Part 3

I must say that I, for one, never wholly believed in the mysticism of Hafiz. It does not appear there was any danger in holding and singing Sufi Pantheism, so long as the poet made his salaam to Mohammed at the beginning and end of his song. Under such conditions Jelaluddin, Jami, Attar, 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 Hafiz 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 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 Sufi; and the burden of Omar's song--if not «Let us eat»--is assuredly--«Let us drink, for to-morrow we die!» And if Hafiz 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 worshippers.

However, as there is some traditional presumption, and certainly the opinion of some learned men, in favour of Omar's being a Sufi--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.

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

THE FITZGERALD FIRST EDITION

[_The first Edition of the translation of Omar Khayyam, which appeared in 1859, differs so much from those which followed, that it has been thought better to print it in full, instead of merely attempting to record the differences_.]

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 Sultan'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.»

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.

V.

Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose, And Jamshyd'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 Pehlevi, with «Wine! Wine! Wine! _Red_ Wine!»--the Nightingale cries to the Rose That yellow Cheek of her's to incarnadine.

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 Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.

IX.

But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot: Let Rustum lay about him as he will, Or Hatim 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 Sultan scarce is known, And pity Sultan Mahmud on his Throne.

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!

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 Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

XVII.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep; And Bahram, 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 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 Muezzin 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 Khayyam, 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 seem'd--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 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.»

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 infinite 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 Mahmud, 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 Khayyam 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 Parwin and Mushtara they flung, In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul

LV.

The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about If clings my Being--let the Sufi 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

* * * * *

KUZA-NAMA

LIX.

Listen again. One evening at the Close Of Ramazan, 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 Earthen 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 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.

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 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!

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!

TAMAM SHUD.

NOTES.

(Stanza II.) The «_False Dawn_»; _Subhi kazib_, a transient Light on the Horizon about an hour before the _Subhi sadik_, or True Dawn; a well-known Phenomenon in the East.

(IV.) New Year. Beginning with the Vernal Equinox, it must be remembered; and (howsoever the old Solar Year is practically superseded by the clumsy _Lunar_ Year that dates from the Mohammedan Hegira) still commemorated by a Festival that is said to have been appointed by the very Jamshyd whom Omar so often talks of, and whose yearly Calendar he helped to rectify.

«The sudden approach and rapid advance of the Spring,» says Mr. Binning,[13] «are very striking. Before the Snow is well off the Ground, the Trees burst into Blossom, and the Flowers start forth from the Soil. At _Now Rooz_ [_their_ New Year's Day] the Snow was lying in patches on the Hills and in the shaded Valleys, while the Fruit-trees in the Gardens were budding beautifully, and green Plants and Flowers springing up on the Plains on every side--

'And on old Hyems' Chin and icy Crown An odorous Chaplet of sweet Summer buds Is, as in mockery, set'--

Among the Plants newly appeared I recognised some old Acquaintances I had not seen for many a Year: among these, two varieties of the Thistle--a coarse species of Daisy like the 'Horse-gowan'--red and white Clover--the Dock--the blue Corn-flower--and that vulgar Herb the Dandelion rearing its yellow crest on the Banks of the Water-courses.» The Nightingale was not yet heard, for the Rose was not yet blown; but an almost identical Blackbird and Wood-pecker helped to make up something of a North-country Spring.

«The White Hand of Moses.» Exodus iv. 6; where Moses draws forth his Hand--not, according to the Persians, «_leprous as Snow,_» --but _white_, as our May-blossom in Spring perhaps. According to them also the Healing Power of Jesus resided in His Breath.

(V.) Iram, planted by King Shaddad, and now sunk somewhere in the Sands of Arabia. Jamshyd's Seven-ring'd Cup was typical of the 7 Heavens, 7 Planets, 7 Seas, etc., and was a _Divining Cup_.

(VI.) _Pehlevi_, the old Heroic _Sanskrit_ of Persia. Hafiz also speaks of the Nightingale's _Pehlevi_, which did not change with the People's.

