RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE BY
Edward Fitzgerald
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
Edmund Dulac
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.
Garden City, New York
1937
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.
CL
RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
[ix]
BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE
EDWARD FITZGERALD
Edward Fitzgerald, whom the world has already
learned, in spite of his own efforts to remain
within the shadow of anonymity, to look upon as
one of the rarest poets of the last century, was
born at Bredfield, in Suffolk, on the 31st March,
1809. He was the third son of John Purcell, of
Kilkenny, in Ireland, who, marrying Miss Mary
Frances Fitzgerald, daughter of John Fitzgerald,
of Williamstown, County Waterford, added that
distinguished name to his own patronymic; and the
future Omar was thus doubly of Irish extraction.
(Both the families of Purcell and Fitzgerald claim
descent from Norman warriors of the eleventh
century.) This circumstance is thought to have
had some influence in attracting him to the study
of Persian poetry, Iran and Erin being almost convertible
terms in the early days of modern ethnology.
After some years of primary education at the
grammar school of Bury St. Edmunds, he entered
Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1826, and there
formed acquaintance with several young men of
great abilities, most of whom rose to distinction
before him, but never ceased to regard with affectionate
remembrance the quiet and amiable
associate of their college-days. Amongst them were
[x]Alfred Tennyson, James Spedding, William Bodham
Donne, John Mitchell Kemble, and William
Makepeace Thackeray; and their long friendship
was touchingly referred to by Tennyson in dedicating
his last poem to the memory of Edward
Fitzgerald. "Euphranor," our author's earliest
printed work, affords a curious picture of his
academic life and associations. Its substantial reality
is evident beneath the thin disguise of the symbolical
or classical names which he gives to the personages
of the colloquy; and the speeches which he
puts into his own mouth are full of the humorous
gravity, and whimsical and kindly philosophy,
which remained his distinguishing characteristics
till the end. This book was first published in 1851;
a second and a third edition were printed some
years later; all anonymous, and each of the latter
two differing from its predecessor by changes in
the text which were not indicated on the title-pages.
"Euphranor" furnishes a good many characterizations
which would be useful for any writer treating
upon Cambridge society in the third decade of
this century. Kenelm Digby, the author of the
"Broadstone of Honour," had left Cambridge before
the time when Euphranor held his "dialogue,"
but he is picturesquely recollected as "a grand
swarthy fellow who might have stepped out of the
canvas of some knightly portrait in his father's
hall—perhaps the living image of one sleeping under
some cross-legged effigies in the church." In
"Euphranor," it is easy to discover the earliest phase
of the unconquerable attachment which Fitzgerald
entertained for his college and his life-long friends,[xi]
and which induced him in later days to make frequent
visits to Cambridge, renewing and refreshing
the old ties of custom and friendship. In fact, his
disposition was affectionate to a fault, and he betrayed
his consciousness of weakness in that respect
by referring playfully at times to "a certain natural
lubricity" which he attributed to the Irish character,
and professed to discover especially in himself.
This amiability of temper endeared him to
many friends of totally dissimilar tastes and qualities;
and, by enlarging his sympathies, enabled him
to enjoy the fructifying influence of studies pursued
in communion with scholars more profound
than himself, but less gifted with the power of expression.
One of the younger Cambridge men with
whom he became intimate during his periodical
pilgrimages to the university, was Edward B.
Cowell, a man of the highest attainment in Oriental
learning, who resembled Fitzgerald himself in
the possession of a warm and genial heart and the
most unobtrusive modesty. From Cowell he could
easily learn that the hypothetical affinity between
the names of Erin and Iran belonged to an obsolete
stage of etymology; but the attraction of a far-fetched
theory was replaced by the charm of reading
Persian poetry in companionship with his
young friend, who was equally competent to enjoy
and to analyze the beauties of a literature that
formed a portion of his regular studies. They read
together the poetical remains of Khayyám—a
choice of reading which sufficiently indicates the
depth and range of Mr. Cowell's knowledge.
Omar Khayyám, although not quite forgotten, enjoyed[xii]
in the history of Persian literature a celebrity
like that of Occleve and Gower in our own. In the
many Tazkirát (memoirs or memorials) of Poets,
he was mentioned and quoted with esteem; but his
poems, laboring as they did under the original sin of
heresy and atheism, were seldom looked at, and, from
lack of demand on the part of readers, had become
rarer than those of most other writers since the days
of Firdausi. European scholars knew little of his
works beyond his Arabic treatise on Algebra, and
Mr. Cowell may be said to have disentombed his
poems from oblivion. Now, thanks to the fine
taste of that scholar, and to the transmuting genius
of Fitzgerald, no Persian poet is so well known in
the western world as Abu-'l-fat'h 'Omar, son of
Ibrahim the tentmaker of Naishápúr, whose manhood
synchronizes with the Norman conquest of
England, and who took for his poetic name (takhallus)
the designation of his father's trade
(Khayyám). The "Rubá'iyyát" (Quatrains) do
not compose a single poem divided into a certain
number of stanzas; there is no continuity of plan
in them, and each stanza is a distinct thought expressed
in musical verse. There is no other element
of unity in them than the general tendency of the
Epicurean idea, and the arbitrary divan form by
which they are grouped according to the alphabetical
arrangement of the final letters; those in
which the rhymes end in a constituting the first
division, those with b the second, and so on. The
peculiar attitude towards religion and the old questions
of fate, immortality, the origin and the
destiny of man, which educated thinkers have assumed[xiii]
in the present age of Christendom, is found
admirably foreshadowed in the fantastic verses of
Khayyám, who was no more of a Mohammedan
than many of our best writers are Christians. His
philosophical and Horatian fancies—graced as they
are by the charms of a lyrical expression equal to
that of Horace, and a vivid brilliance of imagination
to which the Roman poet could make no
claim—exercised a powerful influence upon Fitzgerald's
mind, and colored his thoughts to such a
degree that even when he oversteps the largest
license allowed to a translator, his phrases reproduce
the spirit and manner of his original with a
nearer approach to perfection than would appear
possible. It is usually supposed that there is more
of Fitzgerald than of Khayyám in the English
"Rubá'iyyát," and that the old Persian simply afforded
themes for the Anglo-Irishman's display
of poetic power; but nothing could be further
from the truth. The French translator, J. B.
Nicolas, and the English one, Mr. Whinfield, supply
a closer mechanical reflection of the sense in each
separate stanza; but Mr. Fitzgerald has, in some
instances, given a version equally close and exact;
in others, rejointed scattered phrases from more
than one stanza of his original, and thus accomplished
a feat of marvelous poetical transfusion.
