Chapter 3

One Night The Shah of Yúnan, as his wont, Consider'd of his Power, and told his State, How great it was, and how about him sat The Robe of Honour of Prosperity; Then found he nothing wanted to his Heart, Unless a Son, who his Dominion And Glory might inherit after him, And then he turn'd him to The Shah and said; "Oh Thou, whose Wisdom is the Rule of Kings— (Glory to God who gave it!)—answer me; Is any Blessing better than a Son? Man's prime Desire; by which his Name and He Shall live beyond Himself; by whom his Eyes Shine living, and his Dust with Roses blows; A Foot for Thee to stand on, he shall be A Hand to stop thy Falling; in his Youth Thou shall be Young, and in his Strength be Strong; Sharp shall he be in Battle as a Sword, A Cloud of Arrows on the Enemy's Head; His Voice shall cheer his Friends to Plight, And turn the Foeman's Glory into Flight." Thus much of a Good Son, whose wholesome Growth Approves the Root he grew from; but for one Kneaded of Evil—Well, could one undo His Generation, and as early pull Him and his Vices from the String of Time. Like Noah's, puff'd with Ignorance and Pride, Who felt the Stab of "He is none of Thine!" And perish'd in the Deluge. And because All are not Good, be slow to pray for One Whom having you may have to pray to lose.

Crazy for the Curse of Children, Ran before the Sheikh a Fellow Crying out, "Oh hear and help me! Pray to Allah from my Clay To raise me up a fresh young Cypress, Who my Childless Eyes may lighten With the Beauty of his Presence." Said the Sheikh, "Be wise, and leave it Wholly in the Hand of Allah, Who, whatever we are after, Understands our Business best." But the Man persisted, saying, "Sheikh, I languish in my Longing; Help, and set my Prayer a-going!" Then the Sheikh held up his Hand— Pray'd—his Arrow flew to Heaven— From the Hunting-ground of Darkness Down a musky Fawn of China Brought—a Boy—Who, when the Tender Shoot of Passion in him planted Found sufficient Soil and Sap, Took to Drinking with his Fellows; From a Corner of the House-top Ill affronts a Neighbour's Wife, Draws his Dagger on the Husband, Who complains before the Justice, And the Father has to pay. Day and Night the Youngster's Doings Such—the Talk of all the City; Nor Entreaty, Threat, or Counsel Held him; till the Desperate Father Once more to the Sheikh a-running, Catches at his Garment, crying— "Sheikh, my only Hope and Helper! One more Prayer! that God who laid Will take that Trouble from my Head!" But the Sheikh replied: "Remember How that very Day I warn'd you Better not importune Allah; Unto whom remains no other Prayer, unless to pray for Pardon. When from this World we are summon'd On to bind the pack of Travel Son or Daughter ill shall help us; Slaves we are and unencumber'd Best may do the Master's mind; And, whatever he may order, Do it with a Will Resign'd."

VI.

When the Sharp-witted Sage Had heard these sayings of The Shah, he said, "Oh Shah, who would not be the Slave of Lust Must still endure the Sorrow of no Son. —Lust that makes blind the Reason; Lust that makes A Devil's self seem Angel to our Eyes; A Cataract that, carrying havoc with it, Confounds the prosperous House; a Road of Mire Where whoso falls he rises not again; A Wine of which whoever tastes shall see Redemption's face no more—one little Sip Of that delicious and unlawful Drink Making crave much, and hanging round the Palate Till it become a Ring to lead thee by (Putting the rope in a Vain Woman's hand), Till thou thyself go down the Way of Nothing. For what is Woman? A Foolish, Faithless Thing— To whom The Wise Self-subjected, himself Deep sinks beneath the Folly he sets up. A very Káfir in Rapacity; Clothe her a hundred Years in Gold and Jewel, Her Garment with Brocade of Susa braided, Her very Night-gear wrought in Cloth of Gold, Dangle her Ears with Ruby and with Pearl, Her House with Golden Vessels all a-blaze, Her Tables loaded with the Fruit of Kings, Ispahan Apples, Pomegranates of Yazd; And, be she thirsty, from a Jewell'd Cup Drinking the Water of the Well of Life— One little twist of Temper,—all you've done Goes all for Nothing. 'Torment of my Life!' She cries, 'What have you ever done for me!'— Her Brow's white Tablet—Yes—'tis uninscrib'd With any Letter of Fidelity; Who ever read it there? Lo, in your Bosom She lies for Years—you turn away a moment, And she forgets you—worse, if as you turn Her Eye should light on any Younger Lover."

