THE RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM
[Translation by Edward Fitzgerald]
Introduction
It is seldom that we come across a poem which it is impossible to classify in accordance with European standards. Yet such a poem is Omar's "Rubáiyát." If elegiac poetry is the expression of subjective emotion, sentiment, and thought, we might class this Persian masterpiece as elegy; but an elegy is a sustained train of connected imagery and reflection. The "Rubáiyát" is, on the other hand, a string of quatrains, each of which has all the complete and independent significance of an epigram. Yet there is so little of that lightness which should characterize an epigram that we can scarcely put Omar in the same category with Martial, and it is easy to understand why the author should have been contented to name his book the "Rubáiyát," or Quatrains, leaving it to each individual to make, if he chooses, a more definite description of the work. To English readers, Mr. Edward Fitzgerald's version of the poem has provided one of the most masterly translations that was ever made from an Oriental classic. For Omar, like Háfiz, is one of the most Persian of Persian writers. There is in this volume all the gorgeousness of the East: all the luxury of the most refined civilization. Omar's bowers are always full of roses; the notes of the nightingale tremble through his stanzas. The intoxication of wine and the bright eyes of lovely women are ever present to his mind. The feast, the revel, the joys of love, and the calm satisfaction of appetite make up the grosser elements in his song. But the prevailing note of his music is that of deep and settled melancholy, breaking out occasionally into words of misanthropy and despair. The keenness and intensity of this poet's style seem to be inspired by an ever-present fear of death. This sense of approaching Fate is never absent from him, even in his most genial moments; and the strange fascination which he exercises over his readers is largely due to the thrilling sweetness of some passage which ends in a note of dejection and anguish.
Strange to say, Omar was the greatest mathematician of his day. The exactness of his fine and analytic mind is reflected in the exquisite finish, the subtile wit, the delicate descriptive touches, that abound in his Quatrains. His verses hang together like gems of the purest water exquisitely cut and clasped by "jacinth work of subtlest jewelry." But apart from their masterly technique, these Quatrains exhibit in their general tone the revolt of a clear intellect from the prevailing bigotry and fanaticism of an established religion. There is in the poet's mind the lofty indignation of one who sees, in its true light, the narrowness of an ignorant and hypocritical clergy, yet can find no solid ground on which to build up for himself a theory of supernaturalism, illumined by hope. Yet there are traces of Mysticism in his writings, which only serve to emphasize his profound longing for some knowledge of the invisible, and his foreboding that the grave is the "be-all" and "end-all" of life. The poet speaks in tones of bitterest lamentation when he sees succumb to Fate all that is bright and fresh and beautiful. At his brightest moments he gives expression to a vague pantheism, but all his views of the power that lies behind life are obscured and perturbed by sceptical despondency. He is the great man of science, who, like other men of genius too deeply immersed in the study of natural law or abstract reasoning, has lost all touch with that great world of spiritual things which we speak of as religion, and which we can only come in contact with through those instinctive emotions which scientific analysis very often does so much to stifle. There are many men of science who, like Darwin, have come, through the study of material phenomena in nature, to a condition of mind which is indifferent in matters of religion. But the remarkable feature in the case of Omar is that he, who could see so clearly and feel so acutely, has been enabled also to embody in a poem of imperishable beauty the opinions which he shared with many of his contemporaries. The range of his mind can only be measured by supposing that Sir Isaac Newton had written Manfred or Childe Harold. But even more remarkable is what we may call the modernity of this twelfth century Persian poet. We sometimes hear it said that great periods of civilization end in a manifestation of infidelity and despair. There can be no doubt that a great deal of restlessness and misgiving characterizes the minds of to-day in regard to all questions of religion. Europe, in the nineteenth century, as reflected in the works of Byron, Spencer, Darwin, and Schopenhauer, is very much in the same condition as intellectual Persia in the twelfth century, so far as the pessimism of Omar is representative of his day. This accounts for the wide popularity of Fitzgerald's "Rubáiyát." The book has been read eagerly and fondly studied, as if it were a new book of fin du siècle production: the last efflorescence of intellectual satiety, cynicism, and despair. Yet the book is eight centuries old, and it has been the task of this seer of the East to reveal to the West the heart-sickness under which the nations were suffering.