He frequently turns literally into English the
strange outlandish imagery which Mr. Whinfield
thought necessary to replace by more intelligible
banalities, and in this way the magic of his genius
has successfully transplanted into the garden of
English poesy exotics that bloom like native flowers.[xiv]
One of Mr. Fitzgerald's Woodbridge friends was
Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet, with whom he
maintained for many years the most intimate and
cordial intercourse, and whose daughter Lucy he
married. He wrote the memoir of his friend's life
which appeared in the posthumous volume of
Barton's poems. The story of his married life was
a short one. With all the overflowing amiability
of his nature, there were mingled certain peculiarities
or waywardnesses which were more suitable
to the freedom of celibacy than to the staidness of
matrimonial life. A separation took place by
mutual agreement, and Fitzgerald behaved in this
circumstance with the generosity and unselfishness
which were apparent in all his whims no less than
in his more deliberate actions. Indeed, his entire
career was marked by an unchanging goodness of
heart and a genial kindliness; and no one could
complain of having ever endured hurt or ill-treatment
at his hands. His pleasures were innocent
and simple. Amongst the more delightful, he
counted the short coasting trips, occupying no
more than a day or two at a time, which he used
to make in his own yacht from Lowestoft, accompanied
only by a crew of two men, and such a
friend as Cowell, with a large pasty and a few
bottles of wine to supply their material wants. It
is needless to say that books were also put into the
cabin, and that the symposia of the friends were
thus brightened by communion with the minds of
the great departed. Fitzgerald's enjoyment of
gnomic wisdom enshrined in words of exquisite
propriety was evinced by the frequency with[xv]
which he used to read Montaigne's essays and
Madame de Sévigné's letters, and the various works
from which he extracted and published his collection
of wise saws entitled "Polonius." This
taste was allied to a love for what was classical and
correct in literature, by which he was also enabled
to appreciate the prim and formal muse of Crabbe,
in whose grandson's house he died.
His second printed work was the "Polonius," already
referred to, which appeared in 1852. It
exemplifies his favorite reading, being a collection
of extracts, sometimes short proverbial phrases,
sometimes longer pieces of characterization or reflection,
arranged under abstract headings. He
occasionally quotes Dr. Johnson, for whom he entertains
sincere admiration; but the ponderous and
artificial fabric of Johnsonese did not please him
like the language of Bacon, Fuller, Sir Thomas
Browne, Coleridge, whom he cites frequently. A
disproportionate abundance of wise words was
drawn from Carlyle; his original views, his forcible
sense, and the friendship with which Fitzgerald
regarded him, having apparently blinded the latter
to the ungainly style and ungraceful mannerisms
of the Chelsea sage. (It was Thackeray who first
made them personally acquainted; and Fitzgerald
remained always loyal to his first instincts of affection
and admiration.) Polonius also marks the
period of his earliest attention to Persian studies,
as he quotes in it the great Súfi poet, Jalál-ud-dín-Rúmi,
whose "Masnavi" has been translated into
English by Mr. Redhouse, but whom Fitzgerald
can only have seen in the original. He, however,[xvi]
spells the name Jallaladin, an incorrect form of
which he could not have been guilty at the time
when he produced Omar Khayyám, and which
thus betrays that he had not long been engaged
with Irani literature. He was very fond of Montaigne's
essays, and of Pascal's "Pensées"; but his
"Polonius" reveals a sort of dislike and contempt
for Voltaire. Amongst the Germans, Jean Paul,
Goethe, Alexander von Humboldt and August
Wilhelm von Schlegel attracted him greatly; but
he seems to have read little German, and probably
only quoted translations. His favorite motto was
"Plain Living and High Thinking," and he expresses
great reverence for all things manly, simple,
and true. The laws and institutions of England
were, in his eyes, of the highest value and sacredness;
and whatever Irish sympathies he had would
never have diverted his affections from the Union
to Home Rule. This is strongly illustrated by
some original lines of blank verse at the end of
"Polonius," annexed to his quotation, under "Æsthetics,"
of the words in which Lord Palmerston
eulogized Mr. Gladstone for having devoted his
Neapolitan tour to an inspection of the prisons.
Fitzgerald's next printed work was a translation
of Six Dramas of Calderon, published in 1853,
which was unfavorably received at the time, and
consequently withdrawn by him from circulation.
His name appeared on the title-page,—a concession
to publicity which was so unusual with him that
it must have been made under strong pressure from
his friends. The book is in nervous blank verse, a
mode of composition which he handled with great[xvii]
ease and skill. There is no waste of power in diffuseness
and no employment of unnecessary
epithets. It gives the impression of a work of the
Shakespearean age, and reveals a kindred felicity,
strength, and directness of language. It deserves
to rank with his best efforts in poetry, but its ill-success
made him feel that the publication of his
name was an unfavorable experiment, and he never
again repeated it. His great modesty, however,
would sufficiently account for his shyness. Of
"Omar Khayyám," even after the little book had
won its way to general esteem, he used to say that
the suggested addition of his name on the title
would imply an assumption of importance which
he considered that his "transmogrification" of the
Persian poet did not possess.
Fitzgerald's conception of a translator's privilege
is well set forth in the prefaces of his versions from
Calderon, and the "Agamemnon" of Æschylus.
He maintained that, in the absence of the perfect
poet, who shall re-create in his own language the
body and soul of his original, the best system is
that of a paraphrase conserving the spirit of the
author,—a sort of literary metempsychosis. Calderon,
Æschylus, and Omar Khayyám were all
treated with equal license, so far as form is concerned,—the
last, perhaps, the most arbitrarily;
but the result is not unsatisfactory as having given
us perfect English poems instinct with the true
flavor of their prototypes. The Persian was probably
somewhat more Horatian and less melancholy,
the Greek a little less florid and mystic, the
Spaniard more lyrical and fluent, than their metaphrast[xviii]
has made them; but the essential spirit has
not escaped in transfusion. Only a man of singular
gifts could have performed the achievement, and
these works attest Mr. Fitzgerald's right to rank
amongst the finest poets of the century. About
the same time as he printed his Calderon, another
set of translations from the same dramatist was
published by the late D. F. MacCarthy, a scholar
whose acquaintance with Castilian literature was
much deeper than Mr. Fitzgerald's, and who also
possessed poetical abilities of no mean order, with
a totally different sense of the translator's duty.
The popularity of MacCarthy's versions has been
considerable, and as an equivalent rendering of the
original in sense and form his work is valuable.
Spaniards familiar with the English language rate
its merit highly; but there can be little question
of the very great superiority of Mr. Fitzgerald's
work as a contribution to English literature. It is
indeed only from this point of view that we should
regard all the literary labors of our author. They
are English poetical work of fine quality, dashed
with a pleasant outlandish flavor which heightens
their charm; and it is as English poems, not as
translations, that they have endeared themselves
even more to the American English than to the
mixed Britons of England.
It was an occasion of no small moment to Mr.
Fitzgerald's fame, and to the intellectual gratification
of many thousands of readers, when he took
his little packet of "Rubá'iyyát" to Mr. Quaritch
in the latter part of the year 1858. It was printed
as a small quarto pamphlet, bearing the publisher's[xix]
name but not the author's; and although apparently
a complete failure at first,—a failure which Mr.
Fitzgerald regretted less on his own account than
on that of his publisher, to whom he had generously
made a present of the book,—received, nevertheless,
a sufficient distribution by being quickly reduced
from the price of five shillings and placed
in the box of cheap books marked a penny each.
Thus forced into circulation, the two hundred
copies which had been printed were soon exhausted.
Among the buyers were Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
Swinburne, Sir Richard Burton, and William
Simpson, the accomplished artist of the Illustrated
London News. The influence exercised by the first
three, especially by Rossetti, upon a clique of young
men who later grew to distinction, was sufficient
to attract observation to the singular beauties of
the poem anonymously translated from the Persian.
