LA BRISE
Traduit de M'* Hemans par Sir Tollemache Sinclnir. Comme de bien doux parfums la brise Que nul ne peut retenir, mais qu'on prise, De belles choses touchent mon âme et s'écroulent. J'essaie, avec des désirs fous, mais vains, De me tenir à l'écart des mondains.
Car des harmonies profondes en moi roulent. C'est pourquoi des rêves très affligeants Troublent mes pensers secrets, attristants, Les peines qui débordent de mon cœur fébrile ; Quelque chose de plus saint, comme un lien. Que ce qui sur terre peut être mien Hante mon âme et ne veut me laisser tranquille.
LA FEMME
Arrangé de la prose de Michelet par Sir Tollemache Siitclair. L'amour est le frère de la mort. Ah ! qui a sondé Combien elle est sœur de la douleur ! L'amour est sacré ; La femme accepte tous les dangers de la mort, pour prendre L'infini de la souffrance, et à un être aimé rendre La vie des siècles, le parfait bonheur enivrant L'abrégé de l'éternité dans un trop court moment ; Sois heureux, et que je meure, sois-le même un instant, Et que j'en souffre à jamais ; dans son cœur elle le sent. Mais elle a la grandeur d'âme de ne jamais le dire ; Elle glacerait tes transports, de ton cœur le délire, Si ces mots cruels : « La mort», qui restent dans sa pensée, Venaient entre tes baisers sur les lèvres de ta fée. Non, elle gardera la douleur, le ciel est pour toi, A toi la joie, à elle du morne avenir l'effroi...
THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAITAM
Mr. Money-Coutts says : & It seems a strange phenomenon that we should still take a deep interest in what the scientific Persian poet, Omar Khayyam, wrote at the time when the Normans were engaged in subjugating England. »
A contemporary Persian writer says of him : « Omar Khayyam came to the Vizier to claim his share of a certain fund, but not to ask for title or office. « The greatest boon you » can confer on me », he said, « is to let me live in a corner under the shadow of your for- » tune, to spread wide the ad vantages of Science, and pray for your long life and pros- » perity. » The Vizier tells us, that, when he found Omar was really sincere in his refusal, he pressed him no further, but granted him a yearly pension of 1.200 mithkdls of gold from Ihe treasui7 of Naishâpùr.
« At Naishâpùr thus lived and died Omar Khayyam, busied », adds the Vizier, « in » winning knowledge of every kind, and especially in Astronomy, wherein he attained to a » very high pre-eminence. Under the Sultanate of Malik shah, he came to MerA% and obtai- » ned great praise for his proficiency in science, and the Sullaa showered faxours upon » him. »
LARMES ET SOUIIIRRS 467
« When Malik Shah determined to reform the calendar, Omar was one of the eight learned men employed to do it; the result was the Faldli era (so-called from Falal-ul-Din, one of the king's names) — « a computation of time », says Gibbon, « which surpasses the Julian, and approaches the accuracy of the Gregorian style ». He is also the author of some astronomical tables, entitled « Ziji-Malik-shahi », and the French have lately republished and translated an Arabic treatise of his on Algebra.
« These severe Studies, and his verses, which, though happily fewer than any Persian Poet's, and, though perhaps fugitively composed, the Result of no fugitive Emotion or Thought, are probably the Work and Event of his Life, leaving little else to record. Perhaps he liked a little Farming too, as be speaks so often of the « Edge of the Tilth » on which be loved to rest with his Diwan of Verse, his Loaf — and his Wine.