Omar Khayyám—that is, Omar the tent-maker—was born in the year 1050 at Níshapúr, the little Damascus (as it is called) of Persia: famous as a seat of learning, as a place of religion, and a centre of commerce. In the days of Omar it was by far the most important city of Khorasan. The poet, like his father before him, held a court office under the Vizir of his day. It was from the stipend which he thus enjoyed that he secured leisure for mathematical and literary work. His father had been a khayyám, or tent-maker, and his gifted son doubtless inherited the handicraft as well as the name; but his position at Court released him from the drudgery of manual labor. He was thus also brought in contact with the luxurious side of life, and became acquainted with those scenes of pleasure which he recalls only to add poignancy to the sorrow with which he contemplates the yesterday of life. Omar's astronomical researches were continued for many years, and his algebra has been translated into French: but his greatest claim to renown is based upon his immortal Quatrains, which will always live as the best expression of a phase of mind constantly recurring in the history of civilization, from the days of Anaxagoras to those of Darwin and Spencer.
E.W.
OMAR KHAYYÁM
By John Hay
Address delivered December 8, 1897, at the Dinner of the Omar Khayyám Club, London.
I can never forget my emotions when I first saw Fitzgerald's translations of the Quatrains. Keats, in his sublime ode on Chapman's Homer, has described the sensation once for all:
"Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken."
The exquisite beauty, the faultless form, the singular grace of those amazing stanzas were not more wonderful than the depth and breadth of their profound philosophy, their knowledge of life, their dauntless courage, their serene facing of the ultimate problems of life and death. Of course the doubt did not spare me, which has assailed many as ignorant as I was of the literature of the East, whether it was the poet or the translator to whom was due this splendid result. Was it, in fact, a reproduction of an antique song, or a mystification of a great modern, careless of fame and scornful of his time? Could it be possible that in the eleventh century, so far away as Khorasan, so accomplished a man of letters lived, with such distinction, such breadth, such insight, such calm disillusions, such cheerful and jocund despair? Was this "Weltschmerz," which we thought a malady of our day, endemic in Persia in 1100? My doubt only lasted until I came upon a literal translation of the Rubáiyát, and I saw that not the least remarkable quality of Fitzgerald's poem was its fidelity to the original.
In short, Omar was a Fitzgerald, or Fitzgerald was a reincarnation of Omar. It was not to the disadvantage of the latter poet that he followed so closely in the footsteps of the earlier. A man of extraordinary genius had appeared in the world, had sung a song of incomparable beauty and power in an environment no longer worthy of him, in a language of narrow range; for many generations the song was virtually lost; then by a miracle of creation, a poet, a twin-brother in the spirit to the first, was born, who took up the forgotten poem and sang it anew with all its original melody and force, and all the accumulated refinement of ages of art. It seems to me idle to ask which was the greater master; each seems greater than his work. The song is like an instrument of precious workmanship and marvellous tone, which is worthless in common hands, but when it falls, at long intervals, into the hands of the supreme master, it yields a melody of transcendent enchantment to all that have ears to hear. If we look at the sphere of influence of the poets, there is no longer any comparison. Omar sang to a half-barbarous province: Fitzgerald to the world. Wherever the English speech is spoken or read, the "Rubáiyát" have taken their place as a classic. There is not a hill post in India, nor a village in England, where there is not a coterie to whom Omar Khayyám is a familiar friend and a bond of union. In America he has an equal following, in many regions and conditions. In the Eastern States his adepts form an esoteric sect; the beautiful volume of drawings by Mr. Vedder is a centre of delight and suggestion wherever it exists. In the cities of the West you will find the Quatrains one of the most thoroughly read books in any club library. I heard them quoted once in one of the most lonely and desolate spots in the high Rockies. We had been camping on the Great Divide, our "roof of the world," where in the space of a few feet you may see two springs, one sending its waters to the Polar solitudes, the other to the eternal Carib summer. One morning at sunrise, as we were breaking camp, I was startled to hear one of our party, a frontiersman born, intoning these words of sombre majesty:—
"Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest."
