And my mind, blessed with the dew-joys calm and cool, is at rest!
My beloved! come to me as the dew of my eyes!
Come to-day as the dew cometh!
And cool my soul parched by the pain of long, long separation!
My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew!
The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.
V
O master of the order of the _Seli_![18]
O dweller of heaven!
O great giver!
My Guru Nanak! Come to me to-day!
O light of lights!
Thy seats are the sun and the moon!
My beloved! return to me to-day!
It is the season of the cooling dew!
The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.
VI
It is the season of slumber and dew.
Cruel is all separation!
Pray remove the distances that divide me from thee.
My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew!
The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.
VII
My love! stay no more in distant lands away from me!
Come into the vacant courtyard of my heart!
Dye my soul with the joys of thy presence,
And make it now thy home.
Stay at home! Go no more out of me!
Dwell in my soul, before my eyes!
And for ever be there the perennial draught of my eyes.
My love! it is the season of the cooling dew!
The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.
VIII
Fill my tearful gaze for ever with thy celestial face;
And let my eyes be for ever wet with the joy of seeing thee!
My love! dwell for ever in my eyes!
It is the season of the cooling dew!
The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.
IX
It is now the dewy season,
The season of the happy meetings of love,
The season of the quenching of all fires of pain.
To me everything seems to be dew-wet;
From the blue of heaven the dew is falling soft;
It is the dew of deep, deep unions;
And wonder and worship is in the eyes.
The separated ones shall meet!
It is the season of the cooling dew!
The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.
X
Now is the time of everlasting embraces!
My beloved! come, meet me to-day!
Take me to thy bosom!
The dew is flooding things with joy.
My love! come to me!
It is the season of the cooling dew!
The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.
XI
The dew cometh from heaven down!
It bringeth heavenly peace for all,
It wetteth all with sweetness.
Invisible, it raineth deep into souls,
It raineth love and peace and joy.
It raineth sweetness.
Dew! dew! my comrades!
It is the season of the cooling dew!
The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.
(Trans.) _Puran Singh_
(_Nārgās: Bhai Vir Singh_).
RÂJHANS (THE PRINCE OF SWANS)
Râjhans! The Golden Swan! Is it thy plumage that shines, or the sunrise
on the eternal snows?
The dweller of _Mân-Sarôwar_, the lake on the roof of the world! Thy
golden beak parts milk from water, in the living stream thou art a
liberated soul!
A rosary of spotless pearls is in thy beak, and how sublime is the lofty
curve of thy neck against the Heaven’s vast azure!
Thou livest on pearls, the nectar drops so pure of Hari Nam.
Great Soul! lover of the azure transparent Infinite! Thou canst not
breathe out of the _Mân-Sarôwar_ air, nor canst thou live out of sight
of those loftiest peaks of snow, and away from the diluted perfume of
musk blowing from the wild trail of the deer!
Thou art the spirit of Beauty, thou art far beyond the reach of human
thought. Thy isolation reflecteth the glory of the starry sky in thy
Nectar Lake of Heart in whose waters the sun daily dips himself!
Thou hast the limitless expanse of air, the companionship of fragrant
gods,
And yet we know thou leavest those Fair Abodes to come to share the woes
of human love;
Thou alightest unawares on the grain-filled barn of the humble farmer,
awakening Nature’s maiden hearts, thou informest love.
It is thy delight to see woman love man, the small ripplings of a human
heart in love flutter thee in thy lofty seat.
Thou art the soul liberated through love; thou knowest the worth of
love, flying for its sake even midst the cities’ smoke and dust,
perchance, to save a human soul through love!
“Sisters of the Spinning-Wheel”:
_Puran Singh_.
LATER LYRICS: POPLAR, BEECH, AND WEEPING WILLOW
I
Shapely poplar, shivering white, poplar like a maiden,
Thinking, musing softly here, so light and so unladen,
That with every breath and stir, perpetually you gladden,
Teach me your still secrecies of thought that never sadden.
From the heavy-hearted earth, earth of grief and passion,
Maiden, would you spring with me, and leave men’s lowly fashion,
Skyward lift with me your thoughts in cumberless elation,
Every leaf and every shoot a virgin aspiration.
The blue day, the floating clouds, the stars shall you for palace
Proffer their cathedral pomp, dawn her rosy chalice.
Where the birds are, you shall throng and revel to be lonely
In the blue of heaven to spire and sway with breezes only.
II
Beech, of leafy isles the queen, beech, of trees the lady,
Soaring to a tower of sighs, in branches soft and shady,
You that sunward lift your strength, to make of shadow duty,
Teach me, tree, your heavenly height, and earth-remembering beauty.