Once upon the Throne of Judgment, Telling one another Secrets, Sat Sulayman and Balkís; The Hearts of Both were turn'd to Truth, Unsullied by Deception. First the King of Faith Sulayman Spoke—"Though mine the Ring of Empire, Never any Day that passes Darkens any one my Door-way But into his Hand I look— And He who comes not empty-handed Grows to Honour in mine Eyes." After this Balkís a Secret From her hidden Bosom utter'd, Saying—"Never Night or Morning Comely Youth before me passes Whom I look not longing after; Saying to myself, 'Oh were he Comforting of my Sick Soul!—'"

"If this, as wise Ferdúsi says, the Curse Of Better Women, what should be the Worse?"

VII.

The Sage his Satire ended; and The Shah With Magic-mighty Wisdom his pure Will Leaguing, its Self-fulfilment wrought from Heaven. And Lo! from Darkness came to Light A Child Of Carnal Composition Unattaint,— A Rosebud blowing on the Royal Stem,— A Perfume from the Realm of Wisdom wafted; The Crowning Jewel of the Crown; a Star Under whose Augury triumph'd the Throne. For whose Auspicious Name they clove the Words "Salámat"—Incolumity from Evil— And "Ausemán"—the Heav'n from which he came— And hail'd him by the title of Salámán. And whereas from no Mother Milk he drew, They chose for him a Nurse—her Name Absál— Her Years not Twenty—from the Silver Line Dividing the Musk-Harvest of her Hair Down to her Foot that trampled Crowns of Kings, A Moon of Beauty Full; who thus elect Salámán of Auspicious Augury Should carry in the Garment of her Bounty, Should feed him with the Flowing of her Breast. As soon as she had opened Eyes on him She closed those Eyes to all the World beside, And her Soul crazed, a-doting on her Jewel,— Her Jewel in a Golden Cradle set; Opening and shutting which her Day's Delight, To gaze upon his Heart-inflaming Cheek,— Upon the Darling whom, could she, she would Have cradled as the Baby of her Eye. In Rose and Musk she wash'd him—to his Lips Press'd the pure Sugar from the Honeycomb; And when, Day over, she withdrew her Milk, She made, and having laid him in, his Bed, Burn'd all Night like a Taper o'er his Head.

Then still as Morning came, and as he grew, She dress'd him like a Little Idol up; On with his Robe—with fresh Collyrium Dew Touch'd his Narcissus Eyes—the Musky Locks Divided from his Forehead—and embraced With Gold and Ruby Girdle his fine Waist.— So rear'd she him till full Fourteen his Years, Fourteen-day full the Beauty of his Face, That rode high in a Hundred Thousand Hearts; Yea, when Salámán was but Half-lance high, Lance-like he struck a wound in every One, And burn'd and shook down Splendour like a Sun.

VIII.

Soon as the Lord of Heav'n had sprung his Horse Over the Horizon into the Blue Field, Salámán rose drunk with the Wine of Sleep, And set himself a-stirrup for the Field; He and a Troop of Princes—Kings in Blood, Kings too in the Kingdom-troubling Tribe of Beauty, All Young in Years and Courage, Bat in hand Gallop'd a-field, toss'd down the Golden Ball And chased, so many Crescent Moons a Full; And, all alike Intent upon the Game, Salámán still would carry from them all The Prize, and shouting "Hál!" drive Home the Ball. This done, Salámán bent him as a Bow To Shooting—from the Marksmen of the World Call'd for an unstrung Bow—himself the Cord Fitted unhelpt, and nimbly with his hand Twanging made cry, and drew it to his Ear: Then, fixing the Three-feather'd Fowl, discharged. No point in Heaven's Azure but his Arrow Hit; nay, but Heaven were made of Adamant, Would overtake the Horizon as it roll'd; And, whether aiming at the Fawn a-foot, Or Bird on the wing, his Arrow went away Straight—like the Soul that cannot go astray.