Most readers had no possible opportunity of discovering
whether it was a disguised original or an
actual translation;—even Burton enjoyed probably
but little chance of seeing a manuscript of the
Persian "Rubá'iyyát." The Oriental imagery and
allusions were too thickly scattered throughout
the verses to favor the notion that they could be
the original work of an Englishman; yet it was
shrewdly suspected by most of the appreciative
readers that the "translator" was substantially the
author and creator of the poem. In the refuge
of his anonymity, Fitzgerald derived an innocent
gratification from the curiosity that was aroused
on all sides. After the first edition had disappeared,
inquiries for the little book became frequent,[xx]
and in the year 1868 he gave the MS. of
his second edition to Mr. Quaritch, and the "Rubá'iyyát"
came into circulation once more, but with
several alterations and additions by which the number
of stanzas was somewhat increased beyond the
original seventy-five. Most of the changes were,
as might have been expected, improvements; but
in some instances the author's taste or caprice was
at fault,—notably in the first Rubá'iy. His fastidious
desire to avoid anything that seemed
baroque or unnatural or appeared like plagiarism,
may have influenced him; but it was probably because
he had already used the idea in his rendering
of Jámí's "Salámán," that he sacrificed a fine and
novel piece of imagery in his first stanza and replaced
it by one of much more ordinary character.
If it were from a dislike to pervert his original too
largely, he had no need to be so scrupulous, since
he dealt on the whole with the "Rubá'iyyát" as
though he had the license of absolute authorship,
changing, transposing, and manipulating the substance
of the Persian quatrains with a singular freedom.
The vogue of "old Omar" (as he would affectionately
call his work) went on increasing, and
American readers took it up with eagerness. In
those days the mere mention of Omar Khayyám
between two strangers meeting fortuitously acted
like a sign of freemasonry and established frequently
a bond of friendship. Some curious instances
of this have been related. A remarkable
feature of the Omar-cult in the United States was
the circumstance that single individuals bought
numbers of copies for gratuitous distribution before[xxi]
the book was reprinted in America. Its
editions have been relatively numerous, when we
consider how restricted was the circle of readers
who could understand the peculiar beauties of the
work. A third edition appeared in 1872, with
some further alterations, and may be regarded as
virtually the author's final revision, for it hardly
differs at all from the text of the fourth edition,
which appeared in 1879. This last formed the first
portion of a volume entitled "Rubáiyát of Omar
Khayyám; and the Salámán and Absál of Jámí;
rendered into English verse." The "Salámán"
(which had already been printed in separate form
in 1856) is a poem chiefly in blank verse, interspersed
with various meters (although it is all in
one measure in the original) embodying a love-story
of mystic significance; for Jámí was, unlike
Omar Khayyám, a true Súfi, and indeed differed
in other respects, his celebrity as a pious Mussulman
doctor being equal to his fame as a poet. He
lived in the fifteenth century, in a period of literary
brilliance and decay; and the rich exuberance of
his poetry, full of far-fetched conceits, involved expressions,
overstrained imagery, and false taste,
offers a strong contrast to the simpler and more
forcible language of Khayyám. There is little use
of Arabic in the earlier poet; he preferred the vernacular
speech to the mongrel language which was
fashionable among the heirs of the Saracen conquerors;
but Jámí's composition is largely embroidered
with Arabic.
Mr. Fitzgerald had from his early days been
thrown into contact with the Crabbe family; the[xxii]
Reverend George Crabbe (the poet's grandson)
was an intimate friend of his, and it was on a visit
to Morton Rectory that Fitzgerald died. As we
know that friendship has power to warp the judgment,
we shall not probably be wrong in supposing
that his enthusiastic admiration for Crabbe's poems
was not the product of sound, impartial criticism.
He attempted to reintroduce them to the world by
publishing a little volume of "Readings from
Crabbe," produced in the last year of his life, but
without success. A different fate awaited his
"Agamemnon: a tragedy taken from Æschylus,"
which was first printed privately by him, and
afterwards published with alterations in 1876. It
is a very free rendering from the Greek, and full
of a poetical beauty which is but partly assignable
to Æschylus. Without attaining to anything like
the celebrity and admiration which have followed
Omar Khayyám, the "Agamemnon" has achieved
much more than a succès d'estime. Mr. Fitzgerald's
renderings from the Greek were not confined
to this one essay; he also translated the two
Œdipus dramas of Sophocles, but left them unfinished
in manuscript till Prof. Eliot Norton had
a sight of them and urged him to complete his
work. When this was done, he had them set in
type, but only a very few proofs can have been
struck off, as it seems that, at least in England, no
more than one or two copies were sent out by the
author. In a similar way he printed translations
of two of Calderon's plays not included in the published
"Six Dramas"—namely, "La Vida es Sueño,"
and "El Magico Prodigioso" (both ranking among[xxiii]
the Spaniard's finest work); but they also were
withheld from the public and all but half a dozen
friends.
When his old boatman died, he abandoned his
nautical exercises and gave up his yacht forever.
During the last few years of his life, he divided
his time between Cambridge, Crabbe's house, and
his own home at Little Grange, near Woodbridge,
where he received occasional visits from friends and
relatives. He was one of the most modest men who
have enriched English literature with poetry of
distinct and permanent value, and his best epitaph
is found in Tennyson's "Tiresias and other Poems,"
published immediately after our author's quiet exit
from life, in 1883, in the seventy-fifth year of
his age.
[xxiv]
[xxv]
OMAR KHAYYÁM
The Astronomer-Poet of Persia
(BY EDWARD FITZGERALD)
Omar Khayyám was born at Naishápúr in Khorassán
in the latter half of our Eleventh, and died
within the First Quarter of our Twelfth Century.
The slender story of his life is curiously twined
about that of two other very considerable Figures
in their Time and Country: one of whom tells the
Story of all Three. This was Nizám ul Mulk,
Vizyr to Alp Arslan the Son, and Malik Shah the
Grandson, of Toghrul Beg the Tartar, who had
wrested Persia from the feeble Successor of
Mahmúd the Great, and founded that Seljukian
Dynasty which finally roused Europe into the
Crusades. This Nizám ul Mulk, in his Wasiyat—or
Testament—which he wrote and left as a
Memorial for future Statesmen—relates the following,
as quoted in the Calcutta Review, No. 59,
from Mirkhond's History of the Assassins.
"One of the greatest of the wise men of
Khorassán was the Imám Mowaffak of Naishápúr,
a man highly honored and reverenced,—may God
rejoice his soul: his illustrious years exceeded eighty-five,
and it was the universal belief that every boy
who read the Koran or studied the traditions in his
presence, would assuredly attain to honor and happiness.