I thought that sublime setting of primeval forest and pouring canyon was worthy of the lines; I am sure the dewless, crystalline air never vibrated to strains of more solemn music. Certainly, our poet can never be numbered among the great writers of all time. He has told no story; he has never unpacked his heart in public; he has never thrown the reins on the neck of the winged horse, and let his imagination carry him where it listed. "Ah! the crowd must have emphatic warrant," as Browning sang. Its suffrages are not for the cool, collected observer, whose eyes no glitter can dazzle, no mist suffuse. The many cannot but resent that air of lofty intelligence, that pale and subtle smile. But he will hold a place forever among that limited number, who, like Lucretius and Epicurus—without range or defiance, even without unbecoming mirth, look deep into the tangled mysteries of things; refuse credence to the absurd, and allegiance to arrogant authority; sufficiently conscious of fallibility to be tolerant of all opinions; with a faith too wide for doctrine and a benevolence untrammelled by creed; too wise to be wholly poets, and yet too surely poets to be implacably wise.
THE RUBÁIYÁT
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted—"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jemshíd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing.
Whether at Níshapúr or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jemshíd and Kai-kobád away.
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kai-kobád the Great, or Kai-khosráu?
Let Zál and Rustem bluster as they will,
Or Hátím call to Supper—heed not you.
With me along the strip of Herbage strewn
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot—
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
Look to the blowing Rose about us—"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two—is gone.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jemshíd gloried and drank deep:
And Báhrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean—
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regrets and future Fears:
To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend—ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those that after some TO-MORROW stare,
A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries,
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely—they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scattered, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE
There was—and then no more of THEE and ME.
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
Then of the THEE IN ME who works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without—"THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!"
Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd—"While you live,
Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return."
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take—and give!
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd—"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
And has not such a story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden—far beneath, and long ago.
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you—like an empty Cup.
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in what All begins and ends in—Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were—To-morrow you shall not be less.
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff—you shall not shrink.
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Sákí from the Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
A Moment's Halt—a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste—
And Lo!—the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About THE SECRET—quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True—
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue—
Could you but find it—to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to THE MASTER too;
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhí; and
They change and perish all—but He remains;
A moment guess'd—then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door,
You gaze To-day, while You are You—how then
To-morrow, when You shall be You no more?
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavor and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up-and-down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom, I
Was never deep in anything but—Wine.
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?—Nay,
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas—the Grape!
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The Sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord,
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse—why, then, Who set it there?
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup—when crumbled into Dust!
Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain—This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown forever dies.
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answered, "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Checker-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all—HE knows—HE knows!
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help—for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
I tell you this—When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtarí they flung,
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my Being—let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd—
Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer—Oh the sorry trade!
Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
O Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd—Man's forgiveness give—and take!
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
Said one among them—"Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
Then said a Second—"Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot—
I think a Súfi pipkin—waxing hot—
"All this of Pot and Potter—Tell me, then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
"Why," said another, "some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making—Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 't will all be well."
"Well," murmur'd one, "let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Potter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
As not a True-believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My threadbare Penitence apieces tore.
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor—Well,
I wonder often what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
Yet ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
Would but some wingèd Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!
Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits—and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again—
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden—and for one in vain!
And when like her, oh Sákí, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One—turn down an empty Glass!
THE DIVAN
BY HÁFIZ
[Translation by H. Bicknell]
NOTE
The reader will be struck with the apparent want of unity in many of the Odes. The Orientals compare each couplet to a single pearl and the entire "Ghazal," or Ode, to a string of pearls. It is the rhyme, not necessarily the sense, which links them together. Hence the single pearls or couplets may often be arranged in various orders without injury to the general effect; and it would probably be impossible to find two manuscripts either containing the same number of Odes, or having the same couplets following each other in the same order.
INTRODUCTION
We are told in the Persian histories that when Tamerlane, on his victorious progress through the East, had reached Shiraz, he halted before the gates of the city and sent two of his followers to search in the bazar for a certain dervish Muhammad Shams-ad-din, better known to the world by the name of Háfiz. And when this man of religion, wearing the simple woollen garment of a Sufi, was brought into the presence of the great conqueror, he was nothing abashed at the blaze of silks and jewelry which decorated the pavilion where Tamerlane sat in state. And Tamerlane, meeting the poet with a frown of anger, said, "Art not thou the insolent verse-monger who didst offer my two great cities Samarkand and Bokhara for the black mole upon thy lady's cheek?" "It is true," replied Háfiz calmly, smiling, "and indeed my munificence has been so great throughout my life, that it has left me destitute, so that I shall be hereafter dependent upon thy generosity for a livelihood." The reply of the poet, as well as his imperturbable self-possession, pleased the Asiatic Alexander, and he dismissed Háfiz with a liberal present.
