To my Friend's Heart, I give this Rose of mine.
Clear Thought dies out in Love's absorbed Delight,
As Weeds grow pale before the Rose and pine.
The Rose hides in her Heart the piercing Thorn,
For deepest hidden Pains with Love entwine.
The Rose is Beauty perfected in One,
Her Charms all glowing, Heaven and Earth outshine.
The full blown Rose in Splendour dims the Sun;
Each quivering Leaflet shows a Moon's design.
The Sun's sphered Light is moulded in her Form,
While bright-eyed Stars keep watch around her Shrine.
O Sun, the Rose that made the Moon to grow,
To my Heart's Friend give Love and Joy divine!
The Friend Supreme
XL.
O what a Friend is mine!
O what a burning Flame!
My Heart was parched and dead,
Till His Breath o'er me came.
When I before Him fled,
By Love's Keen Pang distressed;
He cried, Why dost thou flee?
Thou art thyself to blame.
At Night I asked the Moon,
Where hid my Moon still stayed?
She said, My Cheek grew pale,
In Fear when told His Name.
The Sun, when risen, I asked,
And why art thou so dim?
He said, My Eyelids dull
In Tears have veil'd their Shame.
And to the Sea I said,
Why canst thou not be still?
She answer'd, Deep Unrest
Will leave me ne'er the Same.
I cried to Fire, Flame Queen:
Why flickerest thou So?
On me, she cried, He looked,
And quench'd all Earthly Aim.
I shouted then, O Wind:
Why hurriest to and fro?
She gasped, His Breath consumes me,
Whene'er my Pace I tame!
But what in me, too, meaneth
This elemental Strife?
The Cup in my Hand shaketh,
And Fever thrills my Frame.
In Revel's Glow enraptured,
His Love I know my own:
Then, come, pour foaming Wine out,
Till o'er All flows His Name.
Immortality
XLI.
I am the Bird of Paradise;
And still my Nest is in the Skies.
I am the Spirit Falcon, flown
From Heav'n's Tent, where it open lies.
But in my eager Chase of Prey,
I fell to where new Sense Worlds rise.
I am the Hero of Mount Kaf,[29]
Who braves the Death the Weakling flies.
I look on high, until he call
Me home from this far Enterprise.
I look up steadfast, searching keen,
Until my Gaze the Throne descries.
There all secure my Nest bides near
The Tree of Life, where Nothing dies.
[29] Simurg. Also the name of the Phoenix (Von Hammer), but according
to Steingass, the Griffin.
The First and Last
XLII.
Thou art of all Man's Joys the Spring;
Life's honey'd Sweetness thou dost bring.
My gather'd Pearls, from Bosom full,
Before thy Feet my glad Hands fling.
The Souls love-moved, are circling on,
Like Streams to their great Ocean King.
Thou art the Sun of all Men's Thoughts;
Thy Kisses are the Flowers of Spring.
The Dawn is pale from yearning Love;
The Moon in Tears is sorrowing.
Thou art the Rose; and deep for thee,
In Sighs, the Nightingales still sing.
O can my Love me so despise,
That he my Heart with Pain can wring?
O Wine of Life, all fragrant, pour,
And soothe the Pain of Death's last Sting!
Mystic Love Dance
XLIII.
On with the Dance! We fly upon the Wings of Love;
We glow in all the Joys and scorn the Stings of Love.
I heard Love joyous calling from out the Realm of Death;
Lo! God hath drown'd dark Death now in living Springs of Love.
The Power of Life that loosen'd my Band when I was born,
That Hour my Mother gave me the Leading Strings of Love.
I asked Love's Self, fond nursing: How shall I Love escape?
She said: There is no Outlet from encircling Rings of Love.
Love's magic Mirror radiates a Thousand Worlds most fair;
And wondering Eyes look dazzled on all it brings of Love.
Thy Body's gold surrender to Love's refining Flames,
The Gold is Dross till boiling, all pure, it sings of Love.
