Part 2

Once in my way an Arab story came Relating how a poet, drugged with wine, Watched from the tavern door where the divine Pale moon lit all the sky with silver flame; And crying, ‘By Allah’s eternal name, I swear that argent splendour shall be mine!’ Leaped, clutching at the sky, and rolled supine A muddy rascal, steeped in mire and shame. This is our common madness. Am not I Moon-haunted by thy beauty? Yet I stand No farther from the empress of the sky Than from one touch of thy all-conquering hand; And though my songs made all the heavens sigh, I know you will not pity, nor understand.

_A NIGHT-PIECE._

Once at night I paced my garden, seeking--but I sought in vain-- From the perfume of the roses balsam for my burning brain;

For through all that dusk the circle of a single damask bloom Shone more brightly than the cresset on a true believer’s tomb;

And so haughty in the splendour of her beauty burned this rose, That she banished from the bosom of the nightingale repose,

While the eyes of sad narcissus floated o’er with loving tears, And the tulip bared her bosom wounded by a thousand spears.

Vainly then the lily offered to console the poet’s care, Vainly too the violet pleaded, ‘Are no other blossoms fair?’

Since the only potent rival of the rose tree is the vine, Let me drown my hopeless passion in the Seven Seas of wine.

‘Hafiz, I conjure thee, from the rose tree pluck thy heart away.’ Lo, the message is delivered, and the bearer speeds away.

_FALLEN ANGELS._

’Tis written in the Writing how a pair Of angels dwelt with children of the dust, And judged between the just and the unjust; Loyal to God, until a woman, fair As sun or stars, entangled in her hair The hearts of those twin angels, and dark lust Consumed them, till they whispered, ‘Surely must We temper justice to a thing so rare.’ God punished those false angels, yet if I Were placed like them upon some judgment-seat Speaking the law, and you came wandering by, One smile of yours would fling me at your feet Crying, ‘Have pity upon me, O most sweet! Do with me as you will, and let me die.’

_PRAISE OF WINE._

Once again the ruddy vintage storms the chambers of my brain, Steals my senses with its kisses, steals and yet shall steal again;

But I do not blame the grape’s blood for the vengeances it wreaks When it plants its purple standard on the stronghold of my cheeks.

May Allah confer his blessing on the hands that pluck the grape, May their footsteps never fail who tread its clusters out of shape.

Since the love of wine was written by Fate’s finger on my brow, What is written once is written, and you cannot change it now;

Talk no babble about wisdom: in the awful hour of death, Is the breath of Aristotle better than the beggar’s breath?

Spare me, pious friend, reproaches, for the selfsame God who chose You to be so wise and pious, made me love the wine and rose.

Hafiz, spend thy life so wisely that when thou at last art dead, ‘Dead’ may not be all the comment, all the requiem that’s said.

_HAROUN ER-RASHEED’S POET._

Khalifah Haroun, surnamed Er-Rasheed, In the calm evening of a festal day, Ordered his bard, Abu-l’Atahiyeh, To praise the life it pleased his lord to lead.

The poet bowed and stirred the silver wires, And sang, ‘Khalifah, peace and pleasure wait Within the shadow of your palace gate, And deep fulfilment of your heart’s desires.’

Said Haroun, smiling, ‘Here is silver speech That shall be sealed with silver; speak again, And find my bounty boundless as the main Which knows, so poets say, no further beach.’

Again the poet’s voice and lute allied, ‘Let not the day star nor the night star shine Upon the hour that leaves a wish of thine, Thy lightest wish, Haroun, ungratified.’

Still Haroun smiled, ‘This time thy words are gold, And shall be guerdoned with a golden fee; Sing on, sweet voice, sing on and comfort me, Nor ever fear to find thy master cold.’

Then sang Abu-l’Atahiyeh aloud, ‘In those dark moments when thy faltering breath Shall strive in vain against all-conquering death, These things shall seem like shadows on a shroud.’

There fell a fearful silence on the place, While the scared guests saw Haroun from his throne Frown at the bard, and then, with a deep groan, Hide in his trembling hands his weeping face.