When Night came, that releases man from Toil, He play'd the Chess of Social Intercourse; Prepared his Banquet Hall like Paradise, Summon'd his Houri-faced Musicians, And, when his Brain grew warm with Wine, the Veil Flung off him of Reserve. Now Lip to Lip Concerting with the Singer he would breathe Like a Messias Life into the Dead; Now made of the Melodious-moving Pipe A Sugar-cane between his Lips that ran Men's Ears with Sweetness: Taking up a Harp, Between its dry String and his Finger fresh Struck Fire; or lifting in his arms a Lute As if a little Child for Chastisement, Pinching its Ear such Cries of Sorrow wrung As drew Blood to the Eyes of Older Men. Now sang He like the Nightingale alone, Now set together Voice and Instrument; And thus with his Associates Night he spent.

His Soul rejoiced in Knowledge of all kinds; The fine Edge of his Wit would split a Hair, And in the Noose of Apprehension catch A Meaning ere articulate in Word; His Verse was like the Pleiads; his Discourse The Mourners of the Bier; his Penmanship, (Tablet and running Reed his Worshippers,) Fine on the Lip of Youth as the First Hair, Drove Penmen, as that Lovers, to Despair.

His Bounty was as Ocean's—nay, the Sea's Self but the Foam of his Munificence, For it threw up the Shell, but he the Pearl; He was a Cloud that rain'd upon the World Dirhems for Drops; the Banquet of whose Bounty Left Hátim's Churlish in Comparison—

IX.

Suddenly that Sweet Minister of mine Rebuked me angrily: "What Folly, Jámi, Wearing that indefatigable Pen In celebration of an Alien Shah Whose Throne, not grounded in the Eternal World, Yesterday was, To-day is not!" I answer'd; "Oh Fount of Light!—under an Alien Name I shadow One upon whose Head the Crown Both Was and Is To-day; to whose Firmán The Seven Kingdoms of the World are subject, And the Seas Seven but droppings of his Largess. Good luck to him who under other Name Taught us to veil the Praises of a Power To which the Initiate scarce find open Door."

Sat a Lover solitary Self-discoursing in a Corner, Passionate and ever-changing Invocation pouring out; Sometimes Sun and Moon; and sometimes Under Hyacinth half-hidden Roses; or the lofty Cypress, And the little Weed below. Nightingaling thus a Noodle Heard him, and, completely puzzled,— "What!" quoth he, "And you, a Lover, Raving not about your Mistress, But about the Moon and Roses!" Answer'd he; "Oh thou that aimest Wide of Love, and Lover's Language Wholly misinterpreting; Sun and Moon are but my Lady's Self, as any Lover knows; Hyacinth I said, and meant her Hair—her Cheek was in the Rose— And I myself the wretched Weed That in her Cypress Shadow grows."

X.

Now was Salámán in his Prime of Growth, His Cypress Stature risen to high Top, And the new-blooming Garden of his Beauty Began to bear; and Absál long'd to gather; But the Fruit grew upon too high a Bough, To which the Noose of her Desire was short. She too rejoiced in Beauty of her own No whit behind Salámán, whom she now Began enticing with her Sorcery. Now from her Hair would twine a musky Chain, To bind his Heart—now twist it into Curls Nestling innumerable Temptations; Doubled the Darkness of her Eyes with Surma To make him lose his way, and over them Adorn'd the Bows that were to shoot him then; Now to the Rose-leaf of her Cheek would add Fresh Rose, and then a Grain of Musk lay there, The Bird of the Belovéd Heart to snare. Now with a Laugh would break the Ruby Seal That lockt up Pearl; or busied in the Room Would smite her Hand perhaps—on that pretence To lift and show the Silver in her Sleeve; Or hastily rising clash her Golden Anclets To draw the Crownéd Head under her Feet. Thus by innumerable Bridal wiles She went about soliciting his Eyes, Which she would scarce let lose her for a Moment; For well she knew that mainly by the Eye Love makes his Sign, and by no other Road Enters and takes possession of the Heart.