I tell thee why the Ocean aye tosses glittering Spray:
It dances and it glances with Gems, Playthings of Love.
I tell thee how was Mankind a-formed from Earthy Dust:
God in the Dust inbreathèd sweet Whisperings of Love.
I tell thee why the Heavens for ever circle round:
God's Throne set in the Centre, draws All on Wings of Love.
I tell thee why the Zephyr at Morn so softly blows:
To flutter every Leaflet with the Kiss it flings of Love.
I tell thee why Night hideth in Veil so dark her Face:
She makes the World a bridal Tent, and darkling sings of Love.
I can divine all Riddles Creation puts to me,
For to her Riddles Ever, Man the Answer brings of Love.
Dream Fear
XLIV.
O Love, the Realm of Dreams
Is thine; they come, unsought:
With fiery Weapons, throng'd,
As if whole Armies fought.
The Standard of thy Rule,
Hot Hearts bear in the Van;
It flames till Worlds, o'ercome,
Beneath thy Sway are brought.
Thou, ever and again,
Sendst out a Phantom Form;
Till cower weak, trembling Souls,
Like Children terror-wrought.
But when a Soul resigns,
Thou, Victor, marchest in:
A Conqueror—lovelier far
Than ever Soul had thought.
The Cry of Love
XLV.
My Soul sends up to Heaven each Night the Cry of Love!
Hu! Hu![30]
God's starry Beauty draws with Might the Cry of Love!
Hu! Ya!
Bright Sun and Moon each Morn dance in my Heart at Dawn;
And waking me in Daylight, excite the Cry of Love!
On every Meadow glancing, I see God's Sunbeams play;
And all Creation's Wonders incite the Cry of Love!
The Turtledove embowered, awakened by my Call,
Returns to me in coo'd Delight, the Cry of Love!
Gu! Gu!
The Crag on whose bare Forehead thy Light in Glory falls,
Resounds in Echoes clear, aright the Cry of Love!
Men! Hu!
For all the Flowers sweet blowing in timid Silence there,
For deaf Worms, too, I offer God's Rite, the Cry of Love!
The Ocean's speechless Billows sound ever loud thy Praise;
And all in rolling Anthems recite the Cry of Love!
To thee for every Rosebud and every Dewdrop fair,
And every Gem, deep hidden, I plight the Cry of Love!
Hu! Ya!
I, All in All becoming, now clear see God in All;
And up for Union yearning, takes Flight the Cry of Love!
Hu! Hu!
[30] Rückert does not give these Exclamations, but Von Hammer does.
Hu!=HE!
Night Thought
XLVI.
Sleep not, O Thought, my Guest—the livelong Night!
I bring thee Friendship's best—the livelong Night!
Thou, like an Angel's Breath, from Heaven hast come,
To heal me while I rest—the livelong Night!
Banish dull Slumber, let Heaven's Mystery sing,
From out his secret Nest—the livelong Night!
Shine clear, ye circling Stars, that in your Rays,
The Soul its Vision test—the livelong Night!
Ye Diamonds, sparkling in your dark Retreats,
Rival the starry West—the livelong Night!
Soar up, O Eagle, Sunwards—higher, higher!
Be still thy Flight up pressed—the livelong Night!
Thank God, the World now sleeps; alone are God
And I, all God-possess'd—the livelong Night!
The Night is calm and deep, and Heaven's own Lyre,
Sounds soft, as Star-caress'd—the livelong Night!
War's Turmoil whirling through the starry Streets,
New spheral Choirs attest—the livelong Night!
With Lion, Bull, and Ram, all warlike gleam
Orion's Sword and Crest—the livelong Night!
Scorpion and Dragon seize the Crown, while weeps
The Virgin sore opprest—the livelong Night!
My Tongue sinks dumb with rapture, drunk with Love;
Now, Thought, brood, silent, blest—the livelong Night!
Up out of Night
XLVII.
O for Wings to Heaven to soar—
Up out of Night!
