_Genealogy of Jelālu-’d-Dīn, Rūmī._
On his father’s side, the remote ancestor of Jelālu-’d-Dīn, during
Islāmic times, was Abū-Bekr, the dearest and most faithful friend of
Muhammed the Arabian lawgiver, and his successor in the government of
the community of Islām, as the first of the long line of Caliphs.
Like Muhammed himself, Abū-Bekr was of the tribe of Quraysh, which
claims descent, through Ishmael, from Abraham, the chosen Friend of
God, and Father of the faithful. The stem of Abū-Bekr’s branch of the
tribe unites with that of Muhammed in Murra, ancestor to Muhammed in
the seventh degree, and to Abū-Bekr in the sixth.
Abū-Bekr was, furthermore, one of Muhammed’s fathers-in-law, as his
daughter ‘Ā’isha was the Prophet’s only virgin bride.
A son or grandson of Abū-Bekr is said to have been among the Arabian
conquerors of Khurāsān during the caliphate of ‘Uthmān (Osmān), about
A.H. 25 (A.D. 647), and to have settled at Balkh (the capital of the
ancient Bactria), where his family flourished until after the birth of
Jelālu-’d-Dīn.[35]
At an uncertain period subsequent to A.H. 491 (A.D. 1097), a daughter
of one of the Kh’ārezmian kings of Central Asia was given in marriage
to Jelālu-’d-Dīn’s great-great-grandfather, whose name is either not
mentioned by Eflākī, or I have missed it. She gave birth to Jelāl’s
great-grandfather, Ahmed, surnamed El-Khatībī (as being, apparently, a
son or descendant, or a client, of a public preacher, Khatīb).
Nothing more is mentioned of Ahmed by Eflākī, than that he had a son
Huseyn, surnamed Jelālu-’d-Dīn, who married a daughter of a certain
Khurrem-Shāh, King of Khurāsān, and became grandfather, by her, to
the author of the Mesnevī. His son, Muhammed, surnamed Bahā’u-’d-Dīn,
styled Sultānu-’l-‘Ulemā, and commonly known as Bahā’u-’d-Dīn Veled, or
shorter as Bahā Veled, appears also to have married a lady, by whom he
had three children, a daughter and two sons.
Bahā Veled’s eldest child, his daughter, was married off, and remained
at Balkh, when Bahā Veled, his mother, and two sons left it, a year
or so before it was taken and devastated by Jengīz Khān in A.H. 608
(A.D. 1211). His elder son is not again mentioned by Eflākī after
their departure from Balkh. Neither is the mother of his children
once mentioned. But his own mother, the princess, was alive, and was
still with him in about A.D. 1230; after which, she too is not again
mentioned.
Bahā Veled’s youngest child, his most celebrated son Muhammed, surnamed
Jelālu-’d-Dīn, Mevlānā, Khudāvendgār, and Rūmī, the principal personage
of these memoirs, the founder of the order of the Mevlevī dervishes,
and author of the Mesnevī, had four children, three boys and a girl,
by two wives. His eldest son was killed in the broil that caused the
murder of his father’s friend Shemsu-’d-Dīn of Tebrīz. His youngest son
is not taken further notice of; but his daughter was married off to a
local prince, and left Qonya.
His second son, and eventually his successor as Principal or Abbot
of his order, was named Muhammed, and surnamed Bahā’u-’d-Dīn. He is
commonly known as Sultan Veled.
Sultan Veled had six children, a boy and two girls by his wife Fātima,
daughter of Sheykh Ferīdūn the Goldbeater, and three boys, of whom two
were twins, by two slave women. The daughters married well, and all his
sons, or three of them, succeeded him as Abbot, one after the other.
The eldest was Mīr ‘Ārif (Chelebī Emīr ‘Ārif), the second was named
‘Ābid, the third Zāhid, and the fourth Wāhid.
Chelebī Emīr ‘Ārif, the eldest, and Eflākī’s patron, had two sons and
a daughter. His eldest son, Emīr ‘Ālim, surnamed Shāh-zāda, succeeded
eventually to the primacy after his uncles. With him, Eflākī’s memoir
is brought to a close.
Such was the natural line of this dynasty of eminent men. But Eflākī
has also given the links of a spiritual series, through whom the
mysteries of the dervish doctrines were handed down to and in the line
of Jelālu-’d-Dīn.
In the anecdote No. 79, of chapter iii., the account is given of the
manner in which the prophet Muhammed confided those mysteries to his
cousin, son-in-law, and afterwards his fourth successor, as Caliph,
‘Ālī son of Abū-Tālib, the “Victorious Lion of God.”
‘Ālī communicated the mysteries to the Imām Hasan of Basra, who died in
A.H. 110 (A.D. 728); Hasan taught them to Habīb the Persian,[36] who
confided them to Dāwūd of the tribe of Tayyi’,--Et-Tā’ī (mentioned by
D’Herbelot, without a date, as Davud Al Thai; he died A.H. 165, A.D.
781).
Dāwūd transmitted them to Ma’rūf of Kerkh (who died A.H. 200, A.D.
815); he to Sirrī the merchant of damaged goods (Es-Saqatī?; died
A.H. 253, A.D. 867); and he to the great Juneyd (who died in about
A.H. 297--A.D. 909). Juneyd’s spiritual pupil was Shiblī (died A.H.
334, A.D. 945); who taught Abū-‘Amr Muhammed, son of Ibrāhīm Zajjāj
(the Glazier), of Nīshāpūr (who died in A.H. 348--A.D. 959); and his
pupil was Abū-Bekr, son of ‘Abdu-’llāh, of Tūs, the Weaver, who taught
Abū-Ahmed (Muhammed son of Muhammed, El-Gazālī (who died A.H. 504--A.D.
1110)), and he committed those mysteries to Ahmed el-Khatībī, Jelāl’s
great-grandfather, who consigned them to the Imām Sarakhsī (who died in
A.H. 571--A.D. 1175).
Sarakhsī was the spiritual teacher of Jelāl’s father Bahā Veled, who
taught the Seyyid Burhānu-’d-Dīn Termīzī, the instructor of Jelāl. He
again passed on the tradition to Shemsu-’d-Dīn of Tebrīz, the teacher
of Jelāl’s son, Sultan Veled, who himself taught the Emīr ‘Ārif.
At the same time that the mysteries were thus being gradually
transmitted to Jelālu-’d-Dīn and his successors by these links, they
were also being diffused in thousands of other channels, and are at
this day widely diffused over the world of Islām, which daily boasts of
its living saints and their miracles. These latter are perhaps not less
veracious than those continually blazoned forth by the Church of Rome,
and by its Eastern sisters. We, too, have our spiritualists. Credulity
will never forsake mankind and prodigies will never be lacking for the
credulous to place faith in. There is much that is human in man, all
the world over.
THE
BOOK OF THE MESNEVĪ
OF
MEVLĀNĀ JELĀLU-’d-DĪN, MUHAMMED, ER-RŪMĪ,
OF QONYA.
PREFACE.
This is the book of the Rhymed Couplets (Mathnawī, Mesnevī). It
contains the roots of the roots of the roots of the (one true) Religion
(of Islām); and treats of the discovery of the mysteries of reunion
and sure knowledge. It is the Grand Jurisprudence of God, the most
glorious Law of the Deity, the most manifest Evidence of the Divine
Being. The refulgence thereof “is like that of a lantern in which is
a lamp”[37] that scatters beams more bright than the morn. It is the
paradise of the heart, with springs and foliage. One of those springs
is “the fount named Salsabīl”[38] by the brethren of this religious
order (of mystical devotees known as the _Mevlevī_ or _Dancing
Dervishes_); but, by saints and the miraculously endowed, it is called
“the Good Station”[39] and “the Best Resting-place.”[40] The just shall
eat and drink therein, and the righteous shall rejoice and be glad
thereof. Like the Egyptian Nile, it is a beverage for the patient, but
a delusion to the people of Pharaoh and to blasphemers; even as God,
whose name be glorified, hath said: “He misleads therewith many, and
He guides therewith many; but He misleads not therewith (any), save
the wicked.”[41] It is a comfort to men’s breasts, an expeller of
cares. It is an exposition of the Qur’ān, an amplification of spiritual
aliments, and a dulcifier of the disposition; written “by the hands
of honorable scribes,”[42] who inscribe thereon the prohibition: “Let
none touch it save the purified.”[43] It is (a revelation) “sent down
(from on high) by the Lord of (all) the worlds,[44] which vanity
approacheth not from before, nor from behind,”[45] which God watches
over and observes, He being “the best as a Preserver,”[46] and “the
Most Compassionate of the merciful ones,”[47] unto whom pertain (many)
titles, His utmost title being God, whose name be exalted.
We have been brief in (stating) this little; for a little is an index
to much, and a mouthful may point out a pond, as a handful may serve as
a sample for a whole threshing-floor, however large.
Thus saith the feeble servant, in need of the mercy of God, whose
name be extolled, Muhammed son of Muhammed son of Huseyn, of (the
city of) Balkh,[48] of whom may God accept it: “I have exerted
myself to enlarge this book of poetry in rhyming couplets, which
contains strange and rare narratives, beautiful sayings, and recondite
indications, a path for the devout, and a garden for the pious, short
in its expressions, numerous in their applications. This have I done
at the instance of my lord and master, my trust, and as the soul in
my body, the moral store of my to-day and my morrow, the Sheykh Hasan
son of Muhammed son of Hasan, commonly known by the appellation of
Akhī-Turk (my brother Turk), a chief of the knowing ones (Gnostics?),
a leader of right direction and sure knowledge, a helper of the human
race, a confidant of men’s hearts and minds, a charge of God among His
creatures, His pure one among His reasoning servants, (a compendium
of) His commandments to His Prophet, of His mysteries with His chosen
one, a key to the treasures of the throne, a custodian of the riches
of the extended earth, a man of excellencies, a sharp sword for the
severance of truth and religion (from falsehood and blasphemy),[49] the
Bāyezīd[50] of the age, the Juneyd[51] of the period, the true friend
son of a true friend son of a true friend, may God be pleased with him
and with them, originally from the town of Urmiyya,[52] and related to
the venerated Sheykh,[53] as he himself expressed it: ‘I was a Kurd
one evening, and was an Arabian in the morning.’[54] May God sanctify
his spirit, and the spirits of his successors! Blessed is such a
predecessor; blessed are such successors! He was descended from a line
on which the sun had cast its lustrous mantle, and personal nobility
such that the stars shed their lights around it. May their courtyard
ever be a centre to which the sons of saints will turn, and a temple
of hopes about which embassies of spotless men will circulate. May it
not cease to be thus while a constellation rises and a sparkling orb
appears above the horizon in the east; so that it may be a thing held
to by those who are possessed of insight, the godly, the spiritual,
the heavenly, the celestial, the men of light, who keep silence and
observe, who are absent though present, who are kings clothed in rags,
the nobles of nations, endowed with virtues, the lights of guidances.
Amen, O Lord of (all) the worlds. And this is a prayer not to be
rejected; for it is a prayer joined in by all the good. And glory be
to God in His unity. And may God pronounce blessings on our lord,
Muhammed, and on his family and kin, the good, the clean!”
THE BOOK OF THE MESNEVĪ.
IN THE NAME OF GOD,
THE ALL-MERCIFUL, THE VERY-COMPASSIONATE.
PROEM. The Reed-Flute.
From reed-flute[55] hear what tale it tells;
What plaint it makes of absence’ ills:
“From jungle-bed since me they tore,
Men’s, women’s, eyes have wept right sore.
My breast I tear and rend in twain,
To give, through sighs, vent to my pain.
Who’s from his home snatched far away,
Longs to return some future day.
I sob and sigh in each retreat,
Be’t joy or grief for which men meet. 5
They fancy they can read my heart;
Grief’s secrets I to none impart.