This story, we are told, cannot be true, for Tamerlane did not reach Shiraz until after the death of the greatest of Persian lyric poets; but if it is not true in fact, it is true in spirit, and gives the real key to the character of Háfiz. For we must look upon Háfiz as one of the few poets in the world who utters an unbroken strain of joy and contentment. His poverty was to him a constant fountain of satisfaction, and he frankly took the natural joys of life as they came, supported under every vicissitude by his religious sense of the goodness and kindliness of the One God, manifested in everything in the world that was sweet and genial, and beautiful to behold. It is strange that we have to go to the literature of Persia to find a poet whose deep religious convictions were fully reconciled with the theory of human existence which was nothing more or less than an optimistic hedonism. There is nothing parallel to this in classic literature. The greatest of Roman Epicureans, the materialist, whose maxim was: enjoy the present for there is no God, and no to-morrow, speaks despairingly of that drop of bitterness, which rises in the fountain of Delight and brings torture, even amid the roses of the feast. It is with mocking irony that Dante places Epicurus in the furnace-tombs of his Inferno amid those heresiarchs who denied the immortality of the soul. Háfiz was an Epicurean without the atheism or the despair of Epicurus. The roses in his feast are ever fresh and sweet and there is nothing of bitterness in the perennial fountain of his Delight. This unruffled serenity, this joyful acceptance of material existence and its pleasures are not in the Persian poet the result of the carelessness and shallowness of Horace, or the cold-blooded worldliness and sensuality of Martial. The theory of life which Háfiz entertained was founded upon the relation of the human soul to God. The one God of Sufism was a being of exuberant benignity, from whose creative essence proceeded the human soul, whose experiences on earth were intended to fit it for re-entrance into the circle of light and re-absorption into the primeval fountain of being. In accordance with the beautiful and pathetic imagery of the Mystic, life was merely a journey of many stages, and every manifestation of life which the traveller met on the high road was a manifestation and a gift of God Himself. Every stage on the journey towards God which the soul made in its religious experience was like a wayside inn in which to rest awhile before resuming the onward course. The pleasures of life, all that charmed the eye, all that gratified the senses, every draught that intoxicated, and every fruit that pleased the palate, were, in the pantheistic doctrine of the Sufi considered as equally good, because God was in each of them, and to partake of them was therefore to be united more closely with God. Never was a theology so well calculated to put to rest the stings of doubt or the misgivings of the pleasure-seeker. This theology is of the very essence of Háfiz's poetry. It is in full reliance on this interpretation of the significance of human existence that Háfiz faces the fierce Tamerlane with a placid smile, plunges without a qualm into the deepest abysses of pleasure, finds in the love-song of the nightingale the voice of God, and in the bright eyes of women and the beaker brimming with crimson wine the choicest sacraments of life, the holiest and the most sublime intermediaries between divine and human life.
It is this that makes Háfiz almost the only poet of unadulterated gladsomeness that the world has ever known. There is no shadow in his sky, no discord in his music, no bitterness in his cup. He passes through life like a happy pilgrim, singing all the way, mounting in his own way from strength to strength, sure of a welcome when he reaches the goal, contented with himself, because every manifestation of life of which he is conscious must be the stirrings within him of that divinity of which he is a portion. When we have thus spoken of Háfiz we have said almost all that is known of the Persian lyric poet, for to know Háfiz we must read his verses, whose magic charm is as great for Europeans as for Asiatics. The endless variety of his expressions, the deep earnestness of his convictions, the persistent gayety of his tone, are qualities of irresistible attractiveness. Even to this day his tomb is visited as the Mecca of literary pilgrims, and his numbers are cherished in the memory and uttered on the tongue of all educated Persians. The particulars of his life may be briefly epitomized as follows: He was born at Shiraz in the early part of the fourteenth century, dying in the year 1388. The name Háfiz means, literally, the man who remembers, and was applied to himself by Háfiz from the fact that he became a professor of the Mohammedan scriptures, and for this purpose had committed to memory the text of the Koran. His manner of life was not approved of by the dervishes of the monastic college in which he taught, and he satirizes his colleagues in revenge for their animadversions. The whole Mohammedan world hailed with delight the lyrics which Háfiz published to the world, and kings and rulers vied with each other in making offers to him of honors and hospitality. At one time he started for India on the invitation of a great Southern Prince, who sent a vessel to meet him on the way, but the hardships of the sea were too severe for him, and he made his way back to Shiraz without finishing his journey.