A Heart to Struggle to Light's Shore—
Up out of Night!
Lo! How God's Messengers of Love,
In dancing Dawn:
In Life and Light new Worlds restore,
Up out of Night!
See in the West how Daylight there,
Slow Sinking down:
Looks back, with Love all blushing sore,
Up out of Night!
And now in East where she again,
Doth rise all fair;
Blooms Rose Dawn, brightening as of yore,
Up out of Night!
Time's Memories clear and Life's bright Hopes
Together twine:
Hands loving stretch to us once more,
Up out of Night!
The Eternal Stars all sparkling ope
Their radiant Eyes;
And flash anew deep Wisdom's Lore,
Up out of Night!
And ere Heavens full-blown Rose shall fade,
The endless Day
Shall rise in Bliss at thy Heart's Core,
Up out of Night!
O Nightingale that woos for aye
The Heavenly Rose:
Now, now thy deepest Love Notes pour,
Up out of Night!
All One
XLVIII.
I looked around, and saw in all Heaven's Spaces: One!
In Ocean's rippling Waves and billowy Races: One!
I looked into the Heart, and saw a Sea, wide Worlds
All full of Dreams, and in all Dreaming Faces: One!
Thou art the First, the Last, the Outer, Inner, Whole:
Thy Light breaks through in all Earth's Hues and Graces: One!
Thou seest All from East to furthest Bound of West,
And lo! each Leaf and Flower and Tree Crown traces: One!
Four wild and restive Steeds draw on the World's vast Car;
Thou bridlest them, and rul'st in all their Paces: One!
Air, Fire, Earth, Water melt to One in Fear of thee;
Nor struggle wild, but show in close Embraces: One!
The Hearts of all that live in Earth and Heav'n above,
Beat Praise to thee; nor fails in all their Places—One.
O Wake in Me
XLIX.
When all the World has gone to rest,
O Wake in Me!
When tired Eyes close by Sleep opprest,
O Wake in Me!
When Eyes in Heaven all sleepless watch
with Starry gaze,
Make my blind Orbs thy Home as Guest,
O Wake in Me!
When all my outer Gates of Sense,
are shut and bar'd;
Lest, lone, my Soul be fear-possest,
O Wake in Me!
That no grim Power of Darkness through
the Gloom around,
My deeper Peace and Calm molest,
O Wake in Me!
From Eden's Garden still soft blown,
That fragrant Air
The healing Tree of Life attest,
O Wake in Me!
That once, at least in Dream, Life's Good
be here attained,
The Heart no more by pain distrest,
O Wake in Me!
In the moist Midnight dank and drear,
where Shadows creep,
Lest Passions vile my Heart infest,
O Wake in Me!
And when Life's Night is gone, and Love's
new dawning Smile
Woos me for ever to thy Breast,
O Wake in Me!
Jeláleddín
L.
Highest Love, where thou art thronèd, here before Thy Throne unseen,
O let me pour my Melodies, my sweetest, highest yet, I ween.
If well-pleasing they ascending reach Thine ear in tones of power,
All their work of soul-subduing comes from Thy own soul serene.
Let them hymn and let them praise thee: let them cry and supplicate:
Where is he to Earth descended, Star from out thy Glory's Sheen?
He his Head with thy soft Roses wreathed, and struck the charmèd String,
Till drunk with Love he passed sweet playing to the Light no cloud
can screen.
He beclad in Garments waving here on broken Pillar leaned,
Pouring Songs by which upwafted he hath left this lower Scene.
Hath he now flown to Thy Bosom? Tell me, Love, who here below
Didst his Soul so sweetly cherish, where still cherished hath he been?—
Where the Peoples sink their Banners, where Pride lays her Signs aside,
All their Caste Distinctions blending, where eternal Peace is Queen.
There among the Saints, the purest, of all Zones, is he now found:
Hail! All hail his Memory holy: MAULĀNĀ JELÁL-ED-DÍN!
Notes.