My throes and moans form but one chain,
Men’s eyes and ears catch not their train.
Though soul and body be as one,
Sight of his soul hath no man won.
A flame’s the flute’s wail; not a breath,
That flame who feels not, doom him death.
The flame of love, ’tis, prompts the flute,
Wine’s ferment, love; its tongue not mute. 10
The absent lover’s flute’s no toy;
Its trills proclaim his grief, his joy.
Or bane, or cure, the flute is still;
Content, complaining, as you will.
It tells its tale of burning grief;
Recounts how love is mad, in brief.
The lover lover’s pangs best knows;
As ear receives tongue’s plaint of woes.
Through grief, his day is but a dawn;
Each day of sorrow, torment’s pawn. 15
My days are waste; take thou no heed,
Thou still are left; my joy, indeed.
Whole seas a fish will never drown;
A poor man’s day seems all one frown.
What boot from counsel to a fool?
Waste not thy words; thy wrath let cool.
Cast off lust’s bonds; stand free from all.
Slave not for pelf; be not greed’s thrall.
Pour rivers into one small gill,
It can but hold its little fill. 20
The eye’s a vase that’s ne’er content;
The oyster’s filled ere pearl is sent.[56]
The heart that’s bleeding from love’s dart,
From vice of greed is kept apart.
Then hie thee, love, a welcome guest;—
Physician thou to soothe my breast.
Thou cure of pride and shame in me;
Old Galen’s skill was nought to thee!
Through love, this earthly frame ascends
To heaven; a hill, to skip pretends. 25
In trance of love, Mount Sinai shakes,
At God’s descent; ‘and Moses quakes.’[57]
Found I the friend on whom I dote,
I’d emulate flute’s dulcet note.
But from my love, while torn away,
Unmeaning words alone I say.
The spring is o’er; the rose is gone;
The song of Philomel is done.
His love was all; himself, a note.
His love, alive; himself, dead mote. 30
Who feels not love’s all-quick’ning flame,
Is like the bird whose wing is lame.
Can I be quiet, easy, glad,
When my delight’s away? No! Sad.
Love bids my plaint all bonds to burst.
My heart would break, with silence curst.
A mirror best portrays when bright;
Begrimed with rust, its gleam grows slight.
Then wipe such foul alloy away;
Bright shall it, so, reflect each ray.” 35
Thou’st heard what tale the flute can tell;
Such is my case; sung all too well.
I.
The Prince and the Handmaid.
A prince there was, long since in time it is.
Of Church and State the power and wealth were his.
The chase on horse one day to follow, bent;
With pompous courtier-train afield he went.
A handmaid[58] fair was wand’ring near a grove.
Her he espied, and straightway fell in love.
His heart was snared; her form its cage, its stall.
He lavished gold; and made her thus his thrall.
But now, behold the wayward spite of fate!
The maid fell sick, this prince’s joy to bate. 5
An ass had Hodge; no saddle to the fore.
A saddle bought; a wolf straight Jacky tore.
A jug had Dick; the well, alas, was dry.
The well then filled; the jug was broke hard by.
Now leeches called the prince, from left, from right.
“Two lives,” quoth he, “depend upon your might.
My health is naught; she’s life of life to me.
I’m sad at heart; my sov’reign balm is she.
Who finds a remedy to save her life,
Much gold, with jewels, his; and thanks more rife.” 10
All promised marvels; each, to use his skill;
To search the case; to ease the maiden’s ill.
“Each one of us has Jesu’s[59] healing power.
Of all their ills we cure men every hour.”
Through pride, “God willing” said they not, I trow.[60]
Man’s nothingness, in them the Lord would show.
That is to say--to leave out this good word
Is sin; said by mere rote, it will not please the Lord,
How many shrink from tonguing it aloud,
Whose hearts each action with “God willing” shroud. 15
The doctors now prescribe full many a drug.
In vain they ponder, vain their shoulders shrug.
The maid a very skeleton became;
The prince’s tears their want of skill did blame.
With oxymel, through fate, did bile increase;
E’en almond oil ran dry where rubbed as grease.
Lax myrobalans act as nutgalls first;
As naphtha feeds a fire, drinks brought but thirst.
The prince no sooner saw their art was vain,
Than barefoot sped, heaven’s _worship-house_[61] to gain. 20
The holy altar, there, he bowed before;
With flood of tears he bathed its sacred floor.
Then, heart-relieved with sorrow’s fierce outbreak,
’Mid praise and blessing, thus his suit he spake:
“To Thee, whose meanest gift is world-wide sway,
Who know’st each secret wish, why need I pray?
Our refuge art Thou in our every need;
We’ve erred again; do Thou in mercy lead.
’Tis Thy behest, to whom all thoughts are known,
That man with words approach Thy awful throne.” 25
His humble supplication proffered so,
Sweet mercy’s fount at once did overflow.
His tears undried, deep slumber on him fell,
And heavenly-dulcet tones he heard thus tell:
“Glad tidings, prince, to thee this day I bring:
Next daydawn at thy gate a guest shall ring;
A heav’n-sent stranger, versed in healing art,
In him have faith; he’s true in speech and heart.
Imagine not his treatment magic’s spell;
God’s power alone can make thy maiden well.” 30
The promised hour at hand, the daydawn broke;
The sunbeams paled the stars; the prince awoke.
An outlook sought he, whence to watch the way,
And first th’ expected stranger to survey.
One he espied of most majestic mien,
Of radiance mild,--as sun, dark clouds between;
Or moon at full;--so seem’d he from afar.
Mere fancy’s pictures ever objects mar.
Things non-existent often frenzy paints;
We see mankind deluded over feints. 35
Their peace, their war, not seldom for a sham;
Their pride, their shame, some sorry epigram.
But visions, such as blessed saints entrance,
Reflections are from heaven’s inhabitants.
The semblance by our prince seen in his swoon,
The features wore that now in flesh are shown.
The prince, in lieu of ushers, forward came,
To meet the heaven-sent guest, in his own name.
Their trains one column formed from mingling bands;
Their hearts united, fettered not their hands. 40
The prince: “Would thou’dst my soul enslaved; not she!
But here below effect a cause must see.
Be my Muhammed! I thy ‘Umar stand,
With girded loins awaiting thy command.”
Pray God to grant thee ever meek respect;
The puffed-up fool’s remote from Heaven’s elect.
A shameless monarch to himself’s a curse,
A firebrand to his realm; nay, even worse.
Food in the wilderness by God was sent;
Food without toil, food gratis, without stint. 45
Some graceless scoffers out of Moses’ host
Dared to demand the onions, lentils lost.[62]
Such toilless food then ceased to fall from Heaven;
To dig, to sow, to reap, in lieu is given.
Fresh suit, much later, Jesus made; God willed;
Again food rife became; men’s dishes filled.
That food’s a gift from Heaven is clearly said,
In Jesu’s prayer: “Give us our daily bread.”[63]
Men’s bold presumption Heaven again incensed,
When basketsful to beggars were dispensed. 50
Jesus proclaimed the miracle would last;—
That food would never lack as in the past.
Men doubted, asked for more to store away;
They trusted not God’s word for bread each day.
Importunate those suitors, full of greed;
Heaven’s gate of mercy closed against their breed.
Withheld is rain when alms have ceased to flow;
Where fornication reigns, black death will grow.
Whatever grief and sorrow’s on us sent,
Of wickedness and guilt’s a punishment. 55
The hardened sinner, who his God offends,
A ruthless robber is; he spoils his friends.
He who is shameless in his words and deeds,
Despair from disappointment is his meed.
Yon orbs of heaven obey their Maker’s word;
The holy angels meekly serve the Lord.
The sun’s eclipse is but a check to pride;
E’en Satan’s fall presumption caused to tide.
Return we now the sequel to attest,
Of what befell our prince with his new guest. 60
His circling arms the welcome form embraced,
And, lover-like, with joy his neck enlaced.
Kisses bestowed he on his hand and brow;
Hoped kindly he’d fared well from home till now.
His health and welfare asking, led him in.
“Its own reward is patience,” thought he then.
Patience at first is bitter; but at length
Its fruit is sweet. It gives us heart’s content.
Then he aloud: “A gift from God thou’rt come,
The proverb’s pith: ‘By patience overcome.’ 65
This meeting’s the reward of all my prayer;
Thou’lt solve the riddle of my dark despair.
Th’ expounder, thou, of all my soul’s desires,
Thou’lt extricate me from despond’s deep mires.
Be welcome, then; a very friend in need;
Hadst thou delayed, my case were sad indeed.
Prince of physicians! Who’d not welcome thee,
Deserves rejection. Do his eyes not see?”
Urbanity’s requirements thus bested,
Our prince the stranger to a chamber led. 70
The maiden’s tale and case he there unfolds.
The patient, next, unveiled, the guest beholds.
Complexion, pulse, _egesta_, all are seen;
Disposing causes, symptoms, sought, I ween.
Then he: “The remedies till now adduced,
Have detrimental been, no good produced.
The case has been from first misunderstood.
Protect us, Heaven! A blundering brotherhood!”
He saw her trouble; thence divined her ill.
Her secret kept he; hidden held it still. 75
The sickness was not caused by bile or spleen.
The scent of perfume’s better smelt than seen.
He traced her suffering to a mind oppressed;
Her body sound, her soul a wish suppressed.
Her hesitations made him guess her love;
The symptoms plain,--her heart was sick, poor dove!
A lover’s smart is not from fleshly pine;
A probe is love; it sounds hearts’ depths, divine.
Let love proceed from this or other cause,
It matters not; heavenward it mortals draws. 80
However well we strive love to portray,
We blush thereat, when love our hearts doth sway.
Words make most matters plain and manifest;
But love unspoken speaks whole volumes best.
When pen took up from zeal the writing trade,
In love’s description, oh! such blots it made!
Our wits in love’s affairs stand sore perplexed;
Love only can elucidate love’s text.
The sun alone can well explain the sun.
Wilt see’t expounded? Turn to him alone. 85
A shade, ’tis true, of him gives some small hint;
The shining sun surpasses all comment.
A shade, like evening chitchat, sends to sleep,
From sun’s effulgence does full knowledge leap.
That day-orb, still, each eve sets, here below;
The soul-sun, God, shines in eternal glow.
’Mong things extern that orb has not a peer;
But mock suns we can make, our nights to cheer.
On heart unless the soul-sun cast a ray,
No thought, no picture can its sheen portray. 90
Can mind His glorious essence comprehend?
His presence, then, to image who’ll pretend?
Of poet’s verse when God’s the holy theme,
Its minished head the sun may hide, ’twould seem.
At mention of His name each breast must find,
A duty ’tis His grace to call to mind.
The breath of life He to this body gave,
With Him to reunite, should mercy save.
These years I’ve conversed with Him. Life serene!
One repetition more! O blissful scene! 95
How pleasant heaven and earth their smiling hold!
He offers soul, mind, eye, a hundredfold!
Beyond my strength, O try me not these days!
My reason ’d fail to falter forth Thy praise.
The song of man, when uninspired by Thee,
Mere fulsome, flattering trash is seen to be.
Bid me describe, whose every nerve is seared,
A lover’s woe, whom mistress never cheered.
His lonesomeness, the anguish of his breast,
Not here I’ll paint; elsewhere it may be best. 100
He cries: “O succour me; I faint, I pant;
And quickly; lest delay the dagger plant!”
The Mystic[64] true relieves each moment’s need;
“To-morrow” ’s not a point in his pure creed.
Art not persuaded so? The proverb scan:
“Delay’s the thief of time;” say: “bane of man.”
Love’s sweetest favours are conferred by stealth;
Its darksome hints are treasured mines of wealth.