His out-and-out pantheism, as well as his manner of life, caused him at his death to be denied burial in consecrated ground. The ecclesiastical authorities were, however, induced to relent in their plan of excommunication at the dictates of a passage from the poet's writings, which was come upon by opening the book at random. The passage ran as follows: "Turn not thy feet from the bier of Háfiz, for though immersed in sin, he will be admitted into Paradise." And so he rests in the cemetery at Shiraz, where the nightingales are singing and the roses bloom the year through, and the doves gather with low murmurs amid the white stones of the sacred enclosure. The poets of nature, the mystical pantheist, the joyous troubadour of life, Háfiz, in the naturalness and spontaneity of his poetry, and in the winning sweetness of his imagery, occupies a unique place in the literature of the world, and has no rival in his special domain.
FRAGMENT BY HÁFIZ
In Praise of His Verses.
The beauty of these verses baffles praise:
What guide is needed to the solar blaze?
Extol that artist by whose pencil's aid
The virgin, Thought, so richly is arrayed.
For her no substitute can reason show,
Nor any like her human judgment know.
This verse, a miracle, or magic white—
Brought down some voice from Heaven, or Gabriel bright?
By me as by none else are secrets sung,
No pearls of poesy like mine are strung.
THE DIVAN
I
"Alá yá ayyuha's-Sákí!"—pass round and offer thou the bowl,
For love, which seemed at first so easy, has now brought trouble to my
soul.
With yearning for the pod's aroma, which by the East that lock shall
spread
From that crisp curl of musky odor, how plenteously our hearts have
bled!
Stain with the tinge of wine thy prayer-mat, if thus the aged Magian
bid,
For from the traveller from the Pathway[1] no stage nor usage can be
hid.
Shall my beloved one's house delight me, when issues ever and anon
From the relentless bell the mandate: "'Tis time to bind thy litters
on"?
The waves are wild, the whirlpool dreadful, the shadow of the night
steals o'er,
How can my fate excite compassion in the light-burdened of the shore?
Each action of my froward spirit has won me an opprobrious name;
Can any one conceal the secret which the assembled crowds proclaim?
If Joy be thy desire, O Háfiz,
From Him far distant never dwell.
"As soon as thou hast found thy Loved one,
Bid to the world a last farewell."
II
Thou whose features clearly-beaming make the moon of Beauty bright,
Thou whose chin contains a well-pit[2] which to Loveliness gives light.
When, O Lord! shall kindly Fortune, sating my ambition, pair
This my heart of tranquil nature and thy wild and ruffled hair?
Pining for thy sight my spirit trembling on my lip doth wait:
Forth to speed it, back to lead it, speak the sentence of its fate.
Pass me with thy skirt uplifted from the dusty bloody ground:
Many who have been thy victims dead upon this path are found.
How this heart is anguish-wasted let my heart's possessor know:
Friends, your souls and mine contemplate, equal by their common woe.
Aught of good accrues to no one witched by thy Narcissus eye:
Ne'er let braggarts vaunt their virtue, if thy drunken orbs are nigh.
Soon my Fortune sunk in slumber shall her limbs with vigor brace:
Dashed upon her eye is water, sprinkled by thy shining face.
Gather from thy cheek a posy, speed it by the flying East;
Sent be perfume to refresh me from thy garden's dust at least.
Háfiz offers a petition, listen, and "Amen" reply:
"On thy sugar-dropping rubies let me for life's food rely."
Many a year live on and prosper, Sákís of the court of Jem,[3]
E'en though I, to fill my wine-cup, never to your circle come.