_A._
SIR WILLIAM JONES ON THE MYSTICAL POETRY OF THE PERSIANS.
1. _Epitome of the Mystical System._—The Persian (and Hindu) mystical
Poets 'concur in believing that the souls of men differ infinitely in
_degree_, but not at all in _kind_, from the divine Spirit, of which
they are particles, and in which they will ultimately be absorbed; that
the spirit of God pervades the universe, always immediately present to
his work, and consequently always in substance; that he alone is perfect
benevolence, perfect truth, perfect beauty; that the love of him alone
is real and genuine love, while that of all other objects is absurd and
illusory; that the beauties of Nature are faint resemblances, like
images in a mirror, of the divine charms; that, from eternity without
beginning to eternity without end, the supreme benevolence is occupied
in bestowing happiness or the means of attaining it; that men can only
attain it by performing their part of the _primal covenant_ between them
and the Creator; that nothing has a pure absolute existence, but _mind_
or _spirit_; that material substances, as the ignorant call them, are no
more than gay _pictures_ presented continually to our minds by the
Sempiternal Artist; that we must beware of attachment to such phantoms,
and attach ourselves exclusively to God, who truly exists in us, as we
exist solely in him; that we retain, even in this forlorn state of
separation from our beloved, _the idea of heavenly beauty_, and _the
remembrance of our primeval vows_; that sweet music, gentle breezes,
fragrant flowers, perpetually renew the primary _idea_, refresh our
fading memory, and melt us with tender affections; that we must cherish
those affections, and by abstracting our souls from vanity, that is,
from all but God, approximate to his essence, in our final union with
which will consist our supreme beatitude. From these principles flow a
thousand metaphors and poetical figures, which abound in the sacred
poems of the Persians and Hindus.'
2. _The poetical Imagery._—'Many zealous admirers of Hafiz insist, that
by _Wine_ he invariably means _devotion_; and they have gone so far as
to compose a Dictionary of Words in the _Language_, as they call it, of
the Súfis. In that vocabulary _sleep_ is explained by _meditation_ on
the divine perfections, and _perfume_ by _hope_ of the divine favour;
_gales_ are _illapses_ of grace; _kisses_ and _embraces_, the _raptures_
of piety; _idolaters_, _infidels_, and _libertines_ are men of the
purest _religion_, and their _idol_ is the Creator Himself; the _tavern_
is a retired Oratory, and its _keeper_ a sage instructor; _beauty_
denotes the _perfection_ of the Supreme Being; _tresses_ are the
_expansion_ of his glory; _lips_, the hidden mysteries of his essence;
_down_ on the cheek, the world of spirits, who encircle his throne; and
a _black mole_, the point of indivisible unity; lastly, _wantonness_,
_mirth_, and _ebriety_, mean religious ardour and abstraction from all
terrestrial thoughts.'—Sir William Jones' _Works_, vol. iv. pp. 219, 227.
_B_.
HEGEL ON THE CHARACTER OF THE PERSIAN LYRICAL POETRY.
