birds of Day cower trembling with affright.
But lo! a bright glance bids the Tulip ope;
O Heart, awake thou too, in Duty's might.
The Sun's Sword sheds in reddening flush of Dawn
The Blood of Night, and puts the Foe to flight.
The Soul still full of sleep, dreams Night prevails;
But no! Day comes, and triumphs full in sight.
While grey Dawn lingers, dubious yet is Day;
But in Day's glow, who still can doubt the Light.
The Light grows in the East; I in the West
On Mountain top, reflect the Morn's delight.
To Beauty's Sun, I'm but the pale moon here;
Then look from me towards the Sun's face bright.
The Light in East is called JELÁLEDDÍN[24];
And here my verse reflects its glowing White.
[24] The Splendour of the Faith.
Death and Life
II.
Death endeth sure Life's need and pain;
Yet Life in fear would Death restrain.
Life only sees dark Death's dread Hand,
Not that bright Cup it offered plain.
So shrinks from Love the tender Heart,
As if from threat of being slain.
But when true Love awakens, dies
The Self, that despot dark and vain.
Then let him die in Night's black hour,
And freely breathe in Dawn again.
Invocation
III.
Soul of mine, thou dawning Light: Be not far, O be not far!
Love of mine, thou Vision bright: Be not far, O be not far!
Life is where thou smilest sweetly; Death is in thy parting look;
Here mid Death and Life's fierce fight: Be not far, O be not far!
I am East when thou art rising; I am West when thou dost set;
Bring Heaven's own radiant hues to sight: Be not far, O be not far!
See how well my Turban fitteth, yet the Parsee Girdle binds me;
Cord and Wallet I bear light: Be not far, O be not far!
True Parsee and true Brahman, a Christian, yet a Mussulman;
Thee I trust, Supreme by Right: Be not far, O be not far!
In all Mosques, Pagodas, Churches, I do find One Shrine alone;
Thy Face is there my sole delight: Be not far, O be not far!
Thine the World's all-loving Heart; and for it I yearn and pray;
O take not from my Heart thy flight: Be not far, O be not far!
Thee, the World's Eternal Centre, here I circle round in prayer;
Thy absence is last judgment quite: Be not far, O be not far!
Thine, Judgment Day and Blessedness: Mine is Bliss when Thou art nigh;
Keep me circling in thy Might: Be not far, O be not far!
Fair World Rose, O blossom forth; sweet Heart-buds unfold in Love;
Put on the longing Soul's pure White: Be not far, O be not far!
O Rose, hear through Night's silence, how he thrills—thy Nightingale;
As if I did his Notes indite: Be not far, O be not far!
JELÁLEDDÍN, all loving, let Love's Heart resist no more:
Hear him chaunting, Day and Night: Be not far, O be not far!
Faith
IV.
All Unbelief is Midnight, but Faith the Night-Lamp's glow;
Then see that no Thief cometh to steal thy Lamp when low.
Our Hope is for the Sunlight, from which the Lamp did shine;
The Light from which it kindled, still feeds its flame below.
But when the Sun hath risen, both Night and Lamp go out;
And Unbelief and Faith then, the higher Vision know.
O Night! Why art thou dreaming? O Lamp! Why flickerest so?
The swift Sun-horses panting, from East their fire-foam throw.
'Tis Night still in the shadow; the village Lamp burns dim;
But in Dawn's Splendour towering, the Peaks Heaven's Glory show.
Dawn
V.
The Day has dawned, thy festal Day, O Rose;
Our cheeks all glow in thy bright Ray, O Rose.
Love was the Gardener of the Rose-bed there;
And now thy Flower blooms forth all gay, O Rose.
When Herald Breezes blew: _The Rose!_ the Flowers
Kneeling to thee glad Homage pay, O Rose.
The Tulips danced; the Lilies, drinking there,
Their brightest hues to thee display, O Rose.
The Cypress whispered to the Ivy: Wake!
Why dream'st thou, Child? She dreamed thy Play, O Rose;
The Nightingale a thousand long nights through
But trilled thy own sweet Melody, O Rose.
The Heavens more fair assume thy radiant form,
But thou outviest their Phantasy, O Rose.
The Rose a message brings from Paradise
Where Souls for thee all eager stay, O Rose.