Straightway a supple courtier standing by Cried to the singer, ‘Blasted be the throat Which frights our master with a boding note In lieu of mirthful music; look to die.’

‘Nay,’ Haroun whispered, ‘do not blame the bard; He saw our soul benighted, and, like wind, Dispersed the veil of error. Let him find My richest gems too poor for his reward.’

_GHAZEL._

If the gracious girl I worship would but take my heart in hand, I would give her for her beauty Ispahan and Samarcand.

But this lass, the very fairest trouble of our tranquil town, Plucks all patience from my bosom, lifts my hopes to laugh them down.

She has slandered me, so be it; I forgive her, speaking sooth, For the harshest words fall softly from the scarlet lips of youth;

Yet I dare not call her cruel, though she does me grievous wrong, For what lovely face is flattered by the proudest poet’s song?

Fill, then, friend, while wine remaineth, for in Paradise, dear lad, We shall sigh for Mosellay and weep the waves of Rocknabad.

Speak of wine and song and women; cease, I pray, to seek in vain, What that mystery most mystic called to-morrow may contain.

String thy pearls and sing them, Hafiz, for from heaven’s golden bars God has shed upon thy verses all the sweetness of the stars.

_THE GRAVE OF OMAR-I-KHAYYAM._

I, named Nizami, child of Samarcand, The holy place whose towers aspire to heaven, Whose domes are blue as heaven’s inverted cup, The consecrated shrine, head of Islam, Whose heart is at Meccah, the happy spot Where bloom the gardens of the Heart’s Delight, Where in the house upon the Shepherd’s Hill Wise men pursue the pathway of the stars-- I, even Nizami, write this record down In God’s name, merciful, compassionate, A proof of his compassion. When my youth Burned in my body like a new-fed flame, When wisdom seemed an easy flower to pluck, And knowledge fruit that ripens in a day; Ah me! that merry When so long ago I was a pupil of that man of men, Omar, the tent-maker of Naishapur, That is Khorassan’s crown, Omar the wise, Whose wisdom read the golden laws of life, And made them ours for ever in his songs, Omar the star-gazer. One day by chance, I taxing all my student’s store of wit With thought of is and is not, good and bad, And fondly dreaming that my fingers soon Would close upon the key of heaven and earth, I met my master in a garden walk, Musing as was his wont, I knew not what, Perhaps some better mode of marshalling Those daily soldiers of the conquering years, Perchance some subtler science which the stars Ciphered in fire upon the vaulted sky For him alone, perchance on some rare rhymes Pregnant with mighty thoughts, or on some girl, Star-eyed and cypress-slender, tulip-cheeked And jasmine-bosomed, for he loved such well, And deemed it wisdom. Omar saw me not, And would have passed me curtained in his thoughts; But I, perked up with youthful consequence At mine own wisdom, plucked him by the sleeve, And with grave salutation, as befits The pupil to the master, stayed his course And craved his patience. Omar gazed at me With the grave sweetness which his servants loved, And gave me leave to speak, which I, on fire To tell the thing I thought, made haste to do, And poured my babble in the master’s ear Of solving human doubt. When I had done, And, panting, looked into my master’s eyes To read therein approval of my plan, He turned his head, and for a little while Waited in silence, while my petulant mind Galloped again the course of argument And found no flaw, all perfect. Still he stood Silent, and I, the riddle-reader, vexed At long-delayed approval, touched again His sleeve, and with impatient reverence Said, ‘Master, speak, that I may garner up In scented manuscripts the thoughts of price That fall from Omar’s lips.’ He smiled again In sweet forgiveness of my turbulent mood, And with a kindly laughter in his eyes He said, ‘I have been thinking, when I die, That I should like to slumber where the wind May heap my tomb with roses.’ So he spoke, And then with thoughtful face and quiet tread He past and left me staring, most amazed At such a pearl from such a sea of thought, And marvelling that great philosophers Can pay so little sometimes heed to truth When truth is thrust before them. God be praised! I am wiser now, and grasp no golden key.

