Chapter 2

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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!"

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.

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."

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!

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 seemed—and then no more of Thee and Me.

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 the 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."

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!"

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!

XXXIX.

How long, how long, in definite Pursuit Of This and That endeavour and dispute? Better be merry with the fruitful Grape Than sadden 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.

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!

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 Máhmúd, 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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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 Parwín and Mushtara they flung, In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.

LV.

The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about It 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.

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!

* * * * *

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 that Earthern Lot Some could articulate, while others not: And suddenly one more impatient cried— "Who _is_ the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

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!"

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."

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 bye."

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!"

* * * * *

LXVII.

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash my Body whence the Life has died, And in a Winding-sheet 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.

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.

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!

LXXIII.

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!

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!

LXXV.

And when Thyself with shining Foot shalt 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.

SALÁMÁN

AND ABSÁL

JÁMI NOUREDDIN ABDURRAHMAN, Persian Poet, was born at Jam, in Khorassán, in 1414. His best known poems are "Yúsuf and Salikha," "Majnún and Laili," and "Salámán and Absál." In addition to his poetry, he wrote a History of the Sufí, and other prose works. He died in the year 1492. FitzGerald's translation of "Salámán and Absál" in Miltonic Verse was published anonymously in 1856.

SALÁMÁN AND ABSÁL

I.

PROLOGUE.

Oh Thou whose Memory quickens Lovers' Souls, Whose Fount of Joy renews the Lover's Tongue, Thy Shadow falls across the World, and They Bow down to it; and of the Rich in Beauty Thou art the Riches that make Lovers mad. Not till thy Secret Beauty through the Cheek Of Laila smite does she inflame Majnún, And not till Thou have sugar'd Shírín's Lip The Hearts of those Two Lovers fill with Blood. For Lov'd and Lover are not but by Thee, Nor Beauty;—Mortal Beauty but the Veil Thy Heavenly hides behind, and from itself Feeds, and our Hearts yearn after as a Bride That glances past us Veil'd—but ever so As none the Beauty from the Veil may know. How long wilt thou continue thus the World To cozen with the Fantom of a Veil From which Thou only peepest?—Time it is To unfold thy perfect Beauty. I would be Thy Lover, and Thine only—I, mine Eyes Seal'd in the Light of Thee to all but Thee, Yea, in the Revelation of Thyself Self-Lost, and Conscience-quit of Good and Evil. Thou movest under all the Forms of Truth, Under the Forms of all Created Things; Look whence I will, still nothing I discern But Thee in all the Universe, in which Thyself Thou dost invest, and through the Eyes Of Man, the subtle Censor scrutinize. To thy Harím Dividuality No Entrance finds—no Word of This and That; Do Thou my separate and Derivéd Self Make one with Thy Essential! Leave me room On that Diván which leaves no Room for Two; Lest, like the Simple Kurd of whom they tell, I grow perplext, Oh God! 'twixt "I" and "Thou;" If I—this Dignity and Wisdom whence? If Thou—then what this abject Impotence?

A Kurd perplext by Fortune's Frolics Left his Desert for the City. Sees a City full of Noise and Clamour, agitated People, Hither, Thither, Back and Forward Running, some intent on Travel, Others home again returning, Right to Left, and Left to Right, Life-disquiet everywhere! Kurd, when he beholds the Turmoil, Creeps aside, and, Travel-weary, Fain would go to Sleep; "But," saith he, "How shall I in all this Hubbub Know myself again on waking?" So by way of Recognition Ties a Pumpkin round his Foot, And turns to Sleep. A Knave that heard him Crept behind, and slily watching Slips the Pumpkin off the Sleeper's Ancle, ties it round his own, And so down to sleep beside him. By and by the Kurd awaking Looks directly for his Signal— Sees it on another's Ancle— Cries aloud, "Oh Good-for-Nothing Rascal to perplex me so! That by you I am bewilder'd, Whether I be I or no! If I—the Pumpkin why on You? If You—then Where am I, and Who?"

Oh God! this poor bewilder'd Kurd am I, Than any Kurd more helpless!—Oh, do thou Strike down a Ray of Light into my Darkness! Turn by thy Grace these Dregs into pure Wine, To recreate the Spirits of the Good! Or if not that, yet, as the little Cup Whose Name I go by, not unworthy found To pass thy salutary Vintage round!

II.

And yet how long, Jámi, in this Old House Stringing thy Pearls upon a Harp of Song? Year after Year striking up some new Song, The Breath of some Old Story? Life is gone, And yet the Song is not the Last; my Soul Is spent—and still a Story to be told! And I, whose Back is crookéd as the Harp I still keep tuning through the Night till Day! That Harp untun'd by Time—the Harper's hand Shaking with Age—how shall the Harper's hand Repair its cunning, and the sweet old Harp Be modulated as of old? Methinks 'Tis time to break and cast it in the Fire; Yea, sweet the Harp that can be sweet no more, To cast it in the Fire—the vain old Harp That can no more sound Sweetness to the Ear, But burn'd may breathe sweet Attar to the Soul, And comfort so the Faith and Intellect, Now that the Body looks to Dissolution. My Teeth fall out—my two Eyes see no more Till by Feringhi Glasses turn'd to Four; Pain sits with me sitting behind my knees, From which I hardly rise unhelpt of hand; I bow down to my Root, and like a Child Yearn, as is likely, to my Mother Earth, With whom I soon shall cease to moan and weep, And on my Mother's Bosom fall asleep.