« It is written in the chronicles of the ancients that this King of the Wise, Omar » Khayyam, died at Naishapur in the year of the Hegira, 517 (A.D. 1123); in science he was » unrivalled, — the very paragon of his age. Khwâjah Nizâmi of Samarcand, who was one » of his pupils, relates the following story ; « I often used to hold conversations with my » teacher, Omar Khayyam, in 'a garden; and one day he said to me, « my tomb shall be in » a spot, where the north wind may scatter roses over it. » I wondered at the words » he spake, but I knew that his were no idle words. Years after, when I chanced to revisit » Naishapur I went to his final resting place, and lo ! it was just outside a garden, and » trees laden with fruit' stretched their boughs over the garden wall, and dropped their » flowers upon his tomb, so as the stone was hidden under them. »
« For Lucretian as Omar's Genius might be he cross'd that darker Mood with much oi Oliver de Basselin Humour. Any way, the Result is sad enough: saddest perhaps, when most ostentatiously merry : any way, fitter to move Sorrow more than Anger toward the old Tentmaker, who, after vainly endeavouring to unshackle his Steps from Destiny, and to catch some authentic Glimpse of Tomorrow, fell back upon Today (which has outlasted so many Tomorrows) as the only Ground he had to stand upon, however momentarily slipping from under his Feet. »
The Chahar Makala says in the year A. H. 530 (A. D. 1133-36) of Kwaja Imam Khayyam : « It being then some years since that great man had veiled his countenance in the dust I (when at his tomb) fell to weeping, because on the face of the earth and in all the regions of the habitable globe I nowhere saw one like him. »
In a work published in 1403 called the Paradise of Histories (Firdans ut Tawarikh) it is said « Omar, the son of Ibrahim Khayyam, surpassed his contemporaries in most sciences and especially in astronomy. » (He might have added also in poetry.) In Fitzgerald's translation, he usually does not rhyme the third line with any of the others, which produces, I think, a very unsatisfactory effect. In some English slipshod quatrains the first and third lines are not rhymed, but only the second and fourth, but up to a recent period nearly all lines had rhymes in poetry, and Byron never wrote a single line without a corresponding rhyme, excepting his blank verse.
The system of only rhyming the Z''^ and 4'*^ lines however is much less objectionable than this method of Fitzgerald's which he says is in accordance with the original, but he has deviated from it in the following quatrains:
« There was the Door to which I found no Key,
There was the Veil through wiiich I might not see.
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee,
There was — and then no more of Thee and Me.
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 for ever dies ;
But helpless Pieces of the Game he plays
Upon the Chequer-Board of Nights and Days
Hither and thither moves and checks and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
In all these three quatrains not only are all the lines rhymed, and not merely the 1" 2°<i and 4*^, but there is the same rhyme for all 4, which is tautological and monotonous, and would not be admitted in English verse.
SI
This is however much better than omitting the rhyme in the third line as Fitzgerald does in all the other quatrains. Whinfield in his translation (1882) has also these stanzas, the lines of which all rhyme :
Pen, tablet, heaven and hell I looked to see
Above the skies from all eternity;
At last the master sage instructed me :
« Pen, tablet, heaven and hell are all in thee ! »
I am not one whom death doth much dismay.
Life's terrors, all death's terrors far outweigh.
This life that heaven hath lent me for a day
I will pay back when it is time to pay.
Wherefore waste thought on fate and destiny
And vainly rack thy brain to lind the key
Give respite to thy brain and let fate be,
When fate was fixed, they ne'er consulted thee. In the following quatrain all the three rhymes consist of the same word and are therefore
not rhymes at all :
I never would have come had I been asked, I would as lief not go if I were asked, And to be short I would annihilate All coming, being, going, were I asked. We are told in the latest edition (of 1900) of Fitzgerald's, translation of Omar Khayyam's quatrains that in the original the rhyme is often in the interior of the lines, so that Fitzgerald and Whinfield have not really always followed Omar Khayyam exactly. Here for instance is a quatrain literally translated :
Bethink thee that soul less and BARE thou shall go, The veil of God's mysteries to TEAR thou shall go, Drink wine, for thou knowest not whence thou hast come, Live blithe, for thou knowest not WHERE thou shalt go. If Fitzgerald and Whinfield had really always followed Omar Khayyam's metre, they would have had to place sometimes the rhymes three syllables before the end of the lines in the first, second, and fourth lines, and to have terminated each with the same three syllables, as Whinfield has done with one syllable in the last of his quatrains which I have quoted and not with rhyming or contrasted syllables, and this tautology after the rhyme in three out of 4 lines would have been intolerable. The nearest quatrain of Fitzgeralds to the one which I have quoted and which is translated literally is :
Yesterday this Day's madness did prepare. Tomorrow's Silence Triumph or Despair, Drink, for you know not whence you come nor why, Drink, for you know not why you go nor where. Omar Khayyam is the author of world renowned and incomparable treatises. At his death he repeated the evening prayer, and having placed his forehead on the ground he said « Oh God, verily I have known thee to the extent of my power, forgive me therefore. Verily my knowledge of thee is my recommendation to thee! » And with these words he resigned his soul to God.