The tale’s most pleasant to a lover’s ears,
That tells of joys he’s tasted, ills he fears. 105
Speak, meddler, then, in plain, unvarnished guise;
No subterfuge employ; deal not in lies.
The veil tear off, dissimulation lost:
“When unadorned, beauty’s adorned the most.”
Should my sweet love unveil’d her charms display,
Thy smirks and smiles would all be borne away.
Thy suit prefer; use moderation still:
A blade of grass ne’er overturns a hill.
The sun that lights and warms this nether world,
If brought too near, had all to ruin hurled. 110
Seek not to sow dissension in the earth;
Vaunt not the Sun of Tebrīz’[65] holy birth.
Contention’s never-ending. Better far,
Commit to memory this wordy war.
The guest, convinced that love had caused her ill,
Proceeded next the prince’s mind to still.
“These chambers clear of every mortal soul;
Leave me alone the patient to control.
No prying ear may linger in the hall;
I’ve things to ask may not be heard by all.” 115
The place was cleared; no soul remained within,
Save leech and patient; other, none was seen.
In gentlest tones he asked: “Where was thy home?
For each town’s folk a different cure must come.
What friends, what family hast left behind,—
Companions, playmates, who to thee were kind?”
On pulse his finger. He then, one by one,
Inquired anew each point, omitting none.
So he whose foot is wounded with a thorn,
Upon his knee doth take the limb that’s torn. 120
With needle’s point he seeks the intrusive dart;
Not finding it, from lip he soothes the smart.
If thorn in foot is thus a task to find,
Judge what must be a rankling pang of mind.
Could every chance observer spy those ills,
Where’d be the cankering care, the grief that kills?
Boys place a thorn beneath an ass’s tail;
The cure Ned knows not; jumping’s no avail.
Whisking’s still worse; it deeper drives the dart.
’Tis reason’s task to ease the burning smart. 125
The ass, if sharper grow the throbs and pains,
Kicks, plunges, rolls, his hide with gore bestains.
Our doctor’s mind, by art full well prepared,
With gentle measures sought the ill he feared.
Once more, with tact, he bids fresh memories come,
And leads the maid again to talk of home.
The spring once tapped, the stream began to flow;
She told th’ inquirer much he wished to know.
He lends his ear as she each scene displays;
His finger notes her pulse, as on she strays; 130
To learn if any name should raise a start,
And thus betray the secret of her heart.
Anew he mentions every friend, each place;
Repeated such as gave of hope a trace.
He asked: “On quitting, thou, thy native town,
Where first was it thy guardians set thee down?”
A place she named, and on to others passed;
Nor blush, nor pulse gave sign, or notice massed.
Of lords and citizens she gave report,
Of festivals, and seats of gay resort. 135
Town after town, house after house, by name,
She spoke about; no blush, no throb still came.
Her pulse retained its normal ebb and flow.
Till Samarqand’s name made her cheeks to glow,
Her pulse beat high, her colour went and came;
Of goldsmith youth she there had been the flame.
This point drawn forth,--this secret once confessed,
More easily our leech the sequel guessed.
“O maiden, let me know this youth’s abode.”
“At Holywell, near Bridge-end’s public road.” 140
“I knew,” said he, “at once, thy case was such.
Now trust me. Thee to serve I will do much.
Make thyself happy. Cast away all care,
As showers cheer meadows, thee I’ll greatly spare.
I’ll prove thy guardian angel; never fear;
Thy father’s place I’ll take;--thy burden bear.
Tell not this secret unto mortal soul,
However much the prince may thee cajole.
Keep safe this knowledge in thy own heart’s core;
So mayest thou, lass, thy lover see once more. 145
Our holy Prophet’s sacred maxim ’twas:
‘Who keeps his secret, speedy success has.’
The seed to earth committed sure must be,
Ere field or garden’s pride men may it see.
If gold and silver were not hard to find,
How could they grow?[66] They soon would be out-mined.”
The good physician’s soothing words perceived,
Our maiden’s mind from carking care’s relieved.
Some promises are truly meant, sincere;
Others are merely made to cheat the ear. 150
A good man’s promise is a gem of price;
Rely not on the words of sons of vice.
Our doctor, now, with subtle speech and wiles,
The maiden’s grief had turn’d to sunny smiles.
He leaves her then; seeks out the prince; and tells
The news he’d learnt, the source of all her ills.
“What’s now to do?” the prince’s care inquired;
“Delay is dangerous; patience may grow tired.”
The doctor then: “Send for him; come he must,
From his far home to fill some post of trust. 155
Invite him here; a dress of honour give;
On him shower gold; new life ’twill make him live.”
The prince assented; took the doctor’s plan;
Thought it was sound and wise from such a man.
Two trusty messengers he quickly sent,
Sedate, fair-spoken, loved where’er they went.
To Samarqand they journeyed, prompt and sure.
The goldsmith found; the prince’s message bore.
“Great man of art, the marvels of thy skill,
Are viewed with rapture, or with envy still. 160
Our prince has need of thee, his mint to guide;
For none like thee is heard of, far and wide.
This dress of honour, yonder gold he sends;
Requests thou’lt come, and be his best of friends.”
The gold and dress of honour won his heart;
Good-bye to home he said, with them to start.
He travels joyous; thinks his luck is great;
And never dreams of what’s to be his fate.
An Arab charger proudly bore him on;
He recked not at what price all this was won. 165
O fatuous fool! Thou hastest to thy doom.
The post thou dream’st of, soon will be thy tomb.
His fancy webs of power and fame did weave;
Death’s angel thundered: “Come, and all this leave!”
Arrived betimes at his long journey’s end,
The doctor led him to the prince, his friend.
Most nobly was he there received in turn.
One trims the lampwick, still, to make it burn.
The prince addressed him; bade him welcome there;
Mint-master nam’d him, treasurer, and mayor. 170
Our doctor once again his counsel gave:
“The damsel to this youth for service leave.
United to him, she’ll her health regain;
Love’s fever will subside with absence’ pain.”
The prince bestows the sick one on her mate.
United were the two in solemn state.
Six months they feasted on love’s joys so sweet;
The handmaid’s health from day to day more meet.
The doctor, now, a potion mixed for him.
His health declines; he every day grows slim. 175
The coin that passes much from hand to hand
Soon loses currency, has no demand.
So he, when beauty no more graced his cheek,
Began to lack worth with the handmaid sleek.
All love that’s built on outer skin-deep charms,
Is not true love. At length shame ’tis that warms.
Would it were shame alone that pricks him now!
He’d not been victimised and brought thus low.
His eyes pour forth two streams of bitter tears;
His altered features the worst foe he fears. 180
The peacock’s enemy his plumage call.
The monarch bleeds whose splendours neighbours gall.
The musk-deer for the musk-pod still is slain;
His blood for that alone the ground will stain.
The marten for its fur is trapped, surprised,
And strangled. Kings its pelt have prized.
The elephant, sagacious creature, dies,
For iv’ry pierced with weapons as he flies.
“He who slays me for what I leave behind,
Reflects not: ‘Blood that’s spilt demands its kind.’ 185
To-day ’tis I; to-morrow ’twill be thou;
Who’ll be most loser? ’Tis not I, all know.
The shadow of a wall, ’tis true, is wide;
The sun revolves; the shadow’s turn’d aside.
The world’s a mountain; all our works, a voice;
Our voice goes forth; its echo has no choice.”
Reflecting thus, the goldsmith breath’d his last;
The handmaid’s love and grief behind her cast.
A dead mate’s love can never more be shown;
A dead mate’s voice will never more be known; 190
Love for the living, in the heart and eyes,
Will ever spring; the dead no more can rise.
One Living is there, death that never knows;
Love Him! The life from Him alone still flows.
Love Him, whom saints and prophets all have loved;
Through whom alone we all have lived and moved.
Say not thou canst not to His throne approach;
He’s gracious. His rich grace bears no reproach!
The goldsmith’s death through lethal drugs, be sure,
Was not from hope, or fear, or baser lure. 195
The doctor kill’d him, not to please our prince;
Him some divine suggestion did convince.
The story of the child by angel slain[67]
Cannot be fully grasped by minds too plain.
A saint that acts on Heaven’s high behest,
Can never do amiss; ’tis always best.
He who can pardon, he may also doom;
He’s God’s vicegerent; acts in Heaven’s room.
As Ishmaël beneath his father’s knife,[68]
Do thou for such a prince lay down thy life; 200
Thus may thy soul, in future blessed abode,
Muhammed-like, in peace be with thy God.
His lovers joyful are, most, when they slay
Their worldly joys with their own hands, as play.
Our prince took not the goldsmith’s life through lust.
Chase such suspicion from thy mind thou must.
Imagine not he’d stoop to mortal sin.
Can holy saint have tainted heart within?
The trial of the fire, and of the flame,
Is but to cleanse pure gold from every blame. 205
So too, temptation on us all is sent,
To part the good from those of bad intent.
Had he not acted thus by God’s command,
No prince, a wolf he’d been, rav’ning the land.
From lust, greed, foul caprice, his soul was free;
So did God will, whate’er the cause may be.
Elias sank his ship in full design;[69]
That wreck to future blessings was the sign.
Moses was shock’d thereat, with all his skill
And inspiration. Thou must needs judge ill. 210
A blood-red rose call not by murder’s name;
Just retribution see thou do not blame.
Had righteous blood been shed by him as naught,
Blasphemer were I to extol him aught.
Praise of the wicked God with horror views;
The good contemn all flatterers of sin’s crews.
Our prince was kind and virtuous, wise and just,
A man God-fearing, and in God’s full trust.
A victim put to death by such a friend,
Is slain in error, or for some wise end. 215
Did not our God mean mercy in His wrath,
How could the Lord of Mercies thunder forth?
A child may tremble at the lancet’s smart;
His mother knows there’s healing in the dart.
It may half kill him, but restores sound life;
So God’s great mercies far surpass our strife.
Men judge of what they see by what they think.
From judging justice, men of sense will shrink. 219
II.
The Oilman and the Parrot.
An oilman there was, who a parrot possessed,
Soft-voiced, and green-coated; could talk with the best.
The oilshop her charge when the man was away;
The customers coaxed she the whole live-long day.
Her speech was quite human, her words full of sense,
In all parrot-tricks she was void of offence.
One day the man popped out, on bus’ness intent;
The parrot, as usual, had charge while he went.
A cat, as it chanced, of a mouse in full chase
Bounced into the shop. This poor Poll could not face. 5
From perch away flew she; took refuge on shelf;
Some jars she knocked over; the oil spread itself.
The master returning, first sat himself down,
As lord of the manor; the shop was his own.
The oil-pools he spied, and then Polly’s wet coat;
A blow on the head made her feathers drop out.
In silence some days Polly brooded, from grief;
The oilman’s bereft of his wits, to be brief.
He plucked at his beard; he heaved a deep sigh;
“Alas!” then, he shrieked out, “day’s darkened on high 10
My hand, would it withered had, ere I’d struck Poll;
I’ve silenced her prattle that always was droll!”
His alms now he showers on each passing scamp,
In hopes Poll her chatter ’d get back by some tramp.
Three days and three nights in this guise did he pass,
Despair at his heart, like a lorn lovesick lass;
Incessantly sobbing and sighing, his word
Was: “Pray now, will speech e’er return to my bird?”
A bare-headed mendicant happened to pass;
Whose scalp was close shaved, smooth and shining as glass. 15
At once our Poll-parrot her silence forswore,
Screamed after the mendicant: “Poor head! Sore! Sore!
Old bald-pate! old bald-pate! What is it thou’st done?
Upset some one’s oil jar? The oil is’t all gone?”
The passers-by smiled all at Polly’s mistake,
’Tween bald-head and bare-head no diff’rence to make.
So thou, my dear friend, think thyself not a saint;
A quean to a queen bears resemblance, but faint.