For this cause did my father send me from[xxvi]
Tús to Naishápúr with Abd-us-samad, the doctor
of law, that I might employ myself in study and
learning under the guidance of that illustrious
teacher. Towards me he ever turned an eye of
favor and kindness, and as his pupil I felt for him
extreme affection and devotion, so that I passed
four years in his service. When I first came there,
I found two other pupils of mine own age newly
arrived, Hakim Omar Khayyám, and the ill-fated
Ben Sabbáh. Both were endowed with sharpness
of wit and the highest natural powers; and we three
formed a close friendship together. When the
Imám rose from his lectures, they used to join me,
and we repeated to each other the lessons we had
heard. Now Omar was a native of Naishápúr,
while Hasan Ben Sabbáh's father was one Ali, a
man of austere life and practice, but heretical in
his creed and doctrine. One day Hasan said to
me and to Khayyám, 'It is a universal belief that
the pupils of the Imám Mowaffak will attain to
fortune. Now, even if we all do not attain thereto,
without doubt one of us will; what then shall be
our mutual pledge and bond?' We answered,
'Be it what you please.' 'Well,' he said, let us
make a vow, that to whomsoever this fortune falls,
he shall share it equally with the rest, and reserve
no pre-eminence for himself.' 'Be it so,' we both
replied, and on those terms we mutually pledged
our words. Years rolled on, and I went from
Khorassán to Transoxiana and wandered to Ghazni
and Cabul; and when I returned, I was invested
with office, and rose to be administrator of affairs
during the Sultanate of Sultan Alp Arslan.[xxvii]
"He goes on to state, that years passed by, and
both his old school-friends found him out, and
came and claimed a share in his good fortune, according
to the school-day vow. The Vizier was
generous and kept his word. Hasan demanded a
place in the government, which the Sultan granted
at the Vizier's request; but discontented with a
gradual rise, he plunged into the maze of intrigue
of an oriental court, and, failing in a base attempt
to supplant his benefactor, he was disgraced and
fell. After many mishaps and wanderings, Hasan
became the head of the Persian sect of the
Ismailians,—a party of fanatics who had long
murmured in obscurity, but rose to an evil eminence
under the guidance of his strong and evil
will. In A.D. 1090, he seized the castle of Alamút,
in the province of Rúdbar, which lies in the mountainous
tract south of the Caspian Sea; and it was
from this mountain home he obtained that evil
celebrity among the Crusaders as the Old Man
of the Mountains, and spread terror through
the Mohammedan world; and it is yet disputed
whether the word Assassin, which they have left
in the language of modern Europe as their dark
memorial, is derived from the hashish, or opiate of
hemp-leaves (the Indian bhang), with which they
maddened themselves to the sullen pitch of oriental
desperation, or from the name of the founder
of the dynasty, whom we have seen in his quiet
collegiate days, at Naishápúr. One of the countless
victims of the Assassin's dagger was Nizám-ul-Mulk
himself, the old schoolboy friend.
"Omar Khayyám also came to the Vizier to[xxviii]
claim his share; but not to ask for title or office.
'The greatest boon you can confer on me,' he said,
'is to let me live in a corner under the shadow of
your fortune, to spread wide the advantages of
Science, and pray for your long life and prosperity.'
The Vizier tells us, that when he found Omar was
really sincere in his refusal, he pressed him no further,
but granted him a yearly pension of 1200
mithkáls of gold from the treasury of Naishápúr.
"At Naishápúr thus lived and died Omar Khayyám,
'busied,' adds the Vizier, 'in winning knowledge
of every kind, and especially in Astronomy,
wherein he attained to a very high pre-eminence.
Under the Sultanate of Malik Shah, he came to
Merv, and obtained great praise for his proficiency
in science, and the Sultan showered favors upon
him.'
"When the Malik Shah determined to reform the
calendar, Omar was one of the eight learned men
employed to do it; the result was the Jaláli era (so
called from Jalál-ud-din, one of the King's names)—'a
computation of time,' says Gibbon, 'which
surpasses the Julian, and approaches the accuracy
of the Gregorian style.' He is also the author of
some astronomical tables, entitled Zíji-Maliksháhí,"
and the French have lately republished and translated
an Arabic Treatise of his on Algebra.
"His Takhallus or poetical name (Khayyám)
signifies a Tent-maker, and he is said to have at
one time exercised that trade, perhaps before
Nizám-ul-Mulk's generosity raised him to independence.
Many Persian poets similarly derive
their names from their occupations; thus we have[xxix]
Attár, 'a druggist,' Assár, 'an oil presser,' etc.
Omar himself alludes to his name in the following
whimsical lines:—
"'Khayyám, who stitched the tents of science,
Has fallen in grief's furnace and been suddenly burned;
The shears of Fate have cut the tent ropes of his life,
And the broker of Hope has sold him for nothing!'
"We have only one more anecdote to give of his
Life, and that relates to the close; it is told in the
anonymous preface which is sometimes prefixed to
his poems; it has been printed in the Persian in the
Appendix to Hyde's Veterum Persarum Religio,
p. 499; and D'Herbelot alludes to it in his Bibliothèque,
under Khiam,—
"It is written in the chronicles of the ancients
that this King of the Wise, Omar Khayyám, died
at Naishápúr in the year of the Hegira, 517 (A.D.
1123); in science he was unrivaled,—the very
paragon of his age. Khwájah Nizámi of Samarcand,
who was one of his pupils, relates the following
story: 'I often used to hold conversations with
my teacher, Omar Khayyám, in a garden; and one
day he said to me, "My tomb shall be in a spot
where the north wind may scatter roses over it." I
wondered at the words he spake, but I knew that
his were no idle words. Years after, when I
chanced to revisit Naishápúr, I went to his final
resting-place, and lo! it was just outside a garden,
and trees laden with fruit stretched their boughs[xxx]
over the garden wall, and dropped their flowers
upon his tomb, so that the stone was hidden under
them.'"
Thus far—without fear of Trespass—from the
Calcutta Review. The writer of it, on reading in
India this story of Omar's Grave, was reminded,
he says, of Cicero's account of finding Archimedes'
Tomb at Syracuse, buried in grass and weeds. I
think Thorwaldsen desired to have roses grow over
him; a wish religiously fulfilled for him to the
present day, I believe. However, to return to
Omar.
Though the Sultan "shower'd Favors upon him,"
Omar's Epicurean Audacity of Thought and
Speech caused him to be regarded askance in his
own Time and Country. He is said to have been
especially hated and dreaded by the Súfis, whose
Practise he ridiculed, and whose Faith amounts to
little more than his own, when stript of the Mysticism
and formal recognition of Islamism under
which Omar would not hide. Their Poets, including
Háfiz, who are (with the exception of Firdausi)
the most considerable in Persia, borrowed
largely, indeed, of Omar's material, but turning it
to a mystical Use more convenient to Themselves
and the People they addressed; a People quite as
quick of Doubt as of Belief; as keen of Bodily
Sense as of Intellectual; and delighting in a cloudy
composition of both, in which they could float
luxuriously between Heaven and Earth, and this
World and the next, on the wings of a poetical expression,
that might serve indifferently for either.
Omar was too honest of Heart as well of Head[xxxi]
for this. Having failed (however mistakenly) of
finding any Providence but Destiny, and any
World but This, he set about making the most of
it; preferring rather to soothe the Soul through the
Senses into Acquiescence with Things as he saw
them, than to perplex it with vain disquietude after
what they might be. It has been seen, however,
that his Worldly Ambition was not exorbitant; and
he very likely takes a humorous or perverse pleasure
in exalting the gratification of Sense above that
of the Intellect, in which he must have taken great
delight, although it failed to answer the Questions
in which he, in common with all men, was most
vitally interested.
For whatever Reason, however, Omar, as before
said, has never been popular in his own Country,
and therefore has been but scantily transmitted
abroad. The MSS. of his Poems, mutilated beyond
the average Casualties of Oriental Transcription,
are so rare in the East as scarce to have reached
Westward at all, in spite of all the acquisitions of
Arms and Science. There is no copy at the India
House, none at the Bibliothèque Nationale of
Paris. We know but one in England: No. 140 of
the Ouseley MSS. at the Bodleian, written at
Shiráz, A.D. 1460. This contains but 158 Rubáiyát.
