Part 34

Ah, but my Computations, People say, Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay, 'Twas only striking from the Calendar Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!

The Grape that can with Logic absolute The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute: The Sovereign Alchemist that in a trice Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:

The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord, That all the misbelieving and black Horde Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.

Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare? A Blessing, we should use it, should we not? And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?

I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must, Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust, Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink, To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!

Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! One thing at least is certain--This Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too.

The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd, Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.

I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell: And by and by my Soul return'd to me, And answered, "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire, Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.

We are no other than a moving row Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays Upon this Checker-board of Nights and Days; Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, But Here or There as strikes the Player goes; And He that toss'd you down into the Field, _He_ knows about it all--HE knows--HE knows!

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to _It_ for help--for It As impotently moves as you or I.

With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead, And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed: And the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare; To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair: Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why: Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

I tell you this--When, started from the Goal, Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal Of Heav'n Parwín and Mushtarí they flung, In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul

The Vine had struck a fibre: which about If clings my Being--let the Dervish flout; Of my Base metal may be filed a Key, That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

And this I know: whether the one True Light Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite, One Flash of It within the Tavern caught Better than in the Temple lost outright.

What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke A conscious Something to resent the yoke Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!

What! from his helpless Creature be repaid Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd-- Sue for a Debt he never did contract, And cannot answer--Oh the sorry trade!

Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin Beset the Road I was to wander in, Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!

O Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake: For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!

As under cover of departing Day Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazán away, Once more within the Potter's house alone I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.

Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small, That stood along the floor and by the wall; And some loquacious Vessels were; and some Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.

Said one among them--"Surely not in vain My substance of the common Earth was ta'en And to this Figure moulded, to be broke, Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."

Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy; And He that with his hand the Vessel made Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."

After a momentary silence spake Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make; "They sneer at me for leaning all awry: What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot-- I think a Súfi pipkin--waxing hot-- "All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me, then, Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

"Why," said another, "some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 't will all be well."

"Well," murmur'd one, "let whoso make or buy, My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry: But fill me with the old familiar Juice, Methinks I might recover by and by."

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking, The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking: And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother! Now for the Potter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, And wash the Body whence the Life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side.

That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air As not a True-believer passing by But shall be overtaken unaware.

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in this World much wrong: Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup, And sold my Reputation for a Song.

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore--but was I sober when I swore? And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My threadbare Penitence apieces tore.

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel, And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor--Well, I wonder often what the Vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

Yet ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close! The Nightingale that in the branches sang, Ah whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd, To which the fainting Traveller might spring, As springs the trampled herbage of the field!

Would but some wingèd Angel ere too late Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate, And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate!

Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would not we shatter it to bits--and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-- How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden--and for _one_ in vain!

And when like her, oh Sákí, you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass!

THE DIVAN

BY HÁFIZ

[_Translation by H. Bicknell_]

NOTE

The reader will be struck with the apparent want of unity in many of the Odes. The Orientals compare each couplet to a single pearl and the entire "Ghazal," or Ode, to a string of pearls. It is the rhyme, not necessarily the sense, which links them together. Hence the single pearls or couplets may often be arranged in various orders without injury to the general effect; and it would probably be impossible to find two manuscripts either containing the same number of Odes, or having the same couplets following each other in the same order.

INTRODUCTION

We are told in the Persian histories that when Tamerlane, on his victorious progress through the East, had reached Shiraz, he halted before the gates of the city and sent two of his followers to search in the bazar for a certain dervish Muhammad Shams-ad-din, better known to the world by the name of Háfiz. And when this man of religion, wearing the simple woollen garment of a Sufi, was brought into the presence of the great conqueror, he was nothing abashed at the blaze of silks and jewelry which decorated the pavilion where Tamerlane sat in state. And Tamerlane, meeting the poet with a frown of anger, said, "Art not thou the insolent verse-monger who didst offer my two great cities Samarkand and Bokhara for the black mole upon thy lady's cheek?" "It is true," replied Háfiz calmly, smiling, "and indeed my munificence has been so great throughout my life, that it has left me destitute, so that I shall be hereafter dependent upon thy generosity for a livelihood." The reply of the poet, as well as his imperturbable self-possession, pleased the Asiatic Alexander, and he dismissed Háfiz with a liberal present.