Mankind on this point in great error still stands;
Th’ elect of the Lord are ignored on all hands. 20
The equals of prophets acknowledged they be;
Of saints they’re the brethren, as all men agree.
Fools say: “The elect are but human, you see;
To eat and to sleep they’re constrained, just as we.”
Through blindness they miss the real point of the strife,
The diff’rence between them’s immense all through life.
The wasp and the bee eat and drink from the fields;
The one stings, the other sweet honey still yields.
The deer of both sorts browse the same mountain’s side;
The one gives rich musk; dung the other; go, hide. 25
The canes of two species in one land may grow;
Quite empty that one; from this, sugar will flow.
By thousands, examples of pairs thus are known,
Which differ as much as does cheese from the moon.
Our bread, in one case, turns to dirt in our meat;
Another produces the mind, God’s own seat.
His food the one man swells with envy and greed;
By like means another gains virtue indeed.
One soil is productive; one barren and salt;
One angel’s in heaven; the other’s at fault. 30
In form, many pairs may appear as though one,
Clear water is sometimes as hard as a stone.
Excepting the taster by practice, who knows
The wholesome from unwholesome water that flows?
Supposing saints’ miracles tricks, magic-wrought,
They fancy them both the result of deep thought.
Magicians, at bidding of Pharaoh, did cast
Their wands down, to Moses’ rod as a repast.
From his rod to their wands a chasm there must be;
From his act to theirs we an interval see. 35
God’s curse on their witchcraft and devilish art!
His blessing on Moses, who chose the best part!
To me, like as apes are man’s miscreants all;[70]
To speak of them causes me, straight, sick to fall!
Whatever men practise, apes will copy still;
Our actions they mimic; of thought they know _nil_.
They cunningly do what they’ve seen that man did;
The reason they seek not; from them that is hid.
A man acts from reason; an ape from mere whim.
Perdition may seize all such actors, and him! 40
The hypocrite[71] worships[72] as aping the saint,
For form’s sake, or worse. His religion’s mere feint.
In pilgrimage, worship, and fasting, and alms,[73]
Believers and hypocrites vie, as in psalms.
Believers shall win in the last judgment day;
The hypocrites then shall receive their due pay.
The two are contending one great game of deeds,
As factions of Mervites and Rāzites[74] with creeds.
They each shall go there, where their party shall stand;
And each shall be classed as their actions demand.[75] 45
Just style these “Believers” their hearts fill with glee;
But dub them all “Hypocrites,” rage then thou’lt see.
The first one’s ashamed of the last one’s true self;
This last-named’s a plague to the first, like an elf.
No virtue in mere words or letters is found;
“Believer”’s a word in itself but a sound.
If “Hypocrite!” cast in their teeth be at last,
As scorpion’s sting to their souls it clings fast.
If “Hypocrite”’s name be not product of hell,
So bitter at all times why does its sound tell? 50
This name’s great repulsion is not in its form;
The bitter it smacks of is not from a corm.
The word’s but a vase; ’tis its sense is the wine;
The sense of a book in the title may shine.
Sweet lakes and salt seas do we find here on earth;
The barrier between them: “Thus far; go not forth!”
They both, in their origin, flow from one source;
Look not at their severance; it’s matter of course.
The touchstone’s the test by the which thou must try
If gold be quite pure, or debased with alloy. 55
The touchstone of conscience, where planted by God,
What’s certain, what’s doubtful, makes plain without nod.
A fishbone that sticks in the throat of a man
No ease ever gives till it’s coughed out again.
In ten thousand mouthfuls should one bone be found,
As soon as perceived, it’s spit out on the ground.
Perception of things mundane guides here below;
Religion’s keen sense leads where God’s glories glow.
The health of his senses man asks of the leech;
Religion’s sound sense from the Lord we beseech.[76] 60
For healthy perceptions, our frame must be sound;
Religion’s enjoyments through suff’rings are found.
The health of the soul’s through a waste of the flesh,
But after much searching it builds up afresh.
How blest is the soul that, for love of its God,[77]
Has flung away wealth, health, e’en life, as a sod!
Has pulled down its house a hid treasure to find,
And built it again from that treasure refined!
Who cuts off the streamlet to clear out its bed;
Then turns on the water with which it is fed! 65
Who gashes his skin to extract the spear-head!
(The skin may now heal, for the irritant’s fled.)
Who wrecks a strong castle to drive out the foe,
Then rears it still stronger, to hold evermo’!
The will of Almighty God who shall control?
These sentences written are parables all.
Sometimes in one way, in another sometimes,
Religion confuses before it sublimes.
Not terror, bewilderment, loathing, dismay;
But ecstacy, rapture, love, come into play. 70
In trance of love fixed, one contemplates the Lord,
Another, self losing, unites with his God.
Observe the rapt features of that one, of this;
Perchance by such watching thy soul may gain bliss.
Too numerous demons in human form walk;
Beware, then, with whom thou engagest in talk.
The fowler his whistle may ply in the field,
To lure the poor birds, saying: “Come and be killed.”
Each songster conceives ’tis the voice of its mate,
Descends from the air, and meets with its fate. 75
The sinner, in pious cant, uses a wile,
To trap the unwary who ponders no guile.
The upright deal faithfully, truly, in trust;
The wicked imagine but fraud and distrust.
A lion of wool is a beggar’s device;[78]
Musaylama’s named Muhammed in a trice.[79]
Musaylama liar, deceiver we know,
Muhammed was faithful in weal and in woe.
The wine of God’s love was the food of his soul.
The wine that inebriates dash from thy bowl. 80
III.
The Jewish King, Persecutor of the Christians.[80]
A certain Jewish King, in savage, brutal scenes,
From hate of Jesus, persecuted Nazarenes.
’Twas Jesu’s age, when he the Gospel first did teach;
In Jesus, Moses, and in Moses, Jesus preach.
That King God made squint-eyed; things straight he could not see.
A King and squint-eyed? Ah! that one the two should be!
A master once a squint-eyed slave commanded so:
“Come here; that bottle from its shelf, go, fetch me; go.”
The squint-eye straightway asked: “Which, master, of the two?[81]
The case explain; clear up the doubt, and truly show.” 5
His master answered: “Two there’s not; there is but one;
Put off thy strabism; with stupidity have done.”
“Good master,” quoth he, “chide me not; ’tis nature’s fault.”
The master quick rejoined: “Look now; break one; halt! halt!”
As soon as one was broken, both were gone from sight.
Poor squint-eye nearly lost his wits in childish fright.
There was but one; his eyes were cause that he saw two.
The one away, the other consequently was gone too.
Desire or rage, at times, makes people double see.
The mind’s distortion brings the eyes perverse to be. 10
From passion’s mists our reason ever blinded lies.
The heart its clouds sends up; the mind’s eye’s vision flies.
The judge to taking bribes who basely bends himself,
Can never well discern the right and wrong, from pelf.
Our King through Israelitish rancour grew so blind,
As nothing to distinguish in his rage of mind.
By thousands, faithful seekers of God’s will he slew.
“Vouchsafe us help, O God of Moses, Jesus too!”
He had a Vazīr, brigandlike for craft and force.
In knavish stratagems he had no peer; of course. 15
He whispered to the King: “These Christians, as in hives,
All keep their faith a mystery, to save their lives.
To kill them thus is profitless. Give breathing-time,
Religion can’t be smelt out just like musk or thyme.
A secret ’tis, well wrapped in many folds of guile.
In outward show, as friends, perfidiously they smile.”
The King, with grimace fierce: “What have we then to do?
What remedy proposest thou to make them rue?
I will not leave alive one Christian in the land,
Whose faith is shown to all, or in his bosom banned.” 20
The Vazīr to him: “King, my hands and ears cut off;
My nose and lips the same. Give orders; let them scoff.
Unto the gallows send me; I’ll of all be seen.
Then let an intercessor plead,--some prince,--your queen.
Let all this happen where some spacious public place
May let all see, that all may know of my disgrace.
Then drive me forth; away from thee in exile sent;
And they’ll receive me, under feint of sorrow bent.
‘In secret,’ I’ll pretend, ‘a Christian I’m at heart;
Call God to witness how my faith has worked my hurt. 25
The King a knowledge gained of zeal in me that burned;
Its flame to put out quite, his anger on me turned.
I strove to hide my faith, my leaning to keep hid;
Affected still to be, think, act, just as he bid.
Suspicion crossed his mind; my secret he espied;
All I could plead for nothing went; he said I lied.
“Thy specious words,” quoth he, “are needles in a loaf;[82]
My eye, as through a glass, sees all thy thoughts; thou oaf!
No curtain of thy trickeries can veil thy faith from me;
I’m proof against thy knaveries; thy cunning I can see.” 30
Were not the faith of Jesus the refuge of my heart,
He’d not have mutilated me in this sad sort.
For love of Jesus, head and life I will lay down;
All persecution suffer to gain a martyr’s crown.
My life I will not grudge to lose for Jesus’ sake.
His faith I hold from point to point without mistake.
I dread his doctrine’s fall to uninstructed guides.
The truth from their bad teaching still to ruin glides.
Thanks be to God, to Jesus thanks, who me have made
A teacher perfect of the faith so free from shade. 35
The Jew and Judaism I have forsworn in sooth;
About my loins the sacred cord[83] I wear; ’tis truth.
This age the age of Jesus is; O men, give ear!
His doctrine take to heart; nought else have you to fear.’”
The Vazīr having laid this plot before the King,
All shame and scruple vanished; ’twas a perfect thing.
In presence of the public, nose, ears were cut off.
The rabble wondered greatly; now’s the time to scoff.
He fled unto the Christians; begged them him to hear;
And straightway set up preaching; saintlike was he there. 40
The Christians soon with one accord accepted him,
In multitudes they round him flocked, all meek and prim.
The Gospel’s holy words, the prayer, the cord, he’d preach;
The mysteries of all of these to them he’d teach.
To outward view a guide to sanctity was he;
In very truth, a trap and fowler’s whistle; see.
Of such effect his wiles, disciples were deceived;
From Jesu’s teaching fell, and in this cheat believed.
It is so. Often does the flesh, for selfish end,
Intrude itself across the soul’s most fervent trend. 45
Meek virtue was not what they sought to gain the most;
Of him they learned to ferret out new sins, and boast.
Hair-splitting casuists, point by point they sin dissect;
They grow too wise; ’twixt rose and garlic links detect.
Of such avail’s the subtle cunning of these men,
That honest teachers oft are made to swerve by them.
The Christian folk in him their confidence thus place.
Gregarious, like sheep, ’s the mob of every race.
A gen’ral favourite was he; all loved him well;
Christ’s vicar called they him; as who the truth could tell. 50
This cursed Antichrist, so full of fraud and wile!
Grant help, O God! ’Tis Thou alone canst curb such guile.
The devil’s snares are spread abroad in tempting guise,
Their baits are various; we, like birds, shut fast our eyes.
If saved from one, another tempts; we thither stray;
Like hawks and eagles, heinous sins make us their prey.
Thou shieldest us, O gracious God! But ever still,
With froward hearts and minds we counteract Thy will.
This world’s a granary, of which we steal the corn.
The wheat is there all garnered; we it spoil in scorn. 55
We take no heed of future life in what we do;
Sly mice still help us to consume the fruits that grow,
Those mice a road have found to reach our winter store.
Through their inroads our victual spoils; it is no more.
First stop mouse-holes; make safe thy granary, O man!
Thy wheat then garner safely; winter’s at our van.
Give ear to what he’s said, the Lord’s own Chief of Chiefs:[84]
“No perfect worship’s needed, save in war’s reliefs.”[85]
If mice there be not to destroy our garnered meeds,
Where is our wheat, the fruit of fifty summers’ deeds? 60
To shreds all nibbled lie the products of our days;
No stores accumulate for provend on our ways.