Burning with desire Zulaikha Built a Chamber, Wall and Ceiling Blank as an untarnisht Mirror, Spotless as the Heart of Yúsuf. Then she made a cunning Painter Multiply her Image round it: Not an Inch of Wall but echoed With the Reflex of her Beauty. Then amid them all in all her Glory sat she down, and sent for Yúsuf—she began a Tale Of Love—and Lifted up her Veil. From her Look he turn'd, but turning Wheresoever, ever saw her Looking, looking at him still. Then Desire arose within him— He was almost yielding—almost Laying honey on her Lip— When a Signal out of Darkness Spoke to him—and he withdrew His Hand, and dropt the Skirt of Fortune.

XI.

Thus day by day did Absál tempt Salámán, And by and bye her Wiles began to work. Her Eyes Narcissus stole his sleep—their Lashes Pierc'd to his Heart—out from her Locks a Snake Bit him—and bitter, bitter on his Tongue Became the Memory of her honey Lip. He saw the Ringlet restless on her Cheek, And he too quiver'd with Desire; his Tears Turn'd Crimson from her Cheek, whose musky spot Infected all his soul with Melancholy. Love drew him from behind the Veil, where yet Withheld him better Resolution— "Oh, should the Food I long for, tasted, turn Unwholesome, and if all my Life to come Should sicken from one momentary Sweet!"

On the Sea-shore sat a Raven, Blind, and from the bitter Cistern Forc'd his only Drink to draw. Suddenly the Pelican Flying over Fortune's Shadow Cast upon his Head, and calling— "Come, poor Son of Salt, and taste of Sweet, sweet Water from my Maw." Said the Raven, "If I taste it Once, the Salt I have to live on May for ever turn to Loathing; And I sit a Bird accurst Upon the Shore to die of Thirst."

XII.

Now when Salámán's Heart turn'd to Absál, Her Star was happy in the Heavens—Old Love Put forth afresh—Desire doubled his Bond: And of the running Time she watch'd an Hour To creep into the Mansion of her Moon And satiate her soul upon his Lips. And the Hour came; she stole into his Chamber— Ran up to him, Life's offer in her Hand— And, falling like a Shadow at his Feet, She laid her Face beneath. Salámán then With all the Courtesies of Princely Grace Put forth his Hand—he rais'd her in his Arms— He held her trembling there—and from that Fount Drew first Desire; then Deeper from her Lips, That, yielding, mutually drew from his A Wine that ever drawn from never fail'd—

So through the Day—so through another still— The Day became a Seventh—the Seventh a Moon— The Moon a Year—while they rejoiced together, Thinking their pleasure never was to end. But rolling Heaven whisper'd from his Ambush, "So in my License is it not set down. Ah for the sweet Societies I make At Morning and before the Nightfall break; Ah for the Bliss that with the Setting Sun I mix, and, with his Rising, all is done!"

Into Bagdad came a hungry Arab—after many days of waiting In to the Khalífah's Supper Push'd, and got before a Pasty Luscious as the Lip of Beauty, Or the Tongue of Eloquence. Soon as seen, Indecent Hunger Seizes up and swallows down; Then his mouth undaunted wiping— "Oh Khalífah, hear me Swear, Not of any other Pasty Than of Thine to sup or dine." The Khalífah laugh'd and answer'd; "Fool; who thinkest to determine What is in the Hands of Fate— Take and thrust him from the Gate!"

XIII.

While a Full Year was counted by the Moon, Salámán and Absál rejoiced together, And for so long he stood not in the face Of Sage or Shah, and their bereavéd Hearts Were torn in twain with the Desire of Him. They question'd those about him, and from them Heard something; then Himself in Presence summon'd, And, subtly sifting on all sides, so plied Interrogation till it hit the Mark, And all the Truth was told. Then Sage and Shah Struck out with Hand and Foot in his Redress. And First with Reason, which is also Best; Reason that rights the Retrograde—completes The Imperfect—Reason that unties the Knot: For Reason is the Fountain from of old From which the Prophets drew, and none beside. Who boasts of other Inspiration lies— There are no other Prophets than The Wise.

XIV.