I am not sure if the fourth line refers to the Red Rose looking sickly, or to the Yellow Rose that ought to be Red; Red, White, and Yellow Roses all common in Persia. I think that Southey in his «Common-Place Book,» quotes from some Spanish author about the Rose being White till 10 o'clock; «_Rosa Perfecta_» at 2; and «_perfecta incarnada_» at 5.

(X.) Rustum, the «Hercules» of Persia, and Zal his Father, whose exploits are among the most celebrated in the Shahnama. Hatim Tai, a well-known type of Oriental generosity.

(XIII.) A Drum--beaten outside a Palace.

(XIV.) That is, the Rose's Golden Centre.

(XVIII.) Persepolis: call'd also _Takht.i-Jamshyd_--THE THRONE OF JAMSHYD, «_King Splendid,_» of the mythical _Peshdadian_ Dynasty, and supposed (according to the Shahnama) to have been founded and built by him. Others refer it to the Work of the Genie King, Jan Ibn Jan--who also built the Pyramids--before the time of Adam.

BAHRAM GUR--_Bahram of the Wild Ass_--a Sassanian Sovereign--had also his Seven Castles (like the King of Bohemia!) each of a different Colour; each with a Royal Mistress within; each of whom tells him a Story, as told in one of the most famous Poems of Persia, written by Amir Khusraw: all these Seven also figuring (according to Eastern Mysticism) the Seven Heavens; and perhaps the Book itself that Eighth, into which the mystical Seven transcend, and within which they revolve. The Ruins of Three of those Towers are yet shown by the Peasantry; as also the swamp in which Bahram sunk like the Master of Ravenswood while pursuing his _Gur_.

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.»

This Quatrain Mr. Binning found, among several of Hafiz and others, inscribed by some stray hand among the ruins of Persepolis. The Ringdove's ancient _Pehlevi Coo, Coo, Coo_, signifies also in Persian, «_Where? Where? Where?_» In Attar's «Bird-parliament» she is reproved by the Leader of the Birds for sitting still, and for ever harping on that one note of lamentation for her lost Yusuf.

Apropos of Omar's Red Roses in Stanza xix., I am reminded of an old English superstition, that our Anemone Pulsatilla, or purple «Pasque Flower» (which grows plentifully about the Fleam Dyke, near Cambridge), grows only where Danish blood has been spilt.

(XXI.) A thousand years to each Planet.

(XXXI.) Saturn, Lord of the Seventh Heaven.

(XXXII.) ME-AND-THEE: some dividual Existence or Personality distinct from the Whole.

(XXXVII.) One of the Persian Poets--Attar, I think--has a pretty story about this. A thirsty Traveller dips his hand into a Spring of Water to drink from. By and by comes another who draws up and drinks from an earthen Bowl, and then departs, leaving his Bowl behind him. The first Traveller takes it up for another draught; but is surprised to find that the same Water which had tasted sweet from his own hand tastes bitter from the earthen Bowl. But a Voice--from Heaven, I think--tells him the clay from which the Bowl is made was once _Man_; and, into whatever shape renewed, can never lose the bitter flavour of Mortality.

(XXXIX.) The custom of throwing a little Wine on the ground before drinking still continues in Persia, and perhaps generally in the East. Mons. Nicolas considers it «_un signe de libéralité, et en même temps un avertissement que le buveur doit vider sa coupe jusqu' à la dernière goutte_.» Is it not more likely an ancient Superstition; a Libation to propitiate Earth, or make her an Accomplice in the illicit Revel? Or, perhaps, to divert the Jealous Eye by some sacrifice of superfluity, as with the Ancients of the West? With Omar we see something more is signified; the precious Liquor is not lost, but sinks into the ground to refresh the dust of some poor Wine-worshipper foregone.

Thus Hafiz, copying Omar in so many ways: «When thou drinkest Wine pour a draught on the ground. Wherefore fear the Sin which brings to another Gain?»

(XLIII.) According to one beautiful Oriental Legend, Azrael accomplishes his mission by holding to the nostril an Apple from the Tree of Life.

This and the two following Stanzas would have been withdrawn, as somewhat _de trop_, from the Text, but for advice which I least like to disregard.

(LI.) Prom Mah to Mahi; from Fish to Moon.