How many sparks of fire from flint and steel have flown!
How many hearts, like tinder, make those sparks their own!
But in the dark some thief his finger presses there;
And ev’ry train puts out that has been lighted here.
Extinguished if those sparks were not, a flame would rise;
A burning light be kindled, flashing ’yond the skies.
A thousand snares are laid to catch our tripping feet;
But, Lord, if us Thou shield, harm never shall us meet. 65
If but Thy grace will guide us, lead us on our way,
No thief can steal our peace of mind, our light of day.
Each night Thou settest free the soul from trap of flesh,
To scan and learn the hidden records of Thy wish.[86]
Each night the soul is like a bird from cage set free,
To wander. Judge and judgment, then, it does not see.
By night the pris’ner loses sense of bars, of chains;
By night the monarch knows no state, no pomp retains;
The merchant counts no more, in sleep, his gains and loss;
The prince and peasant, equal, on their couches toss. 70
The Gnostic[87] is so e’en by day, when wide awake;
For God hath said: “Let quietude care of him take.”[88]
Asleep to all the things of earth by night, by day,
As pen in writer’s hand he doth his guide obey.
Whoever sees not in the lines the writer’s hand,
May fancy ’tis the pen alone has all command.
Of this, the Gnostic’s privilege, a trace ’d suffice
To rob of sleep and reason vulgar souls of ice.
His spirit wanders in the groves of th’ absolute.
His soul is easy; body, still, calm, quiet, mute. 75
The two absolved from greed, lust, sense, care, fear also;
Each, like a bird uncaged, is free; roams to and fro.[89]
Should he, birdlike, be whistled back to trap of sense,
Again he sinks, the slave of every vile pretence.
When light of dawn paints bright the blushing sky with red,
Ere orb of day comes forth as bridegroom from his bed,
Shrill chanticleer, as though it were last judgment’s trump,
Calls back to consciousness the sleepers. Up they jump.
The souls return their bodies to inhabit, then;
Each body fraught with thoughts, and words, and deeds again. 80
The soul turned loose, without the body’s cares or ken,
Attests the truth: “Sleep is death’s brother,”[90] to all men.
But lest it should escape, and not come back at call,
A tether to it’s bound; it’s not quite free withal.
It must come back by day from roaming where it wills,
The cares of life to bear;--a burthen that soon kills.
O! Would, O God, Thou’d keep my soul in Thy own hand,
As Sleepers in the Grotto;[91] Noah’s ark once to land!
Then had I ’scaped the tempest waking thoughts aye raise;
My mind, eyes, ears, had rested; all my task Thy praise! 85
Sev’n Sleepers?--Many are there of them in this world,
Before, behind me, right and left; they’re round me hurl’d!
My “Cave”[92] art Thou; my “Mate” art Thou; O God, my friend!
Men’s eyes and ears are sealed; they know not where they wend.
A Caliph asked of Laylà: “Art thou really she
For whom poor Majnūn went distracted? For I see,
Than other beauties thou art not so passing fair.”
Said she: “Be silent! Thou’rt not Majnūn; nor his pair.”
A man awake is sound asleep; more, he can’t be.
His watchfulness is worse than sleep; how should he see? 90
Our souls, if not awake to God’s most holy truth,
Are not awake. We’re slaves to them. The greater ruth!
The soul all day is buffeted by fancy’s whims;
Of loss or profit, life or death, as frenzy swims.
No peace enjoyed; no dignity remains in hand;
No vigour to attempt a flight to heaven’s strand.
Asleep is he who’s slave to every sordid wish;
Who begs of fancy; parleys with it, even. Pish!
A demon in his sleep he sees; an angel deems.[93]
Through lust he swoons with sensual pleasure as he dreams. 95
His seed he sows in sandy, salt, and desert land;
And wakes to find no harvest’s ripened to his hand.
A headache, with a beating heart, is all he feels;
“Alas!” he sobs, “that treach’rous gnome! My whole frame reels!”
A bird flies in the air; its shadow flits on earth;
A second bird it seems to be, though nothing worth.
Some simpleton runs after it; to catch it tries;
Himself tires out; meanwhile the creature safely flies.
The fool still knows not ’tis a shadow he pursues,
Its substance where to seek he has no power to muse. 100
He shoots his arrows at the fleeting, mocking shade;
His quiver emptied, he returns; no booty made.
Our life’s our quiver. When our years are vainly spent
In chasing phantoms, grief will one day have its vent.
Let God’s protection mercifully on us rest,
All fancies and all phantoms stand at once confest.
God’s servants are His shadows here below on earth;
To this world dead, but living in a second birth.
To their skirts cling; from them thy soul’s nutrition seek.
So may’st thou ’scape the perils of this scene’s last week. 105
The holy text of: “How He stretcheth forth the shade!”[94]
Of saints gives notice. Them his glory doth pervade.
Without their guidance venture not to thread this maze;
Like Ab’ram answer: “Fading things do not me please!”[95]
In days of trouble, consolation’s sun seek out.
The skirts of “Tebrīz’ Sun” will wipe out care, no doubt.[96]
Know’st not the road to that good man, and grief survene?
Inquire of his and my friend, great Husāmu-’d-Dīn.[97]
While on thy way, should envy seize thee by the throat,
Know, Satan’s sin was envy; malice made him gloat. 110
He envied Adam’s rise to such sublime estate.
He wars with all who’re good, through envy and through hate.
No mountain-pass as this life’s progress is so steep;
Let envy not increase thy load; thou canst but creep.
The flesh a hot-bed is of envy and of strife.
These soil the soul; for envy’s bane of mortal life.
Should envy seek thy soul to kill, invoke the Lord,
The God of mercy thee can save, with His true Word.
“Make clean My house, ye two,” did Ab’ram’s God once say.[98]
His house our frame; a house of glory, though of clay. 115
Should envy fill thy breast ’gainst one that envies not,
Foul stains ensue; thy heart’s impure; all good’s forgot.
Prostrate thyself, then, at the feet of holy men;
Cast dust upon thy head, God’s pardon to attain.
The Vazīr of our Jewish king was envy’s self;
His nose and ears he sacrificed, as ’twere but pelf,
In hopes the sting of envy ’d find an easy way,
To pour the selfsame wounds he ’d open lay.
His nose, from envy, in the air, who carries high,
His ears and nose to envy ’d give without a sigh. 120
The nose the organ is by which we trace a scent;
The scent then guides to where the odour finds its vent.
Who has no sense of smell is truly _minus_ nose,
Its odour we should trace to where religion blows.
To scent religion’s fragrance, not returning thanks,
Ingratitude is. Nose to lose merit such pranks.
Be grateful, thou; and venerate all grateful men;
Abase thyself; a champion be of theirs. Amen.
Be not a cut-throat, like that Vazīr, of men’s faith;
Seek not to turn believing souls from what God saith. 125
That Vazīr seemed a pastor of the truth, in sham;
As one who bitter aloes mixed in sweet plum jam.
Some men of sense discernment used, his ways to scan,
His honied phrases smacked to them of knavish plan.
Refined truisms, double-meaning, he’d deal out,
Like syrup into which some mortal poison’s put.
Be thou not caught with knavery’s fairly-spoken word;
A hidden meaning it may have. Be on thy guard.
Of evil-minded men the speech is never good;
Their hearts are dead and putrid; life cannot there brood. 130
A man’s an offset from a man, by nature’s law,
As sure as cake of bread is bread, and not mere straw.
God’s Lion,[99] ‘Ali, saith: “All words in folly made,
As weeds on dunghills, crowd apace; as quickly fade.”[100]
He who would rashly, thoughtlessly, repose thereon,
Begrimed will be, befouled, befooled, and spat upon.
He that gives vent to wind, mere wind, is bound to wash;
His worship else is vain; pollution doth it quash.[101]
The Vazīr’s talk was all: “Be diligent in pray’r.”
His acts proclaimed aloud: “Of duty never care.” 135
In surface silver’s white and glittering to the eye;
With friction, hands and purse it soils, though e’er so dry.
A fire is jocund to the view; its flame may please.
But venture not too near it; black is its surcease.
The lightning flashes brightly, shining as it flies;
But oft, alas, it strikes man blind, or dead he lies.
Be wise betimes; for “he that’s void of common sense,
Is like the ox with yoke on neck.” So ‘Alī,--Hence!
For six years was the Vazīr absent from the king;
Disciple seemed of Jesu’s faith; bad news to bring. 140
Their hearts and faith the people all pinned on to him;
At his command they every one would change each whim.
His purpose all the time was fraud and gross deceit;
He pondered naught but wiles, to compass their defeat.
By secret message, with the king he held converse.
The king to him fair gratulations sent, diverse.
A missive came to him at length: “My faithful son,
’Tis time my heart was set at rest. What hast thou done?”
His answer was: “The thing’s prepared; have patience yet;
The Christian folk to puzzle soon, we’ll not forget.” 145
The Christians portioned were, for purposes of war,
In legions twelve; to each, a captain void of fear.
The men of every legion to their captain bound
By ties of trust and confidence, in each heart found.
These legions and those captains twelve, to that bad man
Had yielded up their every thought;--as mankind can.
Should he command to die, not one of them would fail
To give his life right joyfully,--without one wail.
A volume he prepared in name of each of them;
The matter of these registers not all the same. 150
The style of every one was in a different guise;
From end to end each book’s contents were forgeries.
In one, the pangs of hunger mortified the flesh;
With penitence, with fasting made, and prayer, to clash.
A second taught that fasting did no good at all;
That charity, beneficence, was all in all.
A third explained: “Thy fasting,--charity itself,—
Syntheism[102] is. With God, thou deifiest thyself.
To trust with resignation’s all religion’s plan.
In weal and woe are springs to trap the soul of man.” 155
A fourth declared: “Faith without works is truly dead.
Alone is service valued; faith’s a sin to dread.”
A fifth laid down: “The Law’s commands and warnings all
Are not for practice; they’re mere symbols of man’s fall.
By showing us man’s weakness, God is made more strong;
The decalogue this purpose serves; the rest’s all wrong.”
The sixth, again: “For man to talk of weakness here,
Ingratitude is, simply; God’s grace is so clear;
Think, now, how wonderful is man; how great; how wise;
’Tis God has made him thus; to thank Him in us lies.” 160
A seventh suggests: “Leave power and weakness unto Me;
They’re idols, both, as also are all things ye see.”
An eighth contends: “Put not thy light behind a shade.
Let all men see thy light; to glad their eyes ’twas made.
Removed from sight if ’tis, an evil thence will loom.
Thou, too, wilt be removed at midnight from the groom.”
A ninth expounds: “Put out the light; thou’lt have more joy.
The sense of sight is one: joy’s feelings, many; boy.
Put out the light. The sense of touch thou may’st then use.
The bride is timid; in the dark she’ll not refuse. 165
Renunciation of the world’s a very farce.
Renounce. The world, and more, thou’lt dream of in thy trance.”
A tenth assures: “That which the Lord hath given to man,
God hath made pleasant to the eyes. Deny, who can.
Take what is thine. Avert thee not; ’tis folly still
To take to groaning, moaning, when all’s at thy will.”
Another yet: “Forsake all things thou hast possessed.
Retention of them by thee baseness is, confessed.
How many roads diverse traced for their feet men deem;
Each one to one sole “church” the only road doth seem. 170
If way there were secure, for hitting out the truth,
The Jews and Magi surely ’d not missed it, forsooth.”
Again another: “Moral food makes heart to live.
We see this clearly; every hour a proof doth give.
Enjoyments sensuous, fleshly, when to fade they haste,
Leave no result behind; they’re desert mirage, waste.
Regret’s their only issue, grief for loss of time;
A bankrupt’s stock; their commerce gives no gain, no prime.