East wind, when to Yazd thou wingest, say thou to its sons from me:
"May the head of every ingrate ball-like 'neath your mall-bat be!"
"What though from your dais distant, near it by my wish I seem;
Homage to your Ring I render, and I make your praise my theme."
Sháh of Shahs, of lofty planet, Grant for God what I implore;
Let me, as the sky above thee, Kiss the dust which strews thy floor.
V
Up, Sákí!—let the goblet flow;
Strew with dust the head of our earthly woe!
Give me thy cup; that, joy-possessed,
I may tear this azure cowl from my breast,[4]
The wise may deem me lost to shame,
But no care have I for renown or name.
Bring wine!—how many a witless head
By the wind of pride has with dust been spread!
My bosom's fumes, my sighs so warm,
Have inflamed yon crude and unfeeling swarm.[5]
This mad heart's secret, well I know,
Is beyond the thoughts of both high and low.
E'en by that sweetheart charmed am I,
Who once from my heart made sweetness fly.
Who that my Silvern Tree hath seen,
Would regard the cypress that decks the green?[6]
In grief be patient,
Night and day,
Till thy fortune, Háfiz,
Thy wish obey.
VI
My heart no longer brooks my hand: sages, aid for God my woe!
Else, alas! my secret-deep soon the curious world must know.
The bark we steer has stranded: O breeze auspicious swell:
We yet may see once more the Friend we love so well.
The ten days' favor of the Sphere—magic is; a tale which lies!
Thou who wouldst befriend thy friends, seize each moment ere it flies.
At night, 'mid wine and flowers, the bulbul tuned his song:
"Bring thou the morning bowl: prepare, ye drunken throng!"
Sikander's mirror, once so famed, is the wine-filled cup: behold
All that haps in Dárá's realm glassed within its wondrous mould.[7]
O bounteous man, since Heaven sheds o'er thee blessings mild,
Inquire, one day at least, how fares Misfortune's child.
What holds in peace this twofold world, let this twofold sentence show:
"Amity to every friend, courtesy to every foe."
Upon the way of honor, impeded was my range;
If this affect thee, strive my destiny to change.
That bitter, which the Súfi styled "Mother of all woes that be,"[8]
Seems, with maiden's kisses weighed, better and more sweet to me.
Seek drunkenness and pleasure till times of strait be o'er:
This alchemy of life can make the beggar Kore.[9]
Submit; or burn thou taper-like e'en from jealousy o'er-much:
Adamant no less than wax, melts beneath that charmer's touch.
When fair ones talk in Persian, the streams of life out-well:
This news to pious Pirs, my Sákí, haste to tell.
Since Háfiz, not by his own choice,
This his wine-stained cowl did win,
Shaikh, who hast unsullied robes,
Hold me innocent of sin.[10]
Arrayed in youthful splendor, the orchard smiles again;
News of the rose enraptures the bulbul of sweet strain.
Breeze, o'er the meadow's children, when thy fresh fragrance blows,
Salute for me the cypress, the basil, and the rose.
If the young Magian[11] dally with grace so coy and fine,
My eye shall bend their fringes to sweep the house of wine.
O thou whose bat of amber hangs o'er a moon below,[12]
Deal not to me so giddy, the anguish of a blow.
I fear that tribe of mockers who topers' ways impeach,
Will part with their religion the tavern's goal to reach.
To men of God be friendly: in Noah's ark was earth[13]
Which deemed not all the deluge one drop of water worth.
As earth, two handfuls yielding, shall thy last couch supply,
What need to build thy palace, aspiring to the sky?
Flee from the house of Heaven, and ask not for her bread:
Her goblet black shall shortly her every guest strike dead.[14]
To thee, my Moon of Kanaan, the Egyptian throne pertains;
At length has come the moment that thou shouldst quit thy chains.
I know not what dark projects those pointed locks design,
That once again in tangles their musky curls combine.
Be gay, drink wine, and revel;
But not, like others, care,
O Háfiz, from the Koran
To weave a wily snare!
XII
Oh! where are deeds of virtue and this frail spirit where?
How wide the space that sunders the bounds of Here and There!
Can toping aught in common with works and worship own?