One in the Asiatic Society's Library at
Calcutta (of which we have a copy) contains
(and yet incomplete) 516, though swelled to that
by all kinds of Repetition and Corruption. So
Von Hammer speaks of his Copy as containing
about 200, while Dr. Sprenger catalogues the
Lucknow MSS. at double that number. The[xxxii]
Scribes, too, of the Oxford and Calcutta MSS. seem
to do their Work under a sort of Protest; each beginning
with a Tetrastich (whether genuine or
not) taken out of its alphabetical order; the Oxford
with one of Apology; the Calcutta with one
of Expostulation, supposed (says a Notice prefixed
to the MS.) to have arisen from a Dream, in which
Omar's mother asked about his future fate. It
may be rendered thus:—
"Oh Thou who burn'st in Heart for those who burn
In Hell, whose fires thyself shall feed in turn;
How long be crying, 'Mercy on them, God!'
Why, who art Thou to teach, and He to learn?"
The Bodleian Quatrain pleads Pantheism by way
of Justification.
"If I myself upon a looser Creed
Have loosely strung the Jewel of Good deed,
Let this one thing for my Atonement plead:
That One for Two I never did misread."
The Reviewer to whom I owe the Particulars
of Omar's Life concludes his Review by comparing
him with Lucretius, both as to natural Temper and
Genius, and as acted upon by the Circumstances
in which he lived. Both indeed were men of subtle,
strong, and cultivated Intellect, fine Imagination,
and Hearts passionate for Truth and Justice; who
justly revolted from their Country's false Religion,
and false, or foolish, Devotion to it; but who fell
short of replacing what they subverted by such[xxxiii]
better Hope as others, with no better Revelation to
guide them, had yet made a Law to themselves.
Lucretius indeed, with such material as Epicurus
furnished, satisfied himself with the theory of a
vast machine fortuitously constructed and acting
by a Law that implied no Legislator; and so composing
himself into a Stoical rather than Epicurean
severity of Attitude, sat down to contemplate the
mechanical Drama of the Universe which he was
part Actor in; himself and all about him (as in
his own sublime description of the Roman Theatre)
discolored with the lurid reflex of the Curtain
suspended between the Spectator and the Sun.
Omar, more desperate, or more careless of any so
complicated System as resulted in nothing but
hopeless Necessity, flung his own Genius and
Learning with a bitter or humorous jest into the
general Ruin which their insufficient glimpses only
served to reveal; and, pretending sensual pleasure,
as the serious purpose of Life, only diverted himself
with speculative problems of Deity, Destiny,
Matter and Spirit, Good and Evil, and other such
questions, easier to start than to run down, and
the pursuit of which becomes a very weary sport
at last!
With regard to the present Translation. The
original Rubáiyát (as, missing an Arabic Guttural,
these Tetrastichs are more musically called) are independent
Stanzas, consisting each of four Lines
of equal though varied Prosody; sometimes all
rhyming, but oftener (as here imitated) the third
line a blank. Somewhat as in the Greek Alcaic,
where the penultimate line seems to lift and suspend[xxxiv]
the Wave that falls over in the last. As usual
with such kind of Oriental Verse, the Rubáiyát
follow one another according to Alphabetic Rhyme—a
strange succession of Grave and Gay. Those
here selected are strung into something of an
Eclogue, with perhaps a less than equal proportion
of the "Drink and make-merry," which (genuine
or not) recurs over-frequently in the Original.
Either way, the Result is sad enough: saddest perhaps
when most ostentatiously merry: more apt to
move Sorrow than Anger toward the old Tent-maker,
who, after vainly endeavoring to unshackle
his Steps from Destiny, and to catch some authentic
Glimpse of To-morrow, fell back upon To-day
(which has outlasted so many To-morrows!)
as the only ground he had got to stand upon, however
momentarily slipping from under his feet.
While the second Edition of this version of
Omar was preparing, Monsieur Nicolas, French
Consul at Resht, published a very careful and very
good Edition of the Text from a lithograph copy
at Teheran, comprising 464 Rubáiyát, with translation
and notes of his own.
Mons. Nicolas, whose Edition has reminded me
of several things, and instructed me in others, does
not consider Omar to be the material Epicurean
that I have literally taken him for, but a Mystic,
shadowing the Deity under the figure of Wine,
Wine-bearer, etc., as Háfiz is supposed to do; in
short, a Súfi Poet like Háfiz and the rest.
I cannot see reason to alter my opinion, formed
as it was more than a dozen years ago when Omar[xxxv]
was first shown me by one to whom I am indebted
for all I know of Oriental, and very much of other,
literature. He admired Omar's genius so much
that he would gladly have adopted any such interpretation
of his meaning as Mons. Nicolas' if
he could. That he could not, appears by his Paper
in the Calcutta Review already so largely quoted;
in which he argues from the Poems themselves, as
well as from what records remain of the Poet's Life.
And if more were needed to disprove Mons.
Nicolas' Theory, there is the Biographical Notice
which he himself has drawn up in direct contradiction
to the Interpretation of the Poems given in
his Notes. (See pp. xiii-xiv of his Preface.) Indeed
I hardly knew poor Omar was so far gone till
his Apologist informed me. For here we see that,
whatever were the Wine that Háfiz drank and
sang, the veritable Juice of the Grape it was which
Omar used, not only when carousing with his
friends, but (says Mons. Nicolas) in order to excite
himself to that pitch of Devotion which others
reached by cries and "Hurlemens." And yet,
whenever Wine, Wine-bearer, etc., occur in the
text—which is often enough—Mons. Nicolas carefully
annotates "Dieu," "La Divinité," etc.: so
carefully indeed that one is tempted to think that
he was indoctrinated by the Súfi with whom he
read the Poems. A Persian would naturally wish
to vindicate a distinguished Countryman; and a
Súfi to enrol him in his own sect, which already
comprises all the chief Poets of Persia.
What historical Authority has Mons. Nicolas to
show that Omar gave himself up "avec passion à[xxxvi]
l'étude de la philosophie des Soufis?" (Preface,
p. xiii.) The Doctrines of Pantheism, Materialism,
Necessity, etc., were not peculiar to the Súfi; nor
to Lucretius before them; nor to Epicurus before
him; probably the very original Irreligion of
Thinking men from the first; and very likely to
be the spontaneous growth of a Philosopher living
in an Age of social and political barbarism, under
shadow of one of the Two and Seventy Religions
supposed to divide the world. Von Hammer (according
to Sprenger's Oriental Catalogue) speaks
of Omar as "a Free-thinker, and a great opponent
of Sufism;" perhaps because, while holding much
of their Doctrine, he would not pretend to any inconsistent
severity of morals. Sir W. Ouseley has
written a note to something of the same effect on
the fly-leaf of the Bodleian MS. And in two Rubáiyát
of Mons. Nicolas' own Edition Súf and Súfi
are both disparagingly named.
No doubt many of these Quatrains seem unaccountable
unless mystically interpreted; but many
more as unaccountable unless literally. Were the
Wine spiritual, for instance, how wash the Body
with it when dead! Why make cups of the dead
clay to be filled with—"La Divinité"—by some
succeeding Mystic? Mons. Nicolas himself is
puzzled by some "bizarres and trop Orientals" allusions
and images—"d'une sensualité quelquefois
révoltante" indeed—which "les convenances" do
not permit him to translate, but still which the
reader cannot but refer to "La Divinité." No
doubt also many of the Quatrains in the Teheran,
as in the Calcutta Copies, are spurious; such Rubáiyát
being the common form of Epigram in[xxxvii]
Persia. But this, at best, tells as much one way as
another; nay, the Súfi, who may be considered the
Scholar and Men of Letters in Persia, would be far
more likely than the careless Epicure to interpolate
what favors his own view of the Poet. I observe
that very few of the more mystical Quatrains are
in the Bodleian MS. which must be one of the
oldest, as dated at Shiraz, A.H. 865, A.D. 1460. And
this, I think, especially distinguishes Omar (I cannot
help calling him by his—no, not Christian—familiar
name) from all other Persian Poets: That,
whereas with them the Poet is lost in his Song, the
Man in Allegory and Abstraction; we seem to have
the Man—the Bonhomme—Omar himself, with all
his Humors and Passions, as frankly before us as if
we were really at Table with him, after the Wine
had gone round.