Pursuit of them has never ended in success;
Dire failure still must be the fruit of recklessness. 175
Distinguish thou betimes the foolish from the wise;
The end of each scan well; ’tis there the difference lies.”
And still one more: “True wisdom strive thou to find out.
True wisdom’s not the fruit of noble birth. Poor lout!
Each ‘church’ has had in view to gain a happy end.
But one and all have failed and could but fail. God send!
To palm off jugglers’ tricks is not true wisdom’s part,
Or man had never seen so many faiths take start.”
And one again: “True wisdom thou hast surely found.
Thou knowest men of wisdom;--wisdom’s safest ground. 180
Be manful. Let not men by fraud make mock of thee.
Thy own path choose; turn not from it for aught thou see.”
To one he said: “Thy unity is all in all;
Besides thee, aught existence never had, nor shall.”
One volume taught: “The universe is unity.
Who teaches two exist, is but a squint-eye, he.”
The last gave out: “A hundred really are but one.”
Unless a madman, whom could have such doctrines won?
In them these paradoxes fitly found their place,
In words and sense his doctrines lacked all claim to grace. 185
Each volume was the antithesis of the next;
If one was honey, poison was the other’s text.
Wouldst thou escape his honey and his poison too,
Forsake thou not the holy word of scripture true.
Twelve volumes thus were writ with fraudulent research,
By that Vazīr, the hidden foe of Jesu’s church.
Jesu’s one-mindedness for him had no perfume;
The wine of Jesu’s jar no _bouquet_ to his grume.
A many-coloured garment washed in that pure wine,
As snowy white comes out, and clear as is sunshine. 190
Not faded or plain-coloured, such as gives offence;
But clear as crystal water, in which fishes glance.
Dry land, chameleon-like, gay-coloured scenes displays;
But fishes dry land shun; they love clear water’s sprays.
What is the fish, and what the water, in my tale,
That they should symbolise God’s kingdom on small scale?
Whole shoals of fishes, great and small, the water’s realm,
In adoration mute, with praise to God o’erwhelm.
What showers of bounty from God’s outstretched hand
Have made the seas with pearls of price to deck the strand! 195
What brilliant suns of brightest goodness must have shone,
Ere clouds and sea could have produced the matchless stone![103]
What rays of wisdom poured on water and on land
Ere earth could nourish seed, yield corn to our demand!
The earth, a faithful trustee, gives back what we sow,
No fraud, embezzlement, in its trust do we know.
This faithfulness to trust arises, with time’s run,
From generous warmth infused by glow of justice’ sun.
Whene’er God’s symbol quickening summer back doth bring,
The mysteries of the earth straight from her bosom spring.
Th’ All-Bountiful, who gave to senseless earth, of grace,
This faithfulness, trustworthiness, in every place, 200
In mercy plans forth inorganic matter’s course.
In wrathful wisdom’s counsel blinds man to its source.
Our hearts and souls have not the grace to understand.
To whom address me? Not one ear’s at my command!
Who lends his ear, shall also quickly find an eye.
Whose ear’s, like stone, to counsel deaf, shall surely die.
Of wond’rous power is God possessed. What’s magic’s skill!
Miraculous works He enacts. Where’s witchery’s spell!
To sing His praise in me a want of feeling shows.
It proves I breathe. To breathe, to live, breaks true love’s
laws. 205
In His existence let my being sink, quite lost.
To be, is to be blind and blear-eyed at the most.
If blind I were not, swooned, unconscious should I be.
The Sun of Glory’s might and power then could I see.
Were not my sight grown blear, through weeping in my dreams,
Had I stood, ice-like, frozen, ’neath His mercy’s beams?
Just like his king, this Vazīr was shortsighted seen.
The Ancient, ’twas, of Days, he wrestled ’gainst, I ween.
Th’ Almighty One, who with one breath, one word, did bring
Ten thousand worlds from naught to join in being’s ring. 210
Ten thousand worlds, besides, disclose themselves to sight,
If thou direct thy vision towards the God of Light.
In man’s esteem the world is vast, without an end;
With Power Infinite compared, a grain of sand.
The world’s around the soul a dismal prison-den.
Arise! Escape! Regain the fields at large! Be men!
The world is finite; He is infinite. Confide!
Earth’s forms and qualities God’s essence from us hide.
The million spears of Pharaoh, vaunting in his might,
By Moses’ wand were broken in th’ appointed night. 215
And many sons of skill, for healing science famed,
By Jesu’s curing halt, lame, blind, deaf, mad, were shamed.
How many poets, orators, great men of note,
By word of the Illiterate One[104] were shown to dote.
For love of our Almighty God, the Lord of all,
Who would not die, a stock, a block, we needs must call.
Dead heart of stone if He but touch with love’s live coal,
A magnet straight becomes, no longer quits the pole.[105]
Plume not thyself as one endowed with cunning guile;
The meek more surely draw rich gifts from Heaven’s smile. 220
How many treasure-hiders, treasure-seekers, here,
Have been derided, laughed to scorn, by that All-Seer!
What art thou, man? Canst thou in thought with Him compare?
What’s the whole earth? A blade of grass, His might to dare?
A woman, once, through foul adultery’s sin estranged,
By God, in punishment, to Venus’ star was changed.[106]
From woman into Venus? Sure, that change was sad.
To dust and ashes turn. Less shame in this. Art mad?
Thy soul it is must lift thee to heaven’s highest home;
The flesh can but consign thee deep to hell’s dark dome. 225
Thyself it is that dooms thee to that woful fate;
The angels’ envy art thou, here, in man’s estate.
Consider, then, this doom; revolve it in thy mind;
That woman’s change, compared with this, was joy, thou’lt find.
To push ambition’s course beyond the stars thou’st sought?
Refused hast thou first Adam to adore, as naught?[107]
But seed of Adam art thou, O degenerate man!
Why wilt thou then as glory count dark shame’s foul ban?
Why proudly vaunt thou’lt conquer all this teeming earth?
Why fondly fancy rumor ’ll sound thy passing worth? 230
Should winter’s snow in heaps encumber all earth’s soil,
One gleam of summer’s sun the frigid cloak will foil.
So, too, that Vazīr’s scheme of fraud, nor his alone,
Reduced to nothing was by one word from God’s throne.
Such crafty wiles as these He changes into weal;
As poisons by His power receive the gift to heal.
What doubtful was, becomes confest, at His decree;
True love springs up, where hatred plotted was to be.
He safely carries through the fire His chosen friend;[108]
The fear of death He maketh peace of mind to lend. 235
Through Him are treasures hid beneath the ruin’s waste;
Thorns roses yield; our bodies joys of soul foretaste.
By workings of the pang of love for Him I burn;
Though sophistlike I rave, ’tis unto Him I turn.
Another stratagem the Vazīr next conceived;
From public life withdrew, and solitude achieved.
Admiring followers all were fain to mourn his loss;
For forty days, and more, in cell he bore his cross.
Their yearning for him grew more fierce from day to day;
They missed his good example, words, and zeal to pray. 240
They grieved that he in solitude should vex his flesh;
Their sympathies clung round him every day afresh.
“Without our teacher we’re a pastorless poor flock;
Blind beggars without staff to guide us to our nook.
For mercy’s sake, for love of God, have pity now;
No longer us deprive of consolation’s show.
We’re infants all, and thou our feeder, tutor thou,
Protection shed around; forsake us not just now.”
His answer was: “My spirit’s present with you, friends.
But issue from this hermitage my power transcends.” 245
The captains twelve, of legions, intercession made;
His grieved disciples raised a wail, a serenade:
“Great evil’s lighted on us! Ah! Beloved One!
We’re orphans made; our parent, thou, away art gone!
Raise not such pretext; push us not to our wit’s end.
We sob and sigh; we beat our breasts. Do comfort send!
Thou’st pampered, spoilt us with thy wondrous eloquence;
With doctrine from thy lips our souls cannot dispense.
Torment us not, for God’s sake! Pity on us take!
Be kind! This day, ‘To-morrow’ say not; to us wake! 250
Our hearts are rapt in thee; no heart in us remains.
Heartless and spiritless are we, poor bankrupt swains!
Like fishes out of water, so we writhe and gasp.
The dam break down; let flow the stream; avert death’s grasp!
Thou art the very paragon, the phœnix of the age.
Heaven’s mercy, save us; or, we perish, we enrage!”
To them he thus: “O men of little sense, take heed;
You foolishly are seeking elsewhere what you need.
Your ears stop up with wool; list not to speech of man;
The mote that blinds your eyes cast out. Then, see you can. 255
With cotton in your outward ears, you’ll plainly hear
The still small voice of conscience, drowned now by your fear.
All outward sense discard; all thought, reflection flee;
And straight you’ll hear, within, God’s voice: ‘Come unto Me.’
So long as with chitchat you keep yourselves awake,
Communion with the angels you in sleep forsake.
Our words and acts make up our outward habitudes;
Our inward man’s our converse with infinitudes.
Our senses barren are; they come of barren soil;
Our soul, like Jesus, walks the sea without turmoil. 260
Our outer man’s a barren wilderness, I ween;
The inner man, ’tis, sounds the depths of the Unseen.
If all our life be spent in chase of mundane things,
Our paths must lead o’er wastes, o’er hills, o’er ocean springs.
The Fount of Life,[109] where shall we find in such a course?
Death’s billows how avoid, and how escape remorse?
The desert’s moving sandhills are our schemes and plans.
Life-rills are abnegation, self-denial, man’s.”
Him answered his disciples: “Master, grieve us not.
Fresh sorrow, through pretences, add not to our lot. 265
Such heavy burden to endure we’ve not the power.
Poor suffering weaklings we, in sad affliction’s hour.
The heavens appear to raise themselves all vastly high;
But true sublimity’s God’s attribute. We sigh.
The food of every bird He gives in providence;
He says whose figs devoured shall be these ten days hence.
Who ’d give, in lieu of mother’s milk, to infants, bread,
Would kill them with improper food before them spread.
But when their teeth are grown, and deck their little mouths,
Themselves will ask for bread; milk suits not then their growths. 270
The unfledged chick is yet for flight all unprepared;
Attempting it, he falls a prey to puss, poor bird!
His wings well pinioned, he soars high in breezy air;
Needs no encouragement; his instinct leads him there.
Each howling imp is stilled at sound of thy sole voice;
And words from thee are utmost joy to all our race.
Our ears are gladdened as they catch thy tongue’s converse,
Each desert grows a garden, when thou’rt freshness’ source.
With thee amongst us, earth a foretaste gives of heaven,
Thou’rt our delight, from morn to eve our longed-for leaven. 275
Without thee, day’s refulgence we cannot employ,
If thou art present, every care is turned to joy.
High station, true, may be attained by charlatan;
But moral worth alone gives eminence to man.”
To them, now, he replied: “Your prayer ’s of no avail.
My counsel take and ponder. Naught else shall prevail.
If I’m a trusted man, my word is not a lie,
E’en though I’d say that black is white, or earth is sky.
If I’m perfection, who the perfect’s word denies?
If I am otherwise, why all this fuss and noise? 280
Forth from my solitude to come I’m not designed.
I’m communing with God; to His will I’m resigned.”
They still insisted: “Vazīr, that we’ll not deny,
But our remonstrance is a truly piteous cry.
We weep our eyes out through our grief thee not to see,
With sighs our hearts burst, vainly looking out for thee.
An infant quarrels not with its attentive nurse;
And yet it weeps, through knowing not what’s good from worse.
We are thy harps. The plectrum’s stroke is from thy hand.
’Tis thus we moan; smit by thy cunning harpist wand. 285
Like flutes of reed, our utterances are through thee found;
Or mountain vale, our echo’s but child of thy sound.
Or as chess-players, striving in their dubious game;
Our ‘check’ and ‘mate’ are from thee, man of mighty name.