Where is regard for sermons, where is the rebeck's Tone?[15]
My heart abhors the cloister, and the false cowl its sign:
Where is the Magian's cloister, and where is his pure wine?
'Tis fled: may memory sweetly mind me of Union's days!
Where is that voice of anger, where those coquettish ways?
Can a foe's heart be kindled by the friend's face so bright?
Where is a lamp unlighted, and the clear Day-star's light?
As dust upon thy threshold supplies my eyes with balm,
If I forsake thy presence, where can I hope for calm?
Turn from that chin's fair apple; a pit is on the way.
To what, O heart, aspir'st thou? Whither thus quickly? Say!
Seek not, O friend, in Háfiz
Patience, nor rest from care:
Patience and rest—what are they?
Where is calm slumber, where?
XIV
At eve a son of song—his heart be cheerful long!—
Piped on his vocal reed a soul-inflaming lay.
So deeply was I stirred, that melody once heard,
That to my tearful eyes the things of earth grew gray.
With me my Sákí was, and momently did he
At night the sun of Daï[16] by lock and cheek display.
When he perceived my wish, he filled with wine the bowl;
Then said I to that youth whose track was Fortune's way:
"Sákí, from Being's prison deliverance did I gain,
When now and now the cup thou lit'st with cheerful ray.
"God guard thee here below from all the haps of woe;
God in the Seat of Bliss reward thee on His day!"
When Háfiz rapt has grown,
How, at one barleycorn,
Should he appraise the realm,
E'en of Káús the Kay?[17]
XVI
I said: "O Monarch of the lovely, a stranger seeks thy grace this day."
I heard: "The heart's deceitful guidance inclines the stranger from
his way."
Exclaimed I then: "One moment tarry!" "Nay," was the answer, "let me go;
How can the home-bred child be troubled by stories of a stranger's
woe?"
Shall one who, gently nurtured, slumbers with royal ermine for a bed,
"Care if on rocks or thorns reposing the stranger rests his weary head?"
O thou whose locks hold fast on fetters so many a soul known long ago,
How strange that musky mole and charming upon thy cheek of vermil glow!
Strange is that ant-like down's appearance circling the oval of thy
face;
Yet musky shade is not a stranger within the Hall which paintings
grace.[18]
A crimson tint, from wine reflected gleams in that face of moonlight
sheen;
E'en as the bloom of syrtis, strangely, o'er clusters of the pale
Nasrín.[19]
I said: "O thou, whose lock so night-black is evening in the
stranger's sight,
Be heedful if, at break of morning, the stranger sorrow for his
plight."
"Háfiz," the answer was, "familiars
Stand in amaze at my renown;
It is no marvel if a stranger
In weariness and grief sit down."
XVII
'Tis morn; the clouds a ceiling make:
The morn-cup, mates, the morn-cup take!
Drops of dew streak the tulip's cheek;
The wine-bowl, friends, the wine-bowl seek
The greensward breathes a gale divine;
Drink, therefore, always limpid wine.
The Flower her emerald throne displays:
Bring wine that has the ruby's blaze
Again is closed the vintner's store,
"Open, Thou Opener of the door!"[20]
While smiles on us the season's boon,
I marvel that they close so soon.
Thy lips have salt-rights, 'tis confessed,
O'er wounds upon the fire-burnt breast.
Háfiz, let not
Thy courage fail!
Fortune, thy charmer
Shall unveil.
XIX
Lo! from thy love's enchanting bowers Rizván's bright gardens fresher
grow;[21]
From the fierce heat thine absence kindles, Gehenna's flames intenser
glow.
To thy tall form and cheek resplendent, as to a place of refuge, fleet
Heaven and the Túbâ-tree, and find there—"Happiness—and a fair
retreat."[22]
When nightly the celestial river glides through the garden of the skies,
As my own eye, it sees in slumber, nought but thy drunk narcissus eyes.
Each section of the spring-tide's volume makes a fresh comment on thy
name,
Each portal of the Empyrean murmurs the title of thy fame.
My heart has burned, but to ambition, the aim, still wished for, is
denied:
These tears that tinged with blood are flowing, if I could reach it,
would be dried.
What ample power thy salt-rights give thee (which both thy mouth and
lips can claim),
Over a breast by sorrow wounded, and a heart burnt within its flame!