They say that the last words he uttered in verse w^ere the following : 0 God ! I am weary of my own baseness. Of my anguish and empty-handedness !
Even as Thou bringest existence out of non-existence, so take Me from my own non-existence for the honour of Thy existence ! Mohiimmed Shahrazari, Avho flourished in the middle of the thirteenth century, was the author of a history of learned men bearing the title Nughat ul-Ari\ah « The Delight of Souls », in which he writes of Omar : « He may be regarded as the successor of Abn — Ali Avicenna in the various branches of philosophic science, but he was most unsociable. While he was in Ispahan, he perused a certain book seven times, and then knew it by heart. He was averse both to composition and to teaching. »
The well known criticism of Omar by Ibn-el Kifti who died in 1248 in his Tarikh-ul- Kakaraa, or history of learned men, is :
« Omar el Khayyam, Imam of Khorasan, and the most learned man of his day, was versed in the science of the Greeks. He encouraged the search after the one Judge by means of the purification of the incUnations of the flesh for the sake of the elevation of the human soul. He performed the pilgrimage (to Mecca), not out of piety but from fear. He was without an equal in the sciences of astronomy and philosophy, and he became proverbial for his knowledge in these branches. If only he would have safeguarded his good name! « In the Millenium history it is said : « From most of his works it is apparent that Omar believed in the transmigration of the soul. « The Paradise of Poets » written in A D 1798 says of Omar « He was one of the most learned men and during his life he was held in such high esteem that sultan Sanjar used to make him sit beside him on the Throne. At the beginning of his life he was very strict and pious in his religion, but in later days he exposed himself to blame, for he drank purple wine from the goblet of knowledge. »
Nicolas published in 1867 a French translation of the Rubaiyat from the Teheran text.
M"" Heron Allen points out that 49 of Fitzgerald's Quatrains are faithful and beautiful paraphrases of single quatrains to be found in the Ouseley or Calcutta manuscripts or in both and that 44 might be termed composite quatrains, being traceable to more than one in the original Rubaiyat. Fitzgerald's paraphrase was finished in 1857 ; the manuscript was sent to Parker the publisher who kept it for 2 years. In March 1859 Fitzgerald printed 250 copies, kept a few and left the remainder with Quaritch to be sold at five shillings each ; the book was a complete failure, and found no buyers, and it came at last to the ignominy of the penny box. Tennyson said of it : « A planet equal to the Sun that cast it ».
The Editor of the last edition of Fitzgerald's translation of Omar Khayyam's quatrains says « The throw back characterizes the majority of the quatrains. This consists of what is called the « redif » or rare word of an invariable ending of from one to seven syllables.
THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM
as translated by Whinfield with my alterations by which the first and third and second and fourth lines are made to rhyme and Oriental words and repetitions omitted.
We sojourn here for one short day or two. And all the gain we have is grief and woe. Then leaving unsolved problems not a few *, And saddened by regrets, we have to go. Since none can thee assure of life next day. Rejoice thy heart e'en now, and banish sorrow With wine and girls, for later some moon's ray Will look for thee in vain on many a morrow. In God's name, say, why do men midst their woes Their hearts set on this world of frequent lies? Oft when they hope at last to find repose Death holds them in his grasp, each victim dies. From doubt to full belief is a long way. From faith to unbeliefs not far, Paul saith, Thy pleasures few enjoy, while yet you may. They're all that life can give, and then comes death. Life lasts a day or two, but like torn weed Sweeps by in torrent streams or desert's blast, Howbeit, of two days I take no heed.