What are we,--can we be? ’Tis thou’rt our life of life,
So long as thou’rt among us. If not, all is strife.
We’re naught;--we’re nothings. All our being is in thee.
Existence’ very self by thy frail form we see.
We’re lions, true; but stand on vanes of weathercocks,
Our twists and twirls, our starts, our jumps, are from
wind’s shocks. 290
These lions’ movements are in sight; the winds unseen.
The Great Unseen, th’ Almighty One, ’s behind the screen.
Our moving wind, our very being from thee springs.
Existence, else, were vain, not sheltered ’neath thy wings.
’Tis thou hast taught us, nothings, valued life to prize;
’Twas thou that made us, erring, lovers of th’ Allwise.
Take not from us the savour sweet of thy good gifts,
Thy cup, thy wine, thy relish, absence from us lifts.
But shouldst thou still refuse, who to repine ’d have heart?
Can pictures of the painter’s hand complain, and art? 295
No notice of us take; from us avert thy face;
But ne’er deride the claims of thy prevailing grace.
We were not; prayers from us arose not to thy ear;
Thy grace alone ’twas sought us out; thou drewest near.
Before the artist and his brush, the picture’s null;
Like unborn babe in mother’s womb, till time be full.
Before almighty power creation stands in wait,
As canvas ’fore the needle ’broiderer’s hand may mate.
A demon here, an angel there, or man, is bid
To be; now joy, now sorrow, rises up amid. 300
We have no hand to move; defend ourselves we can’t.
We have no breath, no speech to pray for aid in want.”
The Qur’ān ponder this my verse to understand.[110]
There God hath said: “Thou threwst not, when thou threwst”
the sand.[111]
Although we shoot an arrow swiftly to its mark,
The bow, the arrow, we ourselves, are from God’s ark.
There’s no compulsion here, though God can all compel.
’Tis not complaint, if I of God’s compulsion tell.
All our complaints of our felt needs are indices. 305
If shame we feel, of our freewill a sign it is.
Without choice were we, there ’d be no pretext for shame.
Why blush and hang the head, cast down the eyes so tame?
What doth a master in disciple always chide?
Why teacheth he in Providence still to confide?
Shouldst thou assert God carelessly makes us to act,—
That sun of verity He hides in mists of fact,—
An answer I will give,--just lend thy ear to me;
Forsake all blasphemy,--of God’s faith ever be:
“The longings, the regrets, that every sick man feels, 310
Awakings are of conscience. Sickness this reveals.
The moment man is ailing,--prisoner to bed sent,
He counts his sins, he asks for grace, vows to repent.
He sees the wickedness of all he’s said and done;
He promises, in future, errant ways to shun.
‘If but I’m spared,’ he says, ‘I never will sin more;
I’ll righteousness ensue, all trespasses abjure.’
By this thou seest that sickness is not all an ill.
’Tis but a time for waking conscience good to will.
Know then the aphorism, O seeker after truth,—
Whoe’er thou be, to whom scent of it may give ruth: 315
‘The man that’s most awake, with most of pain will reel;
The more his conscience pricks, more sorely sad he’ll feel!’
If thou wert really conscious God ’tis thee compels.
What need to feel ashamed;--to utter frightful yells?
Thou art not so; thou feelest not a captive’s chain;
Thou know’st thou’rt free to act, or from each act abstain.
Whoever saw a captive sporting in his bonds?
Whoever heard of prisoners acting vagabonds?
Hast thou had fetters fastened on to both thy feet?
Hast e’er beheld kings’ guardsmen resting in thy seat? 320
Then be not thou to others hard as jailer man.
Obduracy befits not him a king may ban.
Compulsion since thou feel’st not, make it not pretext.
Say’st that thou feel’st it? Where’s the proof? Show us it next.
In every act to which thou inclination hast,
Thou know’st thyself free agent: what thou willst, thou dost.
If any case arise thy will, thy wish, to brave,
Straightway compulsionist thou art: ‘God so would have.’”
The prophets were compulsionists to this world’s string.
Miscreants are compulsionists towards heaven’s King. 325
The prophets chose the better part, futurity;
The foolish choose the worse, the world’s fatuity.
Each bird will flock with birds of its own feather still;
The cock well knows his mate, and follows where she will.
Miscreants are the brood of hell, to which they go;
The goods of worldly life they choose. Then be it so.
The prophets are of race from heaven deriving birth;
To heaven they tend with heart and soul while here on earth.
’Twould never end the branches of this theme to count.
So let us sip again from our old story’s fount. 330
Within his cell ensconced, the Vazīr answer gave:
“Disciples mine, my firm resolve from me receive.
To me a very strict commandment Jesus spake:
‘From friends and kin of every class seclusion seek.
Thy face set tow’rds a wall; sit in some cell apart,
Forsake thyself; forgetfulness cast o’er thy heart.’
Permission’s thus denied with men to hold discourse.
I’ve naught to say; with mortals more I’ll not converse.
Good-bye, my friends! Adieu! You’ll never see me more,
My journey’s unto heaven; there I’ve laid my store. 335
Th’ empyrean beneath, so long as I have strayed,
Like firewood in a furnace have I wept; still prayed.
Henceforward I shall sit on Jesu’s own right hand,
In highest heaven enthroned, blest Paradise’s strand.”
The legion-captains now he called to him apart;
But one by one, in secret, counsels to impart.
To ev’ry one he said: “Successor thee I name,
The faith of Jesus to uphold and keep from shame.
All other captains thy commands will have to hear;
’Tis Jesus thus appoints thee others’ loads to bear. 340
Should any one against thee neck rebellious raise,
Him kill, imprison, or in exile end his days.
But while I live divulge not what to thee I’ve told,
Keep secret till my death this charge thou hast to hold.
Let no one know till then ’tis thou art chosen out,
Proclaim not thou thyself a king or prince devout.
Behold this scroll; take, study it; thyself instruct,
’Tis Jesu’s doctrine pure; from this His Church construct.”
Thus one by one their minds prepared were to be chief:
“’Tis thou’rt the chosen one; all else would be a thief.” 345
He named them each successor; made them so to feel.
Whate’er he told to one, to each did he reveal.
He gave to each a volume, writ from end to end;
No two alike; each different, and hard to blend.[112]
Their doctrines various, of every changing hue;
Diverse in sense, as objects’ forms exposed to view.
Their precepts and commands a very maze of guile,
Their sentiments impossible to reconcile.
The Vazīr now delayed another forty days;
Then slew himself,--set free his soul from earth’s affrays. 350
The people, hearing of his death, were sorely grieved;
Around his corpse collected; eyes, ears, scarce believed.
With many bitter moans to sorrow they gave vent;
Their breasts they beat, their hair they tore, their clothing rent.
To count their multitudes is in God’s power alone;
Turks, Arabs, Kurds, and Romans,[113] men of every zone.
They scattered o’er their heads the dust from his last home;
To mourn for him was balm, all ills to overcome.
They wept. Their bitter, briny tears they shed in floods;
His grave a pool; those tears, as streamlets from the woods. 355
To lose him was a grief unspeakable that fell
On rich and poor, on high and low, too sad to tell.
A month of mourning past, the people sought to know
Whom he’d appointed in his place their way to show.
Whom must we recognise successor to our saint?
Into whose hands commit the task of our restraint?
He was a sun of light; his fire hath turned to fume,
A candle now we need our darkness to illume.
Our friend is gone,--is lost to our inquiring eyes.
A substitute we seek,--memorial we may prize. 360
Our rose is withered;--rosebush leaves all blown away,
Which vase holds now the rose-scent in its perfumed clay?”
God is invisible to weakly mortal sight,
His prophets are a need, to guide His Church aright.
No! That’s not right! That phrase is sadly incorrect.
A prophet’s one with God; not two. Think well! Reflect!
They are not two; they’re one. Thou blind materialist!
With God they’re one; their forms but make Him manifest.
Thou seest the form alone; thy two eyes are at fault.
Look with thy soul; thou’lt see as God from heaven’s vault. 365
Thy two sights will united be straightway in one,
When thou behold’st the Light of God’s eternal throne.
Set up ten burning candles in one selfsame place,
A separate body, each, diffuses light and grace.
Their powers combine in one, to brighten that retreat;
Distinction now there’s none; one light alone we meet.
Count out a hundred apples, quinces, pears, or plums;
When mashed together, all their juice, their pulp, their scums.
Things spiritual division, number, parts, know not,
They split not into fractions, form no separate lot. 370
’Tis sweet when friends with friends together come and meet.
Trust then the spirit. “’Tis the letter kills”--repeat.
Thy body mortify; thy flesh consume with pains.
Behind it hid thou’lt find God’s unity--thy gains.
If thou the body vex not,--bring not low betimes,
The flesh will thee destroy, my friend, in fiery flames.
The flesh it is that shows itself to human heart;
The flesh it is demands asceticism’s sharp smart.
We simple were; one essence was the source of all.
Nor head, nor foot had we; one pristine lot did fall. 375
One substance held us; we were clear as is the sun;
No knots or gnurs within us, free as water’s run.
On taking fleshly form, that simple essence, then,
Became divided, split, like shadows in each glen.
Make low the hills and hillocks, level make the plain;
No shadow’s left; the whole becomes one scene again.
With pleasure I’d this matter clearer put, and joy.
But tender consciences I seek not to annoy.
Abstruser points there are, as keen as sword in fight.
If reason’s shield thou hast not, refuge take in flight. 380
My arguments contest not, unless well prepared.
Sharp blade will cut; it pities not; no life is spared.
I sheathe my sword of argument,--will not make assault.
Lest muddlers read me wrong, and say ’tis I’m at fault.
We come now back again, to follow up our tale,
To keep our faith with readers, feminine and male;
And say again, the people rose up as one man,
Demanding who should work out our dead Vazīr’s plan.
One legion-captain forward came, out of the twelve,
That grieving people’s furrowed field anew to delve. 385
Said he: “Behold! successor am I to the saint.
In Jesu’s stead I’m regent, by his own constraint.
You see this scroll. ’Tis evidence of what I say:
The dead Vazīr’s successorship is mine to-day!”[114]
A second captain started up, as from ambush;
Contested all those words; his own claim then did push.
Forth from his bosom he another scroll produced,
And then the people’s wrath flamed high; not soon reduced.
The other captains, too,--each his own train at back,—
Unsheathed their swords, and threatened both their skulls
to crack. 390
Then each one of the twelve, his sword and scroll in hand,
Upon the others set, like baited bull on brand.
The slain were strewn in heaps of many hundred men,
Their heads were piled in pyramids, by thousands ten.
Their blood was shed in torrents, flowing on the plain.
The dust arose in clouds through this commotion vain.
The seeds of discord sown by that knave’s treacherous hand,
Had now produced their harvest, fatal to the land.
The nuts he cracked were skulls; their kernels, human brains.
The bodies slain through him held precious souls in chains. 395
Be killed, or die, as in thy lot may be decreed.
So with pomegranates, apples, when sliced up at need.
The sweet and sound are prized, and straightway put to use;
The sour and rotten cast away, worthless refuse.
A word with sense and meaning’s ever eloquent;
Bald nonsense is laughed down in scorn or merriment.
Thou fool, materialist! Think closer: look to sense.[115]
The spirit ’tis gives value; words are mere pretence.
Prefer the company of those who spirit seek.
So mayst thou grace attain,—“God’s servant be,”[116] and meek. 400
A life without a soul or spirit in our frame,
Like wooden sword in sheath, were but a senseless name.
Within its sheath while kept, of value it may seem;
When drawn, ’tis only fit for matchwood, men will deem,
Arm not thyself with wooden sword in battle’s day.
Examine well thy weapon, if thou ’d have fair play.
Shouldst find thy sword of wood, another seek forthwith;
If adamant it prove to be, then join thy kith.
The truest swords are found in th’ arm’ry of the saints.