This story, we are told, cannot be true, for Tamerlane did not reach Shiraz until after the death of the greatest of Persian lyric poets; but if it is not true in fact, it is true in spirit, and gives the real key to the character of Háfiz. For we must look upon Háfiz as one of the few poets in the world who utters an unbroken strain of joy and contentment. His poverty was to him a constant fountain of satisfaction, and he frankly took the natural joys of life as they came, supported under every vicissitude by his religious sense of the goodness and kindliness of the One God, manifested in everything in the world that was sweet and genial, and beautiful to behold. It is strange that we have to go to the literature of Persia to find a poet whose deep religious convictions were fully reconciled with the theory of human existence which was nothing more or less than an optimistic hedonism. There is nothing parallel to this in classic literature. The greatest of Roman Epicureans, the materialist, whose maxim was: enjoy the present for there is no God, and no to-morrow, speaks despairingly of that drop of bitterness, which rises in the fountain of Delight and brings torture, even amid the roses of the feast. It is with mocking irony that Dante places Epicurus in the furnace-tombs of his Inferno amid those heresiarchs who denied the immortality of the soul. Háfiz was an Epicurean without the atheism or the despair of Epicurus. The roses in his feast are ever fresh and sweet and there is nothing of bitterness in the perennial fountain of his Delight. This unruffled serenity, this joyful acceptance of material existence and its pleasures are not in the Persian poet the result of the carelessness and shallowness of Horace, or the cold-blooded worldliness and sensuality of Martial. The theory of life which Háfiz entertained was founded upon the relation of the human soul to God. The one God of Sufism was a being of exuberant benignity, from whose creative essence proceeded the human soul, whose experiences on earth were intended to fit it for re-entrance into the circle of light and re-absorption into the primeval fountain of being. In accordance with the beautiful and pathetic imagery of the Mystic, life was merely a journey of many stages, and every manifestation of life which the traveller met on the high road was a manifestation and a gift of God Himself. Every stage on the journey towards God which the soul made in its religious experience was like a wayside inn in which to rest awhile before resuming the onward course. The pleasures of life, all that charmed the eye, all that gratified the senses, every draught that intoxicated, and every fruit that pleased the palate, were, in the pantheistic doctrine of the Sufi considered as equally good, because God was in each of them, and to partake of them was therefore to be united more closely with God. Never was a theology so well calculated to put to rest the stings of doubt or the misgivings of the pleasure-seeker. This theology is of the very essence of Háfiz's poetry. It is in full reliance on this interpretation of the significance of human existence that Háfiz faces the fierce Tamerlane with a placid smile, plunges without a qualm into the deepest abysses of pleasure, finds in the love-song of the nightingale the voice of God, and in the bright eyes of women and the beaker brimming with crimson wine the choicest sacraments of life, the holiest and the most sublime intermediaries between divine and human life.

It is this that makes Háfiz almost the only poet of unadulterated gladsomeness that the world has ever known. There is no shadow in his sky, no discord in his music, no bitterness in his cup. He passes through life like a happy pilgrim, singing all the way, mounting in his own way from strength to strength, sure of a welcome when he reaches the goal, contented with himself, because every manifestation of life of which he is conscious must be the stirrings within him of that divinity of which he is a portion. When we have thus spoken of Háfiz we have said almost all that is known of the Persian lyric poet, for to know Háfiz we must read his verses, whose magic charm is as great for Europeans as for Asiatics. The endless variety of his expressions, the deep earnestness of his convictions, the persistent gayety of his tone, are qualities of irresistible attractiveness. Even to this day his tomb is visited as the Mecca of literary pilgrims, and his numbers are cherished in the memory and uttered on the tongue of all educated Persians. The particulars of his life may be briefly epitomized as follows: He was born at Shiraz in the early part of the fourteenth century, dying in the year 1388. The name Háfiz means, literally, the man who remembers, and was applied to himself by Háfiz from the fact that he became a professor of the Mohammedan scriptures, and for this purpose had committed to memory the text of the Koran. His manner of life was not approved of by the dervishes of the monastic college in which he taught, and he satirizes his colleagues in revenge for their animadversions. The whole Mohammedan world hailed with delight the lyrics which Háfiz published to the world, and kings and rulers vied with each other in making offers to him of honors and hospitality. At one time he started for India on the invitation of a great Southern Prince, who sent a vessel to meet him on the way, but the hardships of the sea were too severe for him, and he made his way back to Shiraz without finishing his journey.