Years came and went, and Omar passed away, First from those garden walks of Samarcand Where he and I so often watched the moon Silver the bosoms of the cypresses, And so from out the circle of my life, And in due season out of life itself; And his great name became a memory That clung about me like the scent of flowers Beloved in boyhood, and the wheeling years Ground pleasure into dust beneath my feet; And so the world wagged till there came a day When I that had been young and was not young, I found myself in Naishapur, and there Bethought me of my master dead and gone, And the musk-scented preface of my youth. Then to myself I said, ‘Nizami, rise And seek the tomb of Omar.’ So I sought, And after seeking found, and, lo! it lay Beyond a garden full of roses, full As the third heaven is full of happy eyes; And every wind that whispered through the trees Scattered a heap of roses on his grave; Yea, roses leaned, and from their odorous hearts Rained petals on his marble monument, Crimson as lips of angels. Then my mind, Sweeping the desert of departed years, Leaped to that garden speech in Samarcand, The cypress grove, my fretful questioning, And the mild beauty of my master’s face. Then I knelt down and glorified Allah, Who is compassionate and merciful, That of his boundless mercy he forgave This singing sinner; for I surely knew That all the leaves of every rose that dripped Its tribute on the tomb where Omar sleeps, Were tears and kisses that should smooth away His record of offence; for Omar sinned, Since Omar was a man. He wished to sleep Beneath a veil of roses; Heaven heard, Forgave, and granted, and the perfumed pall Hides the shrine’s whiteness. Glory to Allah!

_OMAR ANSWERS._

Now by the memory of Kai Khosru, Of Kaikobad, of Zal and Rustem too, O English singer rousing me from sleep, The student of the stars will answer you.

For what avails it cycles to have lain Since first the roses gushed their scented rain Upon my grave in Naishapur if men In the world’s winter take my name in vain?

Through piled-up earth and ages echoes reach My tranquil slumbers of an alien speech, Blown over seas wherein strange doctors preach Strange sermons on the things I thought to teach.

For, misinterpreting the songs I sung, By vain desire and vain ambition stung, O for one hour of that lost age! they cry, That golden age when old Khayyam was young.

Fools who believe the world was otherwise Than what it now is in the Persian’s eyes, Or think the secret of content was found Beneath the canopy of Persian skies.

Man is to-day what man was yesterday-- Will be to-morrow; let him curse or pray, Drink or be dull, he learns not nor shall learn The lesson that will laugh the world away.

The world as grey or just as golden shows, The wine as sweet or just as bitter flows, For you as me; and you, like me, may find Perfume or canker in the reddest rose.

The tale of life is hard to understand; But while the cup waits ready to your hand, Drink and declare the summer roses blow As red in London as in Samarcand.

Lips are as sweet to kiss and eyes as bright As ever fluttered Omar with delight; English or Persian, while the mouth is fair, What can it matter how it says good-night?

Whether the legend in the Book of Youth Runs left or right, it reads a prayer for ruth; The music of the bird upon the bough Meant, and still means, no more nor less than truth.

The wisdom of the wisest of the wise Is but the pinch of powder in the eyes Thrown by the fingers of the fiend, that we True things from false may fail to recognise.

And not a pang which vexes human flesh, And not a problem which the Sufis thresh, But scared my body or perplexed my soul, And what I felt each man must feel afresh.

So, brother, by Allah! forbear to weep: Life is a wine which you may drink as deep As ever I did, for the hour will come When you, like old Khayyam, will fall asleep.

Therefore, O northern singer! prithee cease To vex my sprite with questions. Know, thy lease Was by the selfsame Master made as mine; Be patient, then, and let me sleep in peace.

ﺗﻢ ﺍﻟﻜﺘﺎﺏ‏

PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON

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Transcriber’s note:

Unusual, archaic and obsolete spellings have not been changed. The only change made in the text was to add the Dedication and the Transcriber’s Note to the Table of Contents.

The Persian phrase on the title page is a line from one of the Ghazels of Hafiz, which might be translated as: ‘If my hand cannot reach your trailing tress the fault lies in my own ill-starred fate and stumpy arm.’ The Persian phrase at the end of the book means ‘The end of the book.’ Persian transliteration and translations by Matthew Melvin-Koushki.