Maiden, would you soar like me, with day-upclouding tresses,
Beauty into bounty change, bend down the eye that blesses;
Make from heaven a shelter cool, to shepherd and sheep silly
Shadowing with shadiness, hot rose and fainting lily.
Through your glorious heart of gloom, the noonday wind awaking
In an ecstasy shall set swaying, blowing, shaking;
Leafy branches, in their nests set the sweet birds rocking
Till their happy song break out, the noonday ardour mocking.
Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river,
Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver,
Teach me, steadfast sorrower, your mournful grace of graces;
Weeping to make beautiful the silent water-places.
Maiden, would you learn of me the loveliness of mourning,
Droop into the chill, wan wave, strength, hardness, lofty scorning;
Drench your drooping soul in tears, content to love and languish,
Gaze in sorrow’s looking-glass, and see the face of anguish?
In the very wash of woe, as your bowed soul shall linger,
You shall touch the sheer, bright stars, and on the moon set finger;
You shall hear, where brooks have birth, the mountain-pine’s emotion,
Catch upon the broadening stream the sound and swell of ocean.
_Manmohan Ghose._
ORPHIC MYSTERIES: THE YELLOW BUTTERFLY
Of all shy visitants, I love
That darling butterfly,
Whose wings are to the cornfield’s wave
A hovering reply.
Yellow as dancing wheat-ears ripe
He suns with his gay youth,
And feeds me with the gold of light,
The thrice-tried gleam of truth.
When, glooming back upon myself,
The garden path I pace,
He comes and makes my gladdened eyes
The dial to his grace.
Unfailing omen, punctual sign!
No sooner am I out,
He hovers by on golden wings
To chase the grey of doubt.
All melancholy thoughts to thresh,
Winnow the blissful grain
Of immortality, and sift
From mortal fear and pain.
Day after day the marvel grows;
Ever his gladsome morn
Shines down the blackness of my grief
With glancing wings of scorn.
Now from the creeper’s bowery height,
Now o’er the garden wall;
From far-off places, or where first
The wonder did befall.
In that low bed of coxcomb flowers
Beneath her window-sill,
Her chamber-window, where he warms
Homeward my spirit still;
Or plumb-down from the soaring roof
He to my awful eye
His radiant message angels me
From azure depths of sky.
I cannot with ungrateful heart
Feel God’s fair world a blank.
Straight for the sunny thought of her
His yellow wings I thank.
I cannot still, her sight to want,
Weep like a thwarted boy,
Cry outright, but with darting gold
He chides me back to joy.
The stupor of the miracle
Ever renewed, the fear,
I lose in charmed tranquillity,
For she, my saint, is here.
Who works it? No dead relic sweet
Of her, my living saint,
Perfect beyond the skill of thought
Of fancy’s power to paint.
Whole from her suffering martyrdom
She is arisen. No tomb
Could hold her, no far blissful heaven
Allure. Her heaven is home.
No place more holy than these walks,
This garden, where the flowers
Swing censers breathing up to God,
This house a Book of Hours.
No room but memory’s sacred hand,
Gilded, illuminate,
Paints how she suffered, loved and died--
The legend of her fate.
In heaven she is; beatitude
To her; her loved ones still,
So loving she, here, here, enskyed
To guard. It is God’s will.
Here in the old sweet home where, still
A guardian spirit, she
Heals, comforts, counsels, and performs
Her angel ministry.
_Manmohan Ghose._
MYVANWY
Oft hast thou heard it, that old true saying,
’Tis like and unlike makes the happiest music.
Then, gravely smiling, scorn me not, Myvanwy,
Fairest of maidens.
Thou who in sunlight sittest, pensive leaning
At the open window, thy hand deep-buried
In dark sweet clusters of thy hair, and gazest
O’er the wide ocean.
Yes, o’er the ocean far, far in the distance,
Is my own country, and other soil bore me
Than thy dear birthplace, other sun than England’s
Nourished my spirit.
Yet for this slight not my heart as alien:
What can green England show to match those regions
Save thyself only, what hath she that merits
Prouder remembrance?
Nothing! nor any shore that hears the Ocean,
Nothing can match their beauty! If Myvanwy
Had but an exile’s sad heart in her bosom,
She too would say so.
She too would say so, and back in thought returning,
How would her sweet eyes fill with tears of gladness,
How would she marvel, the lovely maiden,
Breathless with gazing!