His out-and-out pantheism, as well as his manner of life, caused him at his death to be denied burial in consecrated ground. The ecclesiastical authorities were, however, induced to relent in their plan of excommunication at the dictates of a passage from the poet's writings, which was come upon by opening the book at random. The passage ran as follows: "Turn not thy feet from the bier of Háfiz, for though immersed in sin, he will be admitted into Paradise." And so he rests in the cemetery at Shiraz, where the nightingales are singing and the roses bloom the year through, and the doves gather with low murmurs amid the white stones of the sacred enclosure. The poets of nature, the mystical pantheist, the joyous troubadour of life, Háfiz, in the naturalness and spontaneity of his poetry, and in the winning sweetness of his imagery, occupies a unique place in the literature of the world, and has no rival in his special domain.

FRAGMENT BY HÁFIZ

_In Praise of His Verses_.

The beauty of these verses baffles praise: What guide is needed to the solar blaze? Extol that artist by whose pencil's aid The virgin, Thought, so richly is arrayed. For her no substitute can reason show, Nor any like her human judgment know. This verse, a miracle, or magic white-- Brought down some voice from Heaven, or Gabriel bright? By me as by none else are secrets sung, No pearls of poesy like mine are strung.

THE DIVAN

I

"Alá yá ayyuha's-Sákí!"--pass round and offer thou the bowl, For love, which seemed at first so easy, has now brought trouble to my soul.

With yearning for the pod's aroma, which by the East that lock shall spread From that crisp curl of musky odor, how plenteously our hearts have bled!

Stain with the tinge of wine thy prayer-mat, if thus the aged Magian bid, For from the traveller from the Pathway[1] no stage nor usage can be hid.

Shall my beloved one's house delight me, when issues ever and anon From the relentless bell the mandate: "'Tis time to bind thy litters on"?

The waves are wild, the whirlpool dreadful, the shadow of the night steals o'er, How can my fate excite compassion in the light-burdened of the shore?

Each action of my froward spirit has won me an opprobrious name; Can any one conceal the secret which the assembled crowds proclaim?

If Joy be thy desire, O Háfiz, From Him far distant never dwell. "As soon as thou hast found thy Loved one, Bid to the world a last farewell."

II

Thou whose features clearly-beaming make the moon of Beauty bright, Thou whose chin contains a well-pit[2] which to Loveliness gives light.

When, O Lord! shall kindly Fortune, sating my ambition, pair This my heart of tranquil nature and thy wild and ruffled hair?

Pining for thy sight my spirit trembling on my lip doth wait: Forth to speed it, back to lead it, speak the sentence of its fate.

Pass me with thy skirt uplifted from the dusty bloody ground: Many who have been thy victims dead upon this path are found.

How this heart is anguish-wasted let my heart's possessor know: Friends, your souls and mine contemplate, equal by their common woe.

Aught of good accrues to no one witched by thy Narcissus eye: Ne'er let braggarts vaunt their virtue, if thy drunken orbs are nigh.

Soon my Fortune sunk in slumber shall her limbs with vigor brace: Dashed upon her eye is water, sprinkled by thy shining face.

Gather from thy cheek a posy, speed it by the flying East; Sent be perfume to refresh me from thy garden's dust at least.

Háfiz offers a petition, listen, and "Amen" reply: "On thy sugar-dropping rubies let me for life's food rely."

Many a year live on and prosper, Sákís of the court of Jem,[3] E'en though I, to fill my wine-cup, never to your circle come.

East wind, when to Yazd thou wingest, say thou to its sons from me: "May the head of every ingrate ball-like 'neath your mall-bat be!"

"What though from your dais distant, near it by my wish I seem; Homage to your Ring I render, and I make your praise my theme."

Sháh of Shahs, of lofty planet, Grant for God what I implore; Let me, as the sky above thee, Kiss the dust which strews thy floor.