Oh! think not that the amorous only are drunk with rapture at thy sway:
Hast thou not heard of zealots, also, as reckless and as wrecked as
they?
By thy lips' reign I hold it proven that the bright ruby's sheen is won
By the resplendent light that flashes out of a world-illuming sun.[23]
Fling back thy veil! how long, oh tell me! shall drapery thy beauty
pale?
This drapery, no profit bringing, can only for thy shame avail.
A fire within the rose's bosom was kindled when she saw thy face;
And soon as she inhaled thy fragrance, she grew all rose-dew from
disgrace.
The love thy countenance awakens whelms Háfiz in misfortune's sea;
Death threatens him! ho there! give help, ere yet that he has ceased
to be!
While life is thine, consent not, Háfiz,
That it should speed ignobly by;
But strive thou to attain the object
Of thy existence ere thou die.
XX
I swear—my master's soul bear witness, faith of old times, and
promise leal!—
At early morning, my companion, is prayer for thy unceasing weal.
My tears, a more o'erwhelming deluge than was the flood which Noah
braved,
Have washed not from my bosom's tablet the image which thy love has
graved.
Come deal with me, and strike thy bargain: I have a broken heart to
sell,
Which in its ailing state out-values a hundred thousand which are well.
Be lenient, if thou deem me drunken: on the primeval day divine
Love, who possessed my soul as master, bent my whole nature unto wine.
Strive after truth that for thy solace the Sun may in thy spirit rise;
For the false dawn of earlier morning grows dark of face because it
lies.[24]
O heart, thy friend's exceeding bounty should free thee from unfounded
dread;
This instant, as of love thou vauntest, be ready to devote thy head!
I gained from thee my frantic yearning for mountains and the barren
plain,
Yet loath art thou to yield to pity, and loosen at mid-height my chain.
If the ant casts reproach on Ásaf, with justice does her tongue upbraid,
For when his Highness lost Jem's signet, no effort for the quest he
made.[25]
No constancy—yet grieve not, Háfiz—
Expect thou from the faithless fair;
What right have we to blame the garden,
Because the plant has withered there?
XXII
Veiled in my heart my fervent love for him dwells,
And my true eye holds forth a glass to his spells.
Though the two worlds ne'er bowed my head when elate,
Favors as his have bent my neck with their weight.
Thine be the lote, but I Love's stature would reach.
High like his zeal ascends the fancy of each.
Yet who am I that sacred temple to tread?
Still let the East that portal guard in my stead!
Spots on my robe—shall they arouse my complaint?
Nay! the world knows that he at least has no taint.
My turn has come; behold! Majnún is no more;[26]
Five days shall fly, and each one's turn shall be o'er.
Love's ample realm, sweet joy, and all that is glad,
Save for his bounty I should never have had.[27]
I and my heart—though both should sacrificed be,
Grant my friend's weal, their loss were nothing to me.
Ne'er shall his form within my pupil be dim,
For my eye's cell is but a chamber for him.
All the fresh blooms that on the greensward we view,
Gain but from him their scent and beauty of hue.
Háfiz seems poor;
But look within, for his breast,
Shrining his love,
With richest treasure is blest.
XXIII
Prone at my friend's high gates, my Will its head lays still:
Whate'er my head awaits is ordered by that will.
My friend resembles none; in vain I sought to trace,
In glance of moon or sun, the radiance of that face.
Can morning's breeze make known what grief this heart doth hold,
Which as a bud hath grown, compressed by fold on fold?
Not I first drained the jar where rev'lers pass away:[28]
Heads in this work-yard are nought else than wine-jars' clay.
Meseems thy comb has wreathed those locks which amber yield:
The gale has civet breathed, and amber scents the field.
Flowers of verdant nooks be strewn before thy face:
Let cypresses of brooks bear witness to thy grace!
When dumb grow tongues of men that on such love would dwell,
Why should a tongue-cleft pen by babbling strive to tell?
Thy cheek is in my heart; no more will bliss delay;
Glad omens e'er impart news of a gladder day.
Love's fire has dropped its spark
In Háfiz' heart before:
The wild-grown tulip's mark
Branded of old its core.[29]