There, stretching lonely, do the giant mountains
Rise with their ages of snows to heaven,
Snows, the heart shudders, so far away seem they,
Fearfully lovely:
There is the tall palm, like her own dear stature,
The land’s green lady, and riotously hang there,
All for Myvanwy’s lips, the strange, delicious
Fruits of the tropics;
And the vast elephant that dreams for ages,
Lost among dim leaves and things of old, remembers:
Would he not, rousing at her name’s sweet rumour,
Pace to behold her?
Oh me! what glories would her eyes enkindle,
Eyes with their quick imaginative rapture!
How shall I picture to her all the strangeness,
All the enchantment,
In that enchanted land of noon? My heart faints
And my tongue falters: for long ago, Myvanwy,
Deep in the east where now but evening gathers,
Lost is my country.
Long ago hither in passionate boyhood,
Lightly an exile, lightly leagues I wandered
Over the bitter foam: so far Fate led me
Only to love thee.
Lost is that country, and all but forgotten
’Mid these chill breezes, yet still, oh, believe me,
All her meridian suns and ardent summers
Burn in my bosom.
_Manmohan Ghose._
KISMET
Before our births, Kussam, who makes our fate,
Ordained us happy or unfortunate,
And wrote upon our brow and on our hands
The signs that tell to him who understands
Our Destiny, decreed for good or ill.
So pass the Wise, bending to Allah’s will,
Their lives into His mighty hands resigned.
One child is cherished; one to hands unkind
Is given; one dies in life’s first shining dawn;
One longs to die, but Death when called upon
Turns from the supplicating voice his ear;
One starves in poverty; one is Amir
And drives his elephant in lordly state;
One lives in love; one girdled round with hate
Dwells ever in a bitter world of strife;
One in the moment of this earthly life
Is ruler, sitting on a regal seat;
One crawls a slave, obedient at his feet.
And Allah changes all as He desires,
He is an artist whom His art inspires:
This world the picture He is painting still.
But with his share of fate He gave man will
To fashion circumstance by its control,
To make a path of healing for his soul,
To act, to think, to feel aright until
He knows his will as one with Allah’s will.
_Inayat Khan._
TANSEN
Tansen, the singer, in great Akbar’s Court
Won great renown; through the Badshahi Fort
His voice rang like the sound of silver bells
And Akbar ravished heard. The story tells
How the King praised him, gave him many a gem,
Called him chief jewel in his diadem.
One day the singer sang the Song of Fire,
The Deepak _Râg_, and burning like a pyre
His body burst into consuming flame.
To cure his burning heart a maiden came
And sang Malhar, the song of water cold,
Till health returned, and comfort as of old.
“Mighty thy Teacher must be and divine,”
Great Akbar said; “magic indeed is thine,
Learnt at his feet.” Then happy Tansen bowed
And said, “Beyond the world’s ignoble crowd,
Scorning its wealth, remote and far-away
He dwells within a cave of Himalay.”
“Could I but see him once,” desired the King,
“Sit at his feet awhile, and listening
Hear his celestial song, I would deny
My state and walk in robes of poverty.”
Then said Tansen, “As you desire, Huzoor,
Indeed ’twere better as a slave and poor
To come; for he, lifted above the things
Of earth, disdains to sing to earthly kings.”
Long was the road, and Akbar as a slave
Followed Tansen who rode towards the cave
High in the mountains. At the singer’s feet
They knelt and prayed with supplication sweet:
“Towards thy shrine, lo, we have journeyed long,
O Holy Master, bless us with thy song!”
Then Ostad, won by their humility,
Sang songs of peace and high felicity;
The Malkous _Raga_ all ecstatic rang
Till birds and beasts, enchanted as he sang,
Gathered to hear. O’er Akbar’s dreaming soul
He felt the waves of heavenly rapture roll,
But, as he turned to speak his words of praise,
Ostad had vanished from his wondering gaze.
“Tell me, Tansen, what theme this is that holds
The soul enchanted, and the heart enfolds
In high delight”; and, when he knew the name,
“Tell me,” again he said, “could you the same
Theme sing to lure my heart to paths untrod?”
“Ah no, to thee I sing; he sings to God.”
_Inayat Khan._
The high ambition of the drop of rain
Is to be merged in the unfettered sea;
My sorrow when it passed all bounds of pain,
Changing, became itself the remedy.
Behold how great is my humility!
Under your cruel yoke I suffered sore;
Now I no longer feel thy tyranny,
I hunger for the pain that then I bore.
Why did the fragrance of the flowers outflow
If not to breathe with benediction sweet
Across her path? Why did the soft wind blow
If not to kiss the ground before her feet?
_Ghalib._
How difficult is the thorny way of strife
That man hath stumbled in since time began!
And in the tangled business of this life
How difficult to play the part of man!