V

Up, Sákí!--let the goblet flow; Strew with dust the head of our earthly woe!

Give me thy cup; that, joy-possessed, I may tear this azure cowl from my breast,[4]

The wise may deem me lost to shame, But no care have I for renown or name.

Bring wine!--how many a witless head By the wind of pride has with dust been spread!

My bosom's fumes, my sighs so warm, Have inflamed yon crude and unfeeling swarm.[5]

This mad heart's secret, well I know, Is beyond the thoughts of both high and low.

E'en by that sweetheart charmed am I, Who once from my heart made sweetness fly.

Who that my Silvern Tree hath seen, Would regard the cypress that decks the green?[6]

In grief be patient, Night and day, Till thy fortune, Háfiz, Thy wish obey.

VI

My heart no longer brooks my hand: sages, aid for God my woe! Else, alas! my secret-deep soon the curious world must know.

The bark we steer has stranded: O breeze auspicious swell: We yet may see once more the Friend we love so well.

The ten days' favor of the Sphere--magic is; a tale which lies! Thou who wouldst befriend thy friends, seize each moment ere it flies.

At night, 'mid wine and flowers, the bulbul tuned his song: "Bring thou the morning bowl: prepare, ye drunken throng!"

Sikander's mirror, once so famed, is the wine-filled cup: behold All that haps in Dárá's realm glassed within its wondrous mould.[7]

O bounteous man, since Heaven sheds o'er thee blessings mild, Inquire, one day at least, how fares Misfortune's child.

What holds in peace this twofold world, let this twofold sentence show: "Amity to every friend, courtesy to every foe."

Upon the way of honor, impeded was my range; If this affect thee, strive my destiny to change.

That bitter, which the Súfi styled "Mother of all woes that be,"[8] Seems, with maiden's kisses weighed, better and more sweet to me.

Seek drunkenness and pleasure till times of strait be o'er: This alchemy of life can make the beggar Kore.[9]

Submit; or burn thou taper-like e'en from jealousy o'er-much: Adamant no less than wax, melts beneath that charmer's touch.

When fair ones talk in Persian, the streams of life out-well: This news to pious Pirs, my Sákí, haste to tell.

Since Háfiz, not by his own choice, This his wine-stained cowl did win, Shaikh, who hast unsullied robes, Hold me innocent of sin.[10]

Arrayed in youthful splendor, the orchard smiles again; News of the rose enraptures the bulbul of sweet strain.

Breeze, o'er the meadow's children, when thy fresh fragrance blows, Salute for me the cypress, the basil, and the rose.

If the young Magian[11] dally with grace so coy and fine, My eye shall bend their fringes to sweep the house of wine.

O thou whose bat of amber hangs o'er a moon below,[12] Deal not to me so giddy, the anguish of a blow.

I fear that tribe of mockers who topers' ways impeach, Will part with their religion the tavern's goal to reach.

To men of God be friendly: in Noah's ark was earth[13] Which deemed not all the deluge one drop of water worth.

As earth, two handfuls yielding, shall thy last couch supply, What need to build thy palace, aspiring to the sky?

Flee from the house of Heaven, and ask not for her bread: Her goblet black shall shortly her every guest strike dead.[14]

To thee, my Moon of Kanaan, the Egyptian throne pertains; At length has come the moment that thou shouldst quit thy chains.

I know not what dark projects those pointed locks design, That once again in tangles their musky curls combine.

Be gay, drink wine, and revel; But not, like others, care, O Háfiz, from the Koran To weave a wily snare!

XII

Oh! where are deeds of virtue and this frail spirit where? How wide the space that sunders the bounds of Here and There!

Can toping aught in common with works and worship own? Where is regard for sermons, where is the rebeck's Tone?[15]

My heart abhors the cloister, and the false cowl its sign: Where is the Magian's cloister, and where is his pure wine?

'Tis fled: may memory sweetly mind me of Union's days! Where is that voice of anger, where those coquettish ways?

Can a foe's heart be kindled by the friend's face so bright? Where is a lamp unlighted, and the clear Day-star's light?

As dust upon thy threshold supplies my eyes with balm, If I forsake thy presence, where can I hope for calm?