Their converse is to thee a balm for all complaints. 405
The wise have ever said, with uniform accord:
“Most truly wise was he, ‘the Mercy of the Lord.’”[117]
Dost buy a pomegranate? A burst fruit still elect.
The crack reveals its grains; thou seest they’ve no defect.
E’en so, good friend, blest be the man whose mouth reveals
The heart-thought pearls their casket, his pure soul, conceals.
But inauspicious is the opening tulip’s crack;
This patent makes to all that its heartcore is black.
The burst pomegranate is a sunny orchard’s pride.
So speech of worthy men may waft thee to truth’s side. 410
Society with saints no doubt’s of great avail;
To piety it leads; “God’s fear shall never fail.”[118]
Thou wast a very rock, a worthless pebble stone;
By saints’ communion fined, a pearl of price thou’st shone.
Then love the saints. Their love plant deeply in thy heart.
The pure of mind alone deserve a pure love’s part.
Court not despair; hope ever springs in human breast.
Seek not the dark; the Sun of Light shines full confest.
The spirit ever leads to haunts of holy men;
The flesh would cast thee in the pit of sin again. 415
Beware! Feed thou thy soul with love from holy ground.
Make haste! Seek means of grace from one who grace has found.
Petition make! Seize hold upon the skirts of saints.
Through them thou’lt learn how God his favour grants.
The Gospel names the name of Ahmed;[119] he the last,
As chief of prophets;--purity’s bright ocean, vast.
His lineaments, his virtues, ways of matchless good;
With notice of his wars, his fasts, and eke his food,
Some Christian folks, on mention of that sacred name,
And this recital of his qualities and fame, 420
A merit to acquire, were wont to kiss the book,
To bow with reverence deep, humility in look.
That folk in all the troubles we’ve related now
Were safe; nor bloodshed, nor foul faction did them know.
Secured were they from scrolls, sword, captains, and Vazīr,
In name of Ahmed Mustafà they’d trust, not fear.
Descendants, numerous in race, they left behind;
Their faith in Ahmed they a tower of strength did find.
But other Christian folks to him refused to bow.
The blessed name of Mustafà they deemed too low. 425
Requital brought them punishment for this offence;
A prey they fell unmourned to that Vazīr’s pretence.
Their false creed, with their tribes, was quickly brought to end,
Through those twelve lying volumes his deceit had penn’d.
The name of Ahmed, thus, a friend is proved, of might;
Of light by day a pillar, shelt’ring cloud by night.
A castle inexpugnable, a stronghold safe,
As he himself was Trusty,[120] though his foes might chafe.
How fatal the disasters pictured here above,
The fruit of foul duplicity’s pretended love. 430
IV.
Another Jewish King, Persecutor of Christians.
A second Jewish king, descendant of the first,
To persecute the Christians showed hate’s fiercest thirst.
If information’s sought about this wicked king,
That chapter of the Qur’ān read: “Heaven’s Girdle-Ring.”[121]
A sorry rite it was the first had introduced;
With cruel zeal this wicked rite the last abused.
The introducer of a rule that tends to ill,
Draws on his head deep curses, morn and even, still.
The good decease; their bright example serves as guide;
The wicked soon decay; their name all men deride. 5
The children of those sinners, till the trump of doom,
Are cursed as soon as born; no lot more full of gloom.
How many springs burst forth, one salt, the other sweet;
Their savour changes, while the days and nights compete.
The good are promised their inheritance aloft,
Of waters sweet;[122] in Scripture mentioned oft and oft.[123]
The seeker’s wish, if rightly we consider it,
A scintillation is of flame from holy writ.
No flame exists apart from body whence it burns;
Where’er the burning body hies, the flame, too, turns. 10
A window-light will wander all around a room;
Because the rising sun to sunset tends, and gloom.
That which to any constellation’s stars pertains,
Must move with it, rise, set, south, as its place ordains.
The man who under Venus’ influence was born
Is joyous, amorous, ambitious, with greed torn.
If Mars his planet be, his temper’s bellicose;
War, scandal, litigation,--these he most does choose.
But other stars there are, the planets, seven, beside;
And unto men from them nor good, nor ills betide. 15
Revolving in another firmament than they,
Above the spheres that bear the orbs of night and day.
Bright through the moral splendour lent them by the Lord;
Not bound together quite, nor yet in disaccord.
The man whose soul is influenced by one of those,
Like meteors, still shall drive away the spirit’s foes.
His disposition feeleth not the rage of Mars;
He temporises;--meekly acts in prosperous wars.
His light’s triumphant;--darkness it shall never know.
Between two fingers holdeth he the truth, I trow. 20
The truth doth shed a shining light on human souls,
Received by heaven’s favourites, in special ghostly strolls.
Illumined with that light, as spangles deck a bride,
They turn their souls to God, contemning all beside.
Who feels not keenly love’s great soul-compelling might,
Is portionless of spangles from truth’s flashing light.
All _parts_ must ever share the nature of their _whole_,
As nightingale pours out unto one rose its soul.
Whatever _property_ may qualify a _thing_
Externally, man’s qualities are mind’s offspring. 25
From purity, rich colours rise, good qualities;
Stains,--moral, or as dyes,--from gross impurities.
“_God’s Baptism_” is the name of all that’s good in man;
“_The curse of God_,” of all that’s evil in our plan.[124]
In which of these two seas our streamlets may subside,
They but return into the source from whence their tide.
From mountain-tops, swift torrents rushing down apace.
From men’s frames, love-inspired souls, anon the race.
The counsel hear, that now, this Jewish dog did take.
Beside a fire a hideous idol he did make, 30
And proclamation ran: “Whoever ’d save his soul,
This idol worships; or in fire he’s burnt to coal.”[125]
Thus having made his hate an idol to himself,
A second idol straightway he invents, this elf.
The mother of all idols is our fleshly pride.
They’re dragons; this, the egg of cockatrice’s bride.
The flesh is flint and steel; our pride is but its spark.
That pride pervades the flesh as fecundation’s mark.
Can moisture quench the latent spark in flint and steel?
Can man be safe while flesh and pride he lives to feel; 35
In flint and steel we know that fire is still alive.
No water’s of avail that fire from them to drive.
With water we put out a fire when burning bright;
The spark in flint and steel is safe from water’s might.
From flint and steel of flesh what burnings still ensue!
Their sparks, the blasphemies of Christian and of Jew!
If water in the jug and pitcher come to end,
On wellspring we must draw, a fresh supply to send.
Our idol is the muddy dregs left in our jug;
The flesh the sewer from whence it filters, spite of plug. 40
The graven idol (fed from blackest sewer tide
In flesh, its graver), was as fountain by wayside.
The inward idol, pride, the filthy jug’s black slush;
The prurient flesh, the source from which it had its gush.
A hundred potters’ pitchers one small stone can break;
And spill the cooling water drawn our thirst to slake.
To smash an idol, too, quite easy may appear;
Not easy to root out the flesh; too hard, I fear.
Would see the picture of the flesh, inquiring youths?
Description read of hell, with seven yawning mouths.[126] 45
From each soul’s flesh comes forth a special mode of guile.
Each guile, a whirlpool ready Pharaoh’s hosts to spoil.
In Moses, and in Moses’ God, seek refuge then.
Abandon not God’s faith for Pharaohs and their men.
The one true God adore; in Ahmed’s faith believe.
Thy soul and body save,--from Abū-Jahl retrieve.[127]
The Jew a Christian mother to that idol brought.
An infant in her arms; the fire with blazes fraught.
“Fall down and worship;” cried he, “senseless stock adore;
The fire shall then not harm thee, now, nor evermore.” 50
That mother was a woman firm in true belief;
And thence disdained prostration, though ’t should give relief.
They snatched her infant; next, they dashed it in the flame.
The mother’s spirit quailed to see this deed of shame.
Though not herself, to save her infant, she’d bow down.
But lo! a miracle! The babe cried: “Let alone!
Uninjured am I here. Come in. Be not dismayed.
’Tis cool and pleasant. Cease to feel of fire afraid;—
Mere blinding bandage to the eyes;--naught but a veil.
God’s mercy’s here revealed,--made manifest. All hail! 55
Come in, my mother, dear. The truth thou shalt record.
Thou’lt here perceive how saints hold converse with the Lord.
Come in; and witness water blazing high, as fire.
This is a world where flame like water is;--not dire.
Come. Look on miracles for blessed Abr’am wrought;[128]
Whose furnace changed to gardens, out of firewood brought.
Death then I underwent, when I was born of thee.
The fear of death swept o’er me, ere my eyes could see.
With birth I ’scaped from prison, narrow, dark, and drear;
Emerging to a world, vast, radiant, bright, and clear. 60
Alas! that world, you see, is but a second womb.
Joy, comfort, happiness, are found beyond the tomb.
Within this fire a realm of wonders lies around;
Each atom’s here a Jesus;--balm to heal each wound.
This world I’m in’s reality;--not merely form.
The scene I’ve left’s all vanity;--food for the worm.
Come in, my mother; quick! Seize this auspicious hour.
Come in! Let opportunity not ’scape thy pow’r.
Come in; come in; in name of parent’s tenderness.
Come in! This fire has no devouring ruthlessness. 65
Come in! Thou’st witnessed all that Jewish dog can move.
Come in! The grace and power of God Almighty prove.
’Tis from my love for thee I thus so much insist;
From pleasure felt by me, for thee I’ve fear dismissed.
Come in; come in! And others call, to follow thee.
The Great King here His bounteous table’s spread for me.
Come in; come in! All of you, saints of God, elect!
Resigned ones![129] Faith’s cup of martyrdom select!
Come in! Flock in; in crowds; as moths around a light!
This year has tens of thousands springs; but not one night.” 70
Thus loudly cried the infant from its bed of flame.
Th’ assembled crowds all heard it. All were seized with shame.
A sudden holy impulse urged them to obey.
In crowds those men and women cast their lives away.
No force was needed;--no compulsion;--all was love;
For bitterness is sweet to all whom love doth move.
To such a point it came that guards and soldiers, all,
Were fain to cry: “Withhold! The fire is more than full!”
The Jewish king at sight of all this love and zeal,
Was shamed,--was thunderstruck; his wicked heart did reel. 75
He saw that faith can give the lover’s ardent flame.
Self-sacrifice is naught in true devotion’s name.
Thank God! Beelzebub was conquered in that Jew.
Thank God! ’Twas Satan’s self these darksome deeds did rue.
The shame he sought to bring upon the cheeks of some,
A hundredfold was heaped on his own head at home.
He thought from others’ shame the veiling leaf to tear;
He saw them safe, his own foul nakedness laid bare.
A ribald fellow once, by lewdest mob sustained,
Called railing out on Ahmed. Wry his mouth remained. 80
He then came begging pity, in the Prophet’s trace:
“Forgive, Muhammed, who’rt endued with wisdom’s grace.
For want of knowing better, insolent I was.
’Tis I that merit scorn and mockery. Alas!”
When God decides to humble any sinner, proud,
A demon stirs this last t’ insult some man of God.
And he whom God elects to cloak where ’tis he halts,
Has grace bestowed on him to cover others’ faults.
Should favour from the Lord in mercy reach a man,
Humility is given him; to pray ’s part of his plan. 85
How blessed are the eyes that smart with sorrow’s brine!
How blessed is the heart inflamed with love divine!
Contrition’s tears are ever hallowed by heaven’s smile.
The latter end of all things man should scan awhile.
Wherever water flows, the fields are fresh and green.
Tears followed are by grace;--as all the prophets ween.
Then imitate the water-wheel, that groans and weeps.[130]
By prayers, and moans, and tears, a man his heart pure keeps.
Wouldst thou shed tears? Feel pity, when thou meetest woe.
Wouldst mercy find? Show mercy, when men bow them low. 90