When she decrees there should exist no more
My humble cottage, through its broken walls,
And cruelly drifting in the open door,
The frozen rain of desolation falls.
O mad Desire, why dost thou flame and burn
And bear my soul further and further yet
To the Belovéd? Then, why dost thou turn
To bitter disappointment and regret?
Such light there gleams from the Belovéd’s face
That every eye becomes her worshipper,
And every mirror, looking on her grace,
Desires to be the frame enclosing her.
Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance,
In this grim place of slaughter strange indeed
Your joy to see unveiled her haughty glance
That flashes like the scimitar of Ede.
When I had hardly drawn my latest breath,
Pardon she asked for killing me. Alas!
How soon repentance followed on my death,
How quick her unavailing sorrow was!
_Ghalib._
Thy beauty flashes like a sword
Serene and keen and merciless;
But great as is thy cruelty,
Even greater is thy loveliness.
It is the gift of God to thee,
This beauty rare and exquisite;
Why dost thou hide it thus from me?
I shall not steal nor sully it.
And as thy beauty shines, in Heaven
There climbs upon its path of fire
The star that lights my rival’s way,
And with it mounts his heart’s desire.
Even in thy house is jealousy,
Thy youth demands the lover’s praise
Over thy beauty, which itself
Is jealous of thy gracious ways.
I died with joy when winningly
I heard the Well-Beloved call--
Zahir, where is my beauty gone?
Thou must have robbed me after all.
_Zahir._
I shall not try to flee the sword of Death,
Nor, fearing it, a watchful vigil keep;
It will be nothing but a sigh, a breath,
A turning on the other side to sleep.
Through all the close entanglements of earth
My spirit shaking off its bonds shall fare
And pass, and rise in new unfettered birth,
Escaping from this labyrinth of care.
Within the mortal caravanserai
No rest and no abiding place I know;
I linger here for but a fleeting day,
And at the morrow’s summoning I go.
What are these bonds that try to shackle me?
Through all their intricate chains my way I find;
I travel like a wandering melody
That floats untamed, untaken, on the wind.
From an unsympathetic world I flee
To you, your love and fellowship I crave,
O Singers dead, Sauda and Mushafi,
I lay my song as tribute on your grave.
_Amir._
VOICE IN THE AIR
_The vaulted roof opens. The guests feel that a Being is entering from
above. They see nothing, but all hear a voice in the air._
High above the clouds in the Home of Light I
dwell.
My days are passed in the peace of Great Understanding.
For their welfare do I visit men in all corners of
the earth.
At the command of the Mother I move, up and
down, East and West, showering the rays of
Freedom upon all;
The Mother is the Circle, I am but a curve;
The Mother is the Whole, I am but a part;
The Mother is the Opening Lotus, I am but a
single petal;
The Mother is the Ocean of Honey, I am but a
thirsty bee.
Men call me Lord of the Sky and Father of the
Heavens. They know naught who speak
thus.
I am the Space and its all-infilling Light and the
sight in Man’s eyes which sees them both;
I am the Sense whereby Man knows the Quarters;
I dwell in peace, encompassing all these living
orbs of light;
I know the secret of the Primal Song; the gods
are all the offspring of a Song, by them unheard;
I keep the record of men’s thoughts in my infinite
House of Sky;
From æon to æon I hold up the Mirror of Thought
to each man’s mind, to lead him across the
shoreless Sea of Mirage;
Yet I do but the bidding of the Mother of Eternal
Power;
I am in all hearts, save only those where Love is
not.
_The Being rises up through the open roof, and the guests hear his voice
dying away in the far-off sky. The vault of the Hall closes. The
southern door opens. A Being enters. They hear his voice._
VOICE IN THE AIR:
By the will of the Mother I am the Lord of the
Air;
I reign over all who breathe;
I carry sweet fragrance from ocean to ocean;
My song is heard in the mountain forest, but
men hear not my music in the clouds;
My home is near to the Lord of the Heart;
I am the Lord of Life’s Brother and Playmate;
I walk with Man from the door of Birth to the
door of Death; waking and sleeping, by day
and by night, I watch over him;
I sweep from Pole to Pole and none can withstand
my power;
I am the Friend of the Flowers--from one to
another I bear sweet messages of love;
This all I do at the command of the Mother of
Life.
There stands the Mother tenderly smiling, filling
with sweetness the Quarters of the Heavens.
Yea, like a spreading mountain pine She
stands in the soft autumn twilight, and it
pleases Her that I play upon my reed for
the comfort of all creatures that breathe.
_The light dies out, leaving the Hall in darkness. After a while a kind
of murky earth-light diffuses itself over the lower part of the Hall.