I must say that I, for one, never wholly believed
in the mysticism of Háfiz. It does not appear there
was any danger in holding and singing Súfi Pantheism,
so long as the Poet made his Salaam to
Mohammed at the beginning and end of his Song.
Under such conditions Jeláluddín, Jámí, Attár,
and others sang; using Wine and Beauty indeed as
Images to illustrate, not as a Mask to hide, the
Divinity they were celebrating. Perhaps some
Allegory less liable to mistake or abuse had been
better among so inflammable a People: much more
so when, as some think with Háfiz and Omar, the
abstract is not only likened to, but identified with,
the sensual Image; hazardous, if not to the Devotee
himself, yet to his weaker Brethren; and worse for
the Profane in proportion as the Devotion of the
Initiated grew warmer. And all for what? To be[xxxviii]
tantalized with Images of sensual enjoyment
which must be renounced if one would approximate
a God, who, according to the Doctrine, is
Sensual Matter as well as Spirit, and into whose
Universe one expects unconsciously to merge after
Death, without hope of any posthumous Beatitude
in another world to compensate for all one's self-denial
in this. Lucretius' blind Divinity certainly
merited, and probably got, as much self-sacrifice
as this of the Súfi; and the burden of Omar's Song—if
not "Let us eat"—is assuredly—"Let us drink,
for To-morrow we die!" And if Háfiz meant quite
otherwise by a similar language, he surely miscalculated
when he devoted his Life and Genius to
so equivocal a Psalmody as, from his Day to this,
has been said and sung by any rather than Spiritual
Worshipers.
However, as there is some traditional presumption,
and certainly the opinion of some learned
men, in favor of Omar's being a Súfi—and even
something of a Saint—those who please may so
interpret his Wine and Cup-bearer. On the other
hand, as there is far more historical certainty of his
being a Philosopher, of scientific Insight and
Ability far beyond that of the Age and Country
he lived in; of such moderate worldly Ambition as
becomes a Philosopher, and such moderate wants
as rarely satisfy a Debauchee; other readers may be
content to believe with me that, while the Wine
Omar celebrates is simply the Juice of the Grape,
he bragged more than he drank of it, in very defiance
perhaps of that Spiritual Wine which left its
Votaries sunk in Hypocrisy or Disgust.
QUATRAIN I p. 41
[First Edition of the Translation]
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light.
QUATRAIN XI p. 46
[First Edition of the Translation]
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
[xxxix]
[40]
THE FIRST EDITION
OF THE TRANSLATION
[41]
RUBÁIYÁT OF
OMAR KHAYYÁM
I
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light.
II
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
[42]
III
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."
IV
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.
[43]
V
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
VI
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.
[44]
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
And look—a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke—and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.
[45]
IX
But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hátim Tai cry Supper—heed them not.
X
With me along some Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,
And pity Sultán Máhmúd on his Throne.
[46]
XI
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.
XII
"How sweet is mortal Sovranty!"—think some:
Others—"How blest the Paradise to come!"
Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest;
Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum!
[47]
XIII
Look to the Rose that blows 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."
XIV
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.
[48]
XV
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.
XVI
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.
[49]
XVII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep;
And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.
XVIII
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.
[50]
XIX
And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean—
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XX
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.
[51]
XXI
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.
XXII
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?
[52]
XXIII
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.
XXIV
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after a To-morrow stare,
A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!"
[53]
XXV
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVI
Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the Wise
To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;
One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
[54]
XXVII
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 as in I went.
XXVIII
With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
QUATRAIN XXIV p. 52
[First Edition of the Translation]
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after a To-morrow stare,
A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries,
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!"
QUATRAIN XLII p. 61
[First Edition of the Translation]
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas—the Grape!
[55]
XXIX
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.
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried whence?
And, without asking, whither hurried hence!
Another and another Cup to drown
The Memory of this Impertinence!
[56]
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.
XXXII
There was a Door to which I found no Key:
There was a Veil past which I could not see:
Some little Talk awhile of Me and Thee
There seem'd—and then no more of Thee and Me.
[57]
XXXIII
Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
And—"A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied.
XXXIV
Then to this earthen Bowl did I adjourn
My Lip the secret Well of Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd—"While you live
Drink!—for once dead you never shall return."
[58]
XXXV
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And merry-make; and the cold Lip I kiss'd
How many Kisses might it take—and give!
XXXVI
For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd—"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
[59]
XXXVII
Ah, fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday
Why fret about them if To-day be sweet!
XXXVIII
One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—
The Stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!
[60]
XXXIX
How long, how long, in definite Pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute?
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadder after none, or bitter, Fruit.
XL
You know, my Friends, how long since in my House
For a new Marriage I did make Carouse:
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
[61]
XLI
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up-and-down" without, I could define,
I yet in all I only cared to know,
Was never deep in anything but—Wine.
XLII
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas—the Grape!
[62]
XLIII
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
XLIV
The mighty Mahmúd, the victorious Lord,
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters and slays with his enchanted Sword.
[63]
XLV
But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me
The Quarrel of the Universe let be:
And, in some corner of the Hubbub coucht,
Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee.
XLVI
For in and out, above, about, below,
'Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show
Play'd in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.
[64]
XLVII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.
XLVIII
While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee—take that, and do not shrink.
[65]
XLIX
'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
L
The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all—He knows—HE knows!
[66]
LI
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
LII
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help—for It
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.
[67]
LIII
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man's knead,
And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
LIV
I tell Thee this—When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal
Of Heav'n and Parwín and Mushtara they flung,
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
[68]
LV
The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
If clings my Being—let the Súfi flout;
Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
LVI
And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,
One glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
[69]
LVII
Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?
LVIII
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give—and take!
[70]
KÚZA-NÁMA
LIX
Listen again. One evening at the Close
Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose,
In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
With the clay Population round in Rows.
LX
And, strange to tell, among the Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:
And suddenly one more impatient cried—
"Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
[71]
LXI
Then said another—"Surely not in vain
My Substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
Should stamp me back to common Earth again."
LXII
Another said—"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love
And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!"
[72]
LXIII
None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
LXIV
Said one—"Folks of a surly Tapster tell,
And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
They talk of some strict Testing of us—Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
[73]
LXV
Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,
"My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-by!"
LXVI
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother, Brother!
Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a creaking!"
[74]
LXVII
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Windingsheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.
LXVIII
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True Believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
[75]
LXIX
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:
Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
LXX
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 thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
[76]
LXXI
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.
LXXII
Alas, 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!
[77]
LXXIII
Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate 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!
LXXIV
Ah, Moon of my Delight, who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again:
How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me—in vain!
[78]
LXXV
And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
Where I made one—turn down an empty Glass!
TAMÁM SHUD
[79]
THE SECOND EDITION
OF THE TRANSLATION
[80]
[81]
I
Wake! For the Sun behind yon Eastern height
Has chased the Session of the Stars from Night;
And, to the field of Heav'n ascending, strikes
The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why lags the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
[82]
III
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."