The Rose brings greeting to the Soul from Home;
The Soul forgets thee not for aye, O Rose.
The Rose unfolds the Sign of Beauty there:
God's Seal Himself the Poets say, O Rose.
The Soul crowns all Man's festal Cup of Joy;
That he with thee may breathe Life's May, O Rose.
The Rose is twined in all Life's gladdest Bonds,
That Love from Man ne'er flee away, O Rose.
Be closed in Buds thy Lips; but there let shine
The Smile that ever in thee lay, O Rose.
Allah Hu!
VI.
Sound Drum and mellow Flute, resounding: ALLAH HU[25]!
Dance, ruddy Dawn, in Gladness bounding: ALLAH HU!
Sun exalted in the Centre, O thou streaming Light;
Soul of all wheeling Planets rounding: ALLAH HU!
O Hearts! O Worlds! how soon your Dancing all would stop,
Did not His Power sustain astounding! ALLAH HU!
Love mazy, winding, changing, all embraces,
The Night, the Dawn, the Day, resounding: ALLAH HU!
Boom, Sea! on Shore, and Rock, thy Music praising God;
O Nightingale to Rose trill, sounding: ALLAH HU!
O Soul, what if one Star should falter in the Dance?
His Will is Order ever founding: ALLAH HU!
Who knows Love's mazy circling, ever lives in God;
For Death, he knows, is Love abounding: ALLAH HU!
[25] HE is GOD.
Spring
VII.
O Eyes, go forth the Spring to view,
That smiles upon our Plains anew.
A Heavenly Child in cradling Flowers,
Sweet Breath from Skies unclouded drew.
The Morning Breeze his Nurse, that rocked
His Cradle, with soft Lullings due.
The Baby feigns to sleep, and blinks,
Shutting his little Eyelids two.
And when the Lids are oped again,
The Eyebrows drip with sparkling Dew.
The Bees hum round and busy sip
The Nectar, and make Honey new.
O come, and let the Baby's smiles
And Laughter, pierce thee through and through.
O come, and leave your wintry Cell,
And let Heaven's Light thy Life renew.
And build new Cells with honey'd Wax,
Plann'd like the Bees' six-sided, true.
And warmed by radiant Fire of Flowers,
Old Winter's reign of Death undo.
Regret is dead; Love lives again;
New Life transforms the Landscape's Hue.
Bold enter, then, green Spring's loved Haunts,
And drink fresh Wine, nor fear to rue.
And drinking full Love's sweetest Draught,
The glowing Heart new Love shall woo.
Love wakes afresh in Earth and Heaven;
The Rose in green, the Sun in blue.
O Nightingale, behold thy Rose!
O Eagle, thy bright Sun pursue!
Spring's Festival
VIII.
Our Fasting is over; 'tis Spring's festal Day: Hallelu!
O dearest Guest welcome, all Sorrow's away: Hallelu!
O Love once forsaken, forsaken Heart now be forsaken;
Thy loved One has come, and for ever will stay: Hallelu!
The Parting is parted; the Sev'rance at last is all sever'd;
The Union united, without more delay: Hallelu!
The Flight is now flown off; the Banishment's pain is now banished;
All distant the Distance; our Bird Nest all gay: Hallelu!
The Moon in the Heavens, the Rose in the Heart, in Love's Garden;
The King in his Palace, proud Banners display: Hallelu!
Life stirs in the Rootlet; soft Sap in the Leaflet is spreading;
Green Buds on the Branches are crowning his Sway: Hallelu!
Let come our Foe hated, for now will he meet our Defender;
We scorn and defy him, all safe now for aye: Hallelu!
Yea, flood me all over, all over with Fire of Love burning;
Now well can I bear it; I'll ne'er burn away: Hallelu!
And now it is certain my Soul is bound up in Salvation;
And all of Earth's sadness is sunk in Earth's clay: Hallelu!
O Chalice full brimming, poured out for the thirst of the worlds;
We thank thee, we bless thee, and drink while we pray: Hallelu!
Long parch'd lay the World, a Desert profane, till thy Breath came
On Wings of the Morning, when bright the Dew lay: Hallelu!
We longed as we waited for Spring's Sun our Life to renew;
JELÁLEDDÍN'S warm Breath from East came to-day: HALLELU!
Dependence
IX.