Continuing the exposition quoted on p. xxi., Hegel goes on to
say:—
'In Sublimity proper, the best objects and the most splendid forms are
used only as a mere ornament of God, and they serve to proclaim the
magnificence and glory of the One, being brought before our eyes only to
glorify Him as the Lord of all creatures. But in Pantheism, on the
contrary, the Immanence of the Divine in the objects, raises the
mundane, natural, and human existence itself, to a more substantial
glory of its own. The actual Life of the Spiritual in the phenomena of
Nature and in human relationships, animates and spiritualises them in
themselves, and establishes in turn a special relation of the subjective
feeling and soul of the Poet to the objects of which he sings. His soul,
filled with this living glory, is in itself calm, independent, free,
self-sufficient, spacious, large; and in this affirmative identity with
itself, it expands its life in imagination till it attains to the same
calm unity in the Soul of things. And so it coalesces with the objects
of Nature and their magnificence, becomes one with the loved one, with
the cup-bearer, etc.;—in a word, with all that is worthy of praise and
of love, and this in the most blissful and joyous intimacy. The
Occidental Romantic inwardness of Soul shews, indeed, a similar
consciousness of Life in itself; but on the whole—especially in the
North—it is more unhappy, is not free, is given to yearning; or it
remains more subjectively shut up in itself, and thereby becomes selfish
and sensitive. Such oppressed, disturbed inner states of mind are
especially expressed in the National Songs of barbarous peoples. The
state of free, joyous inwardness is, on the contrary, characteristic of
the Orientals, especially of the Mohammedan Persians, who openly and
gladly give up their whole Self to God, as well as to all that is
praiseworthy, yet in this very surrender preserve their essential free
being, which they can maintain even in relation to the surrounding
world. Thus we see in their glow of passion the most expansive
blissfulness and outpouring of feeling; and with their inexhaustible
wealth of brilliant and magnificent images, through it all there sound
the constant tones of happiness, of beauty, and of joy. When the
Oriental suffers and is unhappy, he accepts it as the immutable decree
of Fate, and in presence of it still remains certain in himself, without
becoming depressed, or feeling sensitive, or despondent, or distressed.
In the poems of Hafiz we find complaining and repining enough about the
loved one, the wine-bringer, etc.; but even in his Pain he remains as
free from care as in his Joy. Thus he sings:
'"Because the Presence of thy Friend
Is bright, not sad;
Burn, like the Taper, out in Woe,
Still grateful, glad."
'The taper teaches man to laugh and weep; it laughs in bright glances
through the flame, although it is melting at the same time in hot tears;
even in burning itself out, it sheds a bright glance around. This is the
general character of the whole of this Poetry.
'To cite some of their more special images: the Persian Poets speak much
of Flowers and Precious Stones, and especially of the Rose and the
Nightingale. It is very common for them to represent the Nightingale as
the "Bridegroom" of the Rose. This attributing of a Soul to the Rose and
of Love to the Nightingale, occurs frequently in Hafiz. "O Rose," he
says, "while grateful for being the Sultana of Beauty, vouchsafe not to
be proud to the Love of the Nightingale." He speaks himself of the
Nightingale of his own Heart. But when we speak in our Poetry of Roses,
Nightingales, and Wine, it is done in a quite other and more prosaic
sense: the Rose is regarded as for ornament; we are "crowned with
Roses"; or we hear the Nightingale and sympathise with it; we drink
Wine, and call it the Dispeller of Care. With the Persian Poets,
however, the Rose is not an image, or a symbol, or a mere ornament; but
it actually appears to the Poet as animated with a Soul, as a loving
Bride; and he penetrates with his spirit deep into the Soul of the Rose.'
_C._
VON HAMMER'S ACCOUNT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM.
Von Hammer's Account of Omar Khayyám is at once so just, so
discriminating, and so well-informed that it may prove interesting to
our Readers, especially as the work in which it is contained has become
rare; and it may help generally to dispel some of the hallucination
still prevalent about the 'Astronomer-Poet of Persia':
'Omar Chiam'—as Von Hammer transliterates the name—'is one of the most
remarkable Persian Poets; he is unique as regards the irreligious
subject-matter of his Poems, so that, so far as we know, there is no
other found like him in the whole History of Persian Poetry. He is the
Poet of the Freethinkers and of the Jesters at Religion, and in this
respect he may be appropriately called the Voltaire of Persian Poetry.
It is remarkable too, that in Persia, as elsewhere, Freethinking was the
precursor of Mysticism, and that the Age of the deepest Unbelief passed
over into that of the greatest Superstition.