IV
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.
[83]
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby gushes from the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows.
VI
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Péhleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"—the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers to incarnadine.
[84]
VII
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.
VIII
Whether at Naishápúr 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.
[85]
IX
Morning 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 Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú?
Let Rustum cry "To Battle!" as he likes,
Or Hátim Tai "To Supper"—heed not you.
[86]
XI
With me along the Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot—
And Peace to Máhmúd on his golden Throne?
XII
Here with a little Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
QUATRAIN LXXII p. 76
[First Edition of the Translation]
Alas, 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!
QUATRAIN XI p. 86
[Second Edition of the Translation]
With me along the Strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot—
And Peace to Máhmúd on his golden Throne?
[87]
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the promise go,
Nor heed the music of a distant Drum!
XIV
Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spin
The Thread of present Life away to win—
What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall
Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!
[88]
XV
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."
XVI
For 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.
[89]
XVII
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—was gone.
XVIII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
[90]
XIX
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XX
The Palace that to Heav'n his pillars threw,
And Kings the forehead on his threshold drew—
I saw the solitary Ringdove there,
And "Coo, coo, coo," she cried; and "Coo, coo, coo."
[91]
XXI
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
To-day of past Regret and Future Fears:
To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time has prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
[92]
XXIII
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?
XXIV
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
[93]
XXV
And this delightful Herb whose living Green
Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean—
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
XXVI
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!
[94]
XXVII
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."
XXVIII
Another Voice, when I am sleeping, cries,
"The Flower should open with the Morning skies."
And a retreating Whisper, as I wake—
"The Flower that once has blown for ever dies."
[95]
XXIX
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXX
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 as in I went.
[96]
XXXI
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my 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."
XXXII
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.
[97]
XXXIII
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Ah! contrite Heav'n endowed us with the Vine
To drug the memory of that insolence!
XXXIV
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-Knot of Human Fate.
[98]
XXXV
There was the Door to which I found no Key:
There was the Veil through which I could not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXVI
Earth could not answer: nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor Heaven, with those eternal Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
[99]
XXXVII
Then of the Thee in Me who works behind
The Veil of Universe I cried to find
A Lamp to guide me through the Darkness; and
Something then said—"An Understanding blind."
XXXVIII
Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret Well of Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd—"While you live,
Drink!—for, once dead, you never shall return."
[100]
XXXIX
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and that impassive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take—and give!
XL
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!"
[101]
XLI
For 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?
XLII
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
On the parcht herbage but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden—far beneath, and long ago.
[102]
XLIII
As then the Tulip for her wonted sup
Of Heavenly Vintage lifts her chalice up,
Do you, twin offspring of the soil, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you like an empty Cup.
XLIV
Do you, within your little hour of Grace,
The waving Cypress in your Arms enlace,
Before the Mother back into her arms
Fold, and dissolve you in a last embrace.
QUATRAIN XX p. 90
[Second Edition of the Translation]
The Palace that to Heav'n his pillars threw,
And Kings the forehead on his threshold drew—
I saw the solitary Ringdove there,
And "Coo, coo, coo," she cried; and "Coo, coo, coo."
QUATRAIN XLIV p. 102
[Second Edition of the Translation]
Do you, within your little hour of Grace,
The waving Cypress in your Arms enlace,
Before the Mother back into her arms
Fold, and dissolve you in a last embrace.
[103]
XLV
And if the Cup you drink, the Lip you press,
End in what All begins and ends in—Yes;
Imagine then you are what heretofore
You were—hereafter you shall not be less.
XLVI
So when at last the Angel of the drink
Of Darkness finds you by the river-brink,
And, proffering his Cup, invites your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff it—do not shrink.
[104]
XLVII
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, should lose, or know the type no more;
The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
XLVIII
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 much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.
[105]
XLIX
One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—
The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
Draws to the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!
L
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About THE SECRET—quick about it, Friend!
A Hair, they say, divides the False and True—
And upon what, prithee, does Life depend?
[106]
LI
A Hair, they say, 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;
LII
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running, Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; and
They change and perish all—but He remains;
[107]
LIII
A moment guess'd—then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He does Himself contrive, enact, behold.
LIV
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, You when shall be You no more?
[108]
LV
Oh, plagued no more With Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to itself resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.
LVI
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be merry with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
[109]
LVII
You know, my Friends, how bravely in my House
For a new Marriage I did make Carouse;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed,
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse
LVIII
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.
[110]
LIX
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Have squared the Year to human compass, eh?
If so, by striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
LX
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!
[111]
LXI
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:
LXII
The mighty Mahmúd, 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.
[112]
LXIII
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?
LXIV
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,
When the frail Cup is crumbled into Dust!
[113]
LXV
If but the Vine and Love-abjuring Band
Are in the Prophet's Paradise to stand,
Alack, I doubt the Prophet's Paradise
Were empty as the hollow of one's Hand.
LXVI
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 is blown for ever dies.
[114]
LXVII
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.
LXVIII
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 fellows, and to Sleep return'd.
[115]
LXIX
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Is't not a Shame—is't not a Shame for him
So long in this Clay suburb to abide!
LXX
But that is but a Tent wherein may rest
A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
[116]
LXXI
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And after many days my Soul return'd
And said, "Behold, Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
LXXII
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
[117]
LXXIII
We are no other than a moving row
Of visionary Shapes that come and go
Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
LXXIV
Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
[118]
LXXV
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all—He knows—HE knows!
LXXVI
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.
[119]
LXXVII
For let Philosopher and Doctor preach
Of what they will, and what they will not—each
Is but one Link in an eternal Chain
That none can slip, nor break, nor overreach.
LXXVIII
And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help—for It
As impotently rolls as you or I.
[120]
LXXIX
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.
LXXX
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.
[121]
LXXXI
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
LXXXII
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.
[122]
LXXXIII
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.
LXXXIV
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
[123]
LXXXV
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent us dross-allay'd
Sue for a Debt we never did contract,
And cannot answer—Oh, the sorry trade!
LXXXVI
Nay, but, for terror of his wrathful Face,
I swear I will not call Injustice Grace;
Not one Good Fellow of the Tavern but
Would kick so poor a Coward from the place.
[124]
LXXXVII
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!
LXXXVIII
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin the Face of wretched Man
Is black with—Man's Forgiveness give—and take!
[125]
LXXXIX
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.
XC
And once again there gathered a scarce heard
Whisper among them; as it were, the stirr'd
Ashes of some all but extinguisht Tongue,
Which mine ear kindled into living Word.
[126]
XCI
Said one among them—"Surely not in vain,
My substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
Should stamp me back to shapeless Earth again?"
XCII
Another said—"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Cup from which he drank in Joy;
Shall He that of His own free Fancy made
The Vessel, in an after-rage destroy!"
[127]
XCIII
None answer'd this; but after 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?"
XCIV
Thus with the Dead as with the Living, What?
And Why? so ready, but the Wherefor not,
One on a sudden peevishly exclaim'd,
"Which is the Potter, pray, and which the Pot?"
[128]
XCV
Said one—"Folks of a surly Master tell,
And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;
They talk of some sharp Trial of us—Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
XCVI
"Well," said another, "Whoso will, let try,
My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by-and-by!"
[129]
XCVII
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
One spied the little Crescent all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
XCVIII
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
[130]
XCIX
Whither resorting from the vernal Heat
Shall Old Acquaintance Old Acquaintance greet,
Under the Branch that leans above the Wall
To shed his Blossom over head and feet.