The guests hear the sound of a mighty crying, like the wailing of a
sacked city in the far distance. A voice, broken by sighs and groans,
speaks from below._
VOICE:
I come. Ye ask, “Who art thou?” Gods have
not named me. I call myself “Humanity”;
I dwell on land and in the seas; I sweep through
the air and the ether.
I am man and woman and the intermediate one;
I am the ape and the tiger and the lamb.
I wander in the woods of dark continents as the
savage cannibal; I watch by the bedside
of the sick in the home of mercy.
I am ferocity in the beast of prey; I am compassion
in the heart of the mother.
I devour my own offspring; I sacrifice myself to
save others.
I change--every moment, every season, every
æon;
I fill the pages of my history with romances
written in blood;
Out of my dreams of heaven I create this earth;
I wax strong and wage war to please Death;
I laugh at Death and hurl him into the flaming
furnace of hell--and this I do to please my
children.
I enter the portals of Life with strong crying--and
with a sigh I bid farewell to Life.
I am prophet; I am idiot;
I am king and shepherd and fisherman.
I put my foot on the neck of kings and shepherds
and fishermen and turn them into dust;
And with their dust do I besmear myself and
madly dance over green meadows.
I am--what ye fear to think of me; I will be--what
ye love to dream of me.
But I will baffle all your fond expectations and
all your clever calculations;
In a moment of infinite time I will take the whole
world by the hand and lift it up to the heaven
of my heart.
I am the most erring of the High Mother’s children,
but one sure instinct I possess--I stand erect
the moment I fall, and by the aid of the very
obstacle that caused my fall do I rise again.
I sorrow not over my shortcomings and my
sufferings;
I hope--yet know that my hopes are too wild to
be realised.
In a part of Space called the Corner of Pain I
have made my home;
I breathe the atmosphere of pain--I drink from
the well of pain--I eat the fruits of the tree
of pain--my sleep is troubled by the dream
of pain.
I love not Pain--Pain loves me;
The whole history of my existence is a constant
fleeing from this cruel lover of mine;
I have prayed to God to be delivered from him--has
He heard my prayer?
I have worshipped a million lesser divinities--nature-gods,
man-gods, god-gods--throughout
the ages, hoping to be relieved of pain--have
they saved me?
I have believed in prophets, saviours, saints--have
they healed me?
I have listened to philosophers, scientists,
magicians--have they protected me?
Kings, statesmen, law-givers have boldly proclaimed
the gospel of peace and security--have
they not themselves plunged the
poisoned dagger into my heart?
I am old as Eternity--yet I feel not the burden
of eternal years;
I am young as the babe of to-day--yet I am wise
as all the hoary Bible-makers of all the races
of the earth.
I am one--I am many; I am spirit, ghost, man,
animal, and tree: yet my hidden life flows
ever with passionate impetuosity towards
the distant future above the heads of
nations.
To me the least is not less than the greatest; in
all I am their sensitiveness to pain--the pain
of a perpetual new birth of cosmos or of
chaos.
I am large, and my largeness moves me to face
great pain for the avoiding of great pain;
I am strong, and my strength lies in discovering
the source of consolation even in the moment
of suffering from suffering itself;
I am inured to pain--so that I delight in excitement
that brings pain and inflicts pain.
Who brought this pain upon me? Had it been
God-given, God would one day have taken
it away; has He taken it away?
Had it been the gift of Nature, I would have
revenged myself upon her; but I feel no
enmity to Nature--I desire that she be
endless, infinite, that I may ever conquer
her;
I desire to be charmed by her--yet to be her
master; I wonder, shall I ever wish to end
this play?
Deeming myself the mother of my pain, I seek
the aid of floods and earthquakes, war and
pestilence and famine, to bring destruction
on myself; but ever by a mysterious magic
I rise from my own ashes and live again;
and after my resurrection, sitting in the
dawn-light by the waveless ocean, Psyche
comes and whispers to my heart: “Not
thou, O sweet Humanity, art cause of thine
own pain!”
And I muse: If I be the father of my sufferings,
how can I desire to live again? How can I
inflict pain upon myself? How can I construct
machinery for my own torture?
I know that my nature is rooted in contradiction;
have I perhaps sought to grow at the cost
of happiness and peace?
Bright Powers in the heavens are watching over
my mysterious destiny. Have they lauded
me as good and true and beautiful? Have
they condemned me as bad and false and
ugly? Who will say whether I am developing
aright? Who will say whether the
daily use to which I am constrained to put
my life is not frustrating the Eternal Purpose?
I am left alone with my unforeseeing understanding
and my ever forward-springing
untamable energy.