First spoke The Shah;—"Salámán, Oh my Soul, Oh Taper of the Banquet of my House, Light of the Eyes of my Prosperity, And making bloom the Court of Hope with Rose; Years Rose-bud-like my own Blood I devour'd Till in my hand I carried thee, my Rose; Oh do not tear my Garment from my Hand, Nor wound thy Father with a Dagger Thorn. Years for thy sake the Crown has worn my Brow, And Years my Foot been growing to the Throne Only for Thee—Oh spurn them not with Thine; Oh turn thy Face from Dalliance unwise, Lay not thy Heart's hand on a Minion! For what thy Proper Pastime? Is it not To mount and manage Rakhsh along the Field; Not, with no stouter weapon than a Love-lock, Idly reclining on a Silver Breast. Go, fly thine Arrow at the Antelope And Lion—let not me my Lion see Slain by the Arrow eyes of a Ghazál. Go, flash thy Steel among the Ranks of Men, And smite the Warriors' Necks; not, flying them, Lay down thine own beneath a Woman's Foot, Leave off such doing in the Name of God, Nor bring thy Father weeping to the Ground; Years have I held myself aloft, and all For Thee—Oh Shame if thou prepare my Fall!"

When before Shirúeh's Feet Drencht in Blood fell Kai Khusrau, He declared this Parable— "Wretch!—There was a Branch that, waxing Wanton o'er the Root he drank from, At a Draught the Living Water Drain'd wherewith Himself to crown! Died the Root—and with it died The Branch—and barren was brought down!"

XV.

Salámán heard—the Sea of his Soul was mov'd, And bubbled up with Jewels, and he said; "Oh Shah, I am the Slave of thy Desire, Dust of thy Throne ascending Foot am I; Whatever thou Desirest I would do, But sicken of my own Incompetence; Not in the Hand of my infirmer Will To carry into Deed mine own Desire. Time upon Time I torture mine own Soul, Devising liberation from the Snare I languish in. But when upon that Moon I _think_, my Soul relapses—and when _look_— I leave both Worlds behind to follow her!"

XVI.

The Shah ceased Counsel, and the Sage began. "Oh Thou new Vintage of a Garden old, Last Blazon of the Pen of 'Let There Be,' Who read'st the Seven and Four; interpretest The writing on the Leaves of Night and Day— Archetype of the Assembly of the World, Who hold'st the Key of Adam's Treasury— (Know thine own Dignity and slight it not, For Thou art Greater yet than all I tell)— The Mighty Hand that mix'd thy Dust inscribed The Character of Wisdom on thy Heart; O Cleanse Thy Bosom of Material Form, And turn the Mirror of the Soul to Spirit, Until it be with Spirit all possest, Drown'd in the Light of Intellectual Truth. Oh veil thine Eyes from Mortal Paramour, And follow not her Step!—For what is She?— What is She but a Vice and a Reproach, Her very Garment-hem Pollution! For such Pollution madden not thine Eyes, Waste not thy Body's Strength, nor taint thy Soul, Nor set the Body and the Soul in Strife! Supreme is thine Original Degree, Thy Star upon the Top of Heaven; but Lust Will fling it down even unto the Dust!"

Quoth a Muezzin unto Crested Chanticleer—"Oh Voice of Morning, Not a Sage of all the Sages Prophesies of Dawn, or startles At the wing of Time, like Thee. One so wise methinks were fitter Perching on the Beams of Heaven, Than with those poor Hens about him, Raking in a Heap of Dung." "And," replied the Cock, "in Heaven Once I was; but by my Evil Lust am fallen down to raking With my wretched Hens about me On the Dunghill. Otherwise I were even now in Eden With the Bird of Paradise."

XVII.

When from The Sage these words Salámán heard, The breath of Wisdom round his Palate blew; He said—"Oh Darling of the Soul of Plato, To whom a hundred Aristotles bow; Oh Thou that an Eleventh to the Ten Original Intelligences addest,— I lay my Face before Thee in the Dust, The humblest Scholar of thy Court am I; Whose every word I find a Well of Wisdom, And hasten to imbibe it in my Soul. But clear unto thy clearest Eye it is, That Choice is not within Oneself—To Do, Not in The Will, but in The Power, to Do. From that which I originally am How shall I swerve? or how put forth a Sign Beyond the Power that is by Nature Mine?"

XVIII.