C
Then 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.
[131]
CI
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in Men's eye much wrong:
Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
CII
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 thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
[132]
CIII
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—Well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One-half so precious as the ware they sell.
CIV
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!
[133]
CV
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse—if dimly, yet indeed reveal'd,
Toward which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
CVI
Oh, if the World were but to re-create,
That we might catch ere closed the Book of Fate,
And make The Writer on a fairer leaf
Inscribe our names, or quite obliterate!
[134]
CVII
Better, oh, better, cancel from the Scroll
Of Universe one luckless Human Soul,
Than drop by drop enlarge the Flood that rolls
Hoarser with Anguish as the Ages Roll.
CVIII
Ah, Love! could you and I with Fate 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!
QUATRAIN LXXII p. 116
[Second Edition of the Translation]
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow of a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
QUATRAIN XIV p. 145
[Fifth Edition of the Translation]
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."
[135]
CIX
But see! The rising Moon of Heav'n again—
Looks for us, Sweet-heart, through the quivering Plane:
How oft hereafter rising will she look
Among those leaves—for one of us in vain!
CX
And when Yourself with silver Foot 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!
TAMÁM
[136]
[137]
THE FIFTH EDITION
OF THE TRANSLATION
[138]
[139]
I
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 Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
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?"
[140]
III
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."
IV
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.
[141]
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshýd'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.
VI
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 t' incarnadine.
[142]
VII
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.
VIII
Whether at Naishápúr 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.
[143]
IX
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 Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.
X
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú?
Let Zál and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hátim call to Supper—heed not you.
[144]
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot—
And Peace to Mahmúd on his golden Throne!
XII
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!
[145]
XIII
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!
XIV
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."
[146]
XV
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.
XVI
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.
[147]
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
[148]
XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head
XX
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!
[149]
XXI
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.
XXII
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.
[150]
XXIII
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?
XXIV
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!
QUATRAIN XXXVII p. 157
[Fifth Edition of the Translation]
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!"
QUATRAIN XLI p. 159
[Fifth Edition of the Translation]
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.
[151]
XXV
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."
XXVI
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 scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
[152]
XXVII
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.
XXVIII
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."
[153]
XXIX
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.
XXX
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!
[154]
XXXI
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.
XXXII
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.
[155]
XXXIII
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.
XXXIV
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!"
[156]
XXXV
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."
XXXVI
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!
[157]
XXXVII
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!"
XXXVIII
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?
[158]
XXXIX
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.
XL
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.
[159]
XLI
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.
XLII
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.
[160]
XLIII
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.
XLIV
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?
[161]
XLV
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultán to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultán rises, and the dark Ferrásh
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Sákí from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
[162]
XLVII
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.
XLVIII
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!
[163]
XLIX
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?
L
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;
[164]
LI
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Máh to Máhi; and
They change and perish all—but He remains;
LII
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.
[165]
LIII
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, You when shall be You no more?
LIV
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
[166]
LV
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
LVI
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.
[167]
LVII
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.
LVIII
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!
[168]
LIX
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:
LX
The mighty Mahmúd, 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.
[169]
LXI
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?
LXII
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!
[170]
LXIII
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 for ever dies.
LXIV
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.
[171]
LXV
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.
LXVI
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 answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
[172]
LXVII
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.
LXVIII
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;
[173]
LXIX
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
LXX
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!
[174]
LXXI
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.
LXXII
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.
[175]
LXXIII
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
LXXIV
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.
[176]
LXXV
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
LXXVI
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.
[177]
LXXVII
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.
LXXVIII
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
[178]
LXXIX
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!
LXXX
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!
[179]
LXXXI
Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradist devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd—Man's forgiveness give—and take!
LXXXII
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.
[180]
LXXXIII
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.
LXXXIV
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."
[181]
LXXXV
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."
LXXXVI
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?"
[182]
LXXXVII
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?"
LXXXVIII
"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 'twill all be well."
[183]
LXXXIX
"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."
XC
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 Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
[184]
XCI
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.
XCII
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.
[185]
XCIII
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.
XCIV
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 thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
[186]
XCV
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour—Well,
I wonder often what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
XCVI
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!
[187]
XCVII
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!
XCVIII
Would but some wingéd Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!
[188]
XCIX
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!
C
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!
[189]
CI
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!
TAMÁM
[190]
[191]
VARIATIONS IN
THE THIRD EDITION
OF THE TRANSLATION
[192]
[193]
In the first draught of the Third Edition
the first quatrain stood thus:
Wake! For the Sun before him into Night
A signal flung that put the Stars to flight;
And, to the field of Heav'n ascending, strikes
The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
The tenth quatrain read thus in the
Third Edition:
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú?
Let Zál and Rustum thunder as they will,
Or Hátim Tai "To supper!"—heed not you.
[194]
In the first draught of Third Edition the
thirty-eighth verse was as follows:
For, in your Ear a moment—of the same
Poor Earth from which that Human whisper came,
The luckless Mould in which Mankind was cast
They did compose, and call'd him by the name.
In the final draught of the Third Edition it
was changed to read:
Listen—a moment listen!—Of the same
Poor Earth from which that Human Whisper came,
The luckless Mould in which Mankind was cast
They did compose, and call'd him by the name.
[195]
In the first draught of Third Edition quatrain
forty ran thus:
As then the Tulip from her wonted sup
Of Wine from Heav'n her little Tass lifts ups
Do you, twin offspring of the soil, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you like an empty cup.
The first draught of the Third Edition carried
quatrain forty-two as follows:
And if the Cup, and if the Lip you press,
End in what All begins and ends in—Yes;
Imagine then you are what heretofore
You were—hereafter you shall not be less.
[196]
Quatrain forty-eight in the first draught of
Third Edition read:
A Moment's Halt—a momentary taste
Of BEING from the Well amid the Waste—
Before the starting Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from—Oh, make haste!
In the final draught of Third Edition the
same stanza ran:
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!
[197]
In the first draught of the Third Edition, there
stood the following quatrain, later deleted:
Better, oh, better, cancel from the Scroll
Of Universe one luckless Human Soul,
Than drop by drop enlarge the Flood that rolls
Hoarser with Anguish as the Ages Roll.
Transcriber's Notes:
1. A Table of Contents has been created for this e-text where none
existed in the original work.
2. Because the nature of this work is to present and compare the several
translations, no spelling or end of sentence punctuation corrections
have been made in the Quatrains. The reader will encounter several
Quatrains that end without punctuation and the word "Paradist"
appearing in Quatrain LXXXI in the "Fifth Edition" may be a
typographical error for "Paradise," but has been retained as printed.
3. Spelling corrections made in Biographical Preface:
- p. xv, "Sufi" to "Súfi" (the great Súfi poet)
- p. xvi, "Schegel" to "Schlegel" (August Wilhelm von Schlegel)
- p. xvi, "strongely" to "strongly" (strongly illustrated by)
- p. xviii, "perfomed" to "performed" (could have performed)
4. Word Variations: ((x) shows number of occurences)
- "Irám" (1) and "Iram" (2)
- "Mahmúd" (5) and "Máhmúd" (3)
- "Péhleví" (1) and "Pehleví" (2)
- "Rubá'iyyát" (6) and "Rubáiyát" (7)
- "Shiráz" (1) and "Shiraz" (1)
- "Sultán" (15) and "Sultan" (4)
- "Worshipers" (1) and "Worshipper" (2)