The House in Ruin, and its Music heard No more within, nor at the Door of Speech, Better in Silence and Oblivion To fold me Head and Foot, remembering What that Beloved to the Master whisper'd:— "No longer think of Rhyme, but think of Me!"— Of Whom?—of Him whose Palace The Soul is, And Treasure-House—who notices and knows Its Incomes and Out-going, and _then_ comes To fill it when the Stranger is departed. Whose Shadow—being Kings—whose Attributes The Type of Theirs—their Wrath and Favour His— Lo! in the Celebration of His Glory The King Himself come on me unaware, And suddenly arrests me for his own. Wherefore once more I take—best quitted else— The Field of Verse, to chaunt that double Praise, And in that Memory refresh my Soul Until I grasp the Skirt of Living Presence.

One who travel'd in the Desert Saw Majnún where he was sitting All alone like a Magician Tracing Letters in the Sand. "Oh distracted Lover! writing What the Sword-wind of the Desert Undecyphers soon as written, So that none who travels after Shall be able to interpret!"— Majnún answer'd, "I am writing 'Laili'—were it only 'Laili,' Yet a Book of Love and Passion; And with but her Name to dote on, Amorously I caress it As it were Herself and sip Her presence till I drink her Lip."

III.

When Night had thus far brought me with my Book, In middle Thought Sleep robb'd me of myself; And in a Dream Myself I seemed to see, Walking along a straight and even Road, And clean as is the Soul of the Sufí; A Road whose spotless Surface neither Breeze Lifted in Dust, nor mix'd the Rain to Mire. There I, methought, was pacing tranquilly, When, on a sudden, the tumultuous Shout Of Soldiery behind broke on mine Ear, And took away my Wit and Strength for Fear. I look'd about for Refuge, and Behold! A Palace was before me; whither running For Refuge from the coming Soldiery, Suddenly from the Troop a Sháhzemán, By Name and Nature Hasan—on the Horse Of Honour mounted—robed in Royal Robes, And wearing a White Turban on his Head, Turn'd his Rein tow'rd me, and with smiling Lips Open'd before my Eyes the Door of Peace. Then, riding up to me, dismounted; kiss'd My Hand, and did me Courtesy; and I, How glad of his Protection, and the Grace He gave it with!—Who then of gracious Speech Many a Jewel utter'd; but of these Not one that in my Ear till Morning hung. When, waking on my Bed, my waking Wit I question'd what the Vision meant, it answered; "This Courtesy and Favour of the Shah Foreshadows the fair Acceptance of thy Verse, Which lose no moment pushing to Conclusion." This hearing, I address'd me like a Pen To steady Writing; for perchance, I thought, From the same Fountain whence the Vision grew The Interpretation also may come True.

Breathless ran a simple Rustic To a Cunning Man of Dreams; "Lo, this Morning I was dreaming— And methought, in yon deserted Village wander'd—all about me Shatter'd Houses—and, Behold! Into one, methought, I went—and Search'd—and found a Hoard of Gold!" Quoth the Prophet in Derision, "Oh Thou Jewel of Creation Go and sole your Feet like Horse's, And returning to your Village Stamp and scratch with Hoof and Nail, And give Earth so sound a Shaking, She must hand you something up." Went at once the unsuspecting Countryman; with hearty Purpose Set to work as he was told; And, the very first Encounter, Struck upon his Hoard of Gold!

Until Thou hast thy Purpose by the Hilt, Catch at it boldly—or Thou never wilt.

IV.

THE STORY.

A Shah there was who ruled the Realm of Yún, And wore the Ring of Empire of Sikander; And in his Reign A Sage, who had the Tower Of Wisdom of so strong Foundation built That Wise Men from all Quarters of the World To catch the Word of Wisdom from his Lip Went in a Girdle round him—Which The Shah Observing, took him to his Secresy; Stirr'd not a Step nor set Design a-foot Without that Sage's sanction; till so counsel'd, From Káf to Káf reach'd his Dominion: No Nation of the World or Nation's Chief Who wore the Ring but under span of his Bow'd down the Neck; then rising up in Peace Under his Justice grew, and knew no Wrong, And in their Strength was his Dominion Strong.

The Shah that has not Wisdom in Himself, Nor has a Wise Man for his Counsellor, The Wand of his Authority falls short, And his Dominion crumbles at the Base. For he, discerning not the Characters Of Tyranny and Justice, confounds both, Making the World a Desert, and the Fount Of Justice a Seráb. Well was it said, "_Better just Káfir than Believing Tyrant_."

God said to the Prophet David,— "David, speak, and to the Challenge Answer of the Faith within Thee. Even Unbelieving Princes, Ill-reported if Unworthy, Yet, if They be Just and Righteous, Were their Worship of The Fire— Even These unto Themselves Reap glory and redress the World."

V.