'Omar Chiam, born at Nishapur, was one of the greatest Astronomers of
his time; he shared the fame of Nassireddin and Ulugbeg. But Astronomy
led him not to the knowledge, but to the denial, of the Supreme Being;
and he embodied the result of his sceptical meditations in Quatrains,
which have become famous under the title: _Rubayat Omar Chiam_. In his
youth he was at school with Nisamol-Mulk, who became afterwards the
Grand Vizier of Melekshah, and with Hassan Sabbah, the Founder of the
Order of the Assassins. In the bloody prescriptions of his Order, Hassan
practically sealed the doctrinal Unbelief which Omar Chiam proclaimed in
his Verses; and as its Grand master, he sacrificed his old schoolfellow,
the Grand Vizier, to his revenge, because he continued to follow the
path of Right and Virtue. Omar Chiam, as the friend of Hassan Sabbah, is
supposed to have helped him to found his diabolical Doctrine and his
diabolical Society.'
So far Von Hammer. We commend his last statement to the serious
consideration of the amiable Devotees of the new Red-letter Cult of our
fashionable OMAR KHAYYÁM SOCIETIES AND CLUBS! The remarks on this
subject in our Introduction apply, of course, only to _Fitzgerald's_
Omar, of whom he takes a low view—very pithily summed up by himself in
this phrase: 'the burden of Omar's Song—if not "Let us eat"—is
_assuredly_—"Let us drink, for To-morrow we die!"' As regards the _real_
Omar, whom Mr. Fitzgerald did not rightly understand, our view agrees
generally with that of Von Hammer and M. Nicolas, but it need not be
discussed here. The phenomenal success of Mr. Fitzgerald's Version in
recent years has been largely due to the witchery and glamour of his
Versification. His lasting achievement—and it is not a small one—is to
have thoroughly popularised the Quatrain. We now hear it echoed
everywhere, and in all sorts of connections, even the most trivial. It
has recently been applied, with amusing ingenuity, to the Game of Golf,
and even to the translation of Homer by Mr. Mackail. But the most
deliciously ridiculous thing of the kind in the connection, yet seen, is
Baron Corvo's Translation of M. Nicolas—'_Risum teneatis, Amici?_'
These effusions are, after all, only amusing manifestations of the Omar
Khayyám Distemper. It has, however, unhappily a deeper significance. Mr.
Fitzgerald's success has arisen mainly from his playing into the
_pessimistic and cynical mood_ of the time, and here lies its moral
danger, especially to young, unguarded and unthinking, readers. Let them
be assured that all this is bad thought, bad taste, bad effort. The
_Byronic_ mood is not only unhealthy, but is critically antiquated, and
cannot be permanently recalled in any relation whatever. Better—much
better—than this is the healthy, if somewhat rabid, physical progression
of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, even to 'ride with the reckless seraphim on the
brim of a red-maned star'! If they will not take it from us, let them
listen to the powerful and earnest words of a lofty, original, spiritual
thinker with which he corrected the kindred morbid tendencies of his
day, and which are again singularly relevant here. Says Professor
Ferrier in a noble and indignant outburst: 'These aberrations betoken a
perverse and prurient play of the abnormal fancy—groping for the very
holy of holies in kennels running with the most senseless and
God-abandoned abominations. Our natural superstitions are bad enough;
but thus to make a systematic business of fatuity, imposture, and
profanity, and to imagine, all the while, that we are touching on the
precincts of God's Spiritual Kingdom, is unspeakably shocking. The
horror and disgrace of such proceedings were never even approached in
the darkest days of heathendom and idolatry. Ye who make shattered
nerves and depraved sensations the interpreters of truth—ye who
inaugurate disease as the prophet of all wisdom, thus making sin, death,
and the devil, the lords paramount of the creation—have ye bethought
yourselves of the backward and downward course which ye are running into
the pit of the bestial and the abhorred? Oh, ye miserable mystics! when
will ye know that all God's truths and all man's blessings lie in the
broad health, in the trodden ways, and in the laughing sunshine of the
universe, and that all intellect, all genius, is merely _the power of
seeing wonders in common things_!'
With this impressive appeal we pause, for the present. The standpoint
and genius of Jeláleddín could not possibly be better expressed than in
Ferrier's closing words.
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