The day to come, and that already past. 0 soul ! whose lot it is to feel though dumb. And daily blows of fortune to sustain, Into this body wherefore didst thou come, As very soon thou must depart again.
Today is thine, perhaps next hour life's spent, To count on next day often causes sorrow ; Oh ! squander not the hour which heaven has lent, Make not too sure a further time to borrow. « The alterations have been made with the consent of M' Whinfield.
470 LifiMES ET SOURIRES
'Tis labour lost for men to seek for fame ; Take thy good fortune and thy bad withal. Know without doubt each one must play his game, As from Fate's box the dice may chance to fall. 'Twas fixed at first whate'er would us befall. By pen unheeding, bliss or misery, 'Twas traced upon the tablet once for all ; To murmur or resist is vanity.
Behold these forms, can He who makes hearts beat, In wanton freak let ruin overtake them ? So many hands and heads and shapely feet, What love prompts Him to make what wrath to break them ? Dread of the grave is senseless on the whole, At death we reach our immortality ; Since Jesus breathed new life into my soul, Eternal Death has washed its hands of me ! To humour man's caprice Fate never bends, So vaunt not human powers but hold your peace ; Here we must stay with grief, which our heart rends. That we were born at all, and soon decease, r Khayyam ! why weep you that your life is base ? What boots it thus to mourn? be rather glad. He that sins not no title earns to grace ; Guilt pardon gains, then, prithee, why so sad ?
A dark thick cloud now bounds all mortal ken, To see beyond, man's sight is all too frail ; Yes, earth's dark bosom is his wretched den ; Alas ! 'twere long to tell the doleful tale. In synagogue, mosque, cloister, and in youth, Hell's terrors and heaven's lures men's bosoms rule ; But they who pierce the secrets of the truth, Prize not such worthless chaff their hearts to fool.
I dreamt a sage said, « Wherefore through life weep ? And dream ? Can these make pleasure's roses bloom ? Seek not remorseless Death's twin-brother, sleep ; Thou wilt have sleep enough within thy tomb ! » If man's heart knew earth's secrets, not mere pelf, At death 'twould know God's secrets freed from woe ; But if you know naught here, while still yourself, To-morrow, stripped of self, what can you know ?
On that dread day when wrath will come indeed, And darkness dim the stars and earth as well, I'll cling to God by his grand robe, and plead : « For venial faults wilt Thou doom me to hell ? » To knaves ne'er trust thy secrets, now nor then. To comprehend them is to fools denied, See now to what hard fate God now dooms men. Our fears from one and all perforce we hide.
From mosque an outcast, 'neath the church's ban, Oh God ! of what clay didst thou form me so ? Like sceptic monk or wretched courtesan. No hopes have I above, no joys below.
Souls with love's light illumined from above, Though in a cell or near a church, they dwel , Have their names written in the book of love, Secure in hopes of Heaven, from fears oi Hell.
LARMES BT SOURinEl 471
In drinking my design's not waste of pelf,
'Tis not bliss to transgress the law divine,
No I to obtain unconsciousness of self
Is the sole cause I oft take too much wine.
Give me some wine, a girl me to entice,
A garden by a stream, with minstrelsy,
Toil not to find a happier Paradise,
If other Paradise indeed there be.
In the bright spring a grassy bank I found,
And thither wine and my fair loved one brought ;
Yet, though the people call me graceless hound,
Gave not to Paradise another thought I
Oh ! soul so soon to leave this coil, ne'er gay,
And pierce the awful curtain full of woe ;
Be of good cheer, enjoy life while you may.
You know not whence you come, nor whither go.
Bounds like a zone our weary lives surround,
And from our tear-stained eyes a river flows ;
Hell is a fire for grief alone renowned ;
Heaven's a vain dream of respite from our woes.
I'm drowned in sin, show where Thy mercy lurks,
My soul is dark, make me Thy light to see !
A heaven that must be earned by painful works
Is but a wage, and not a gift that's free.
For hell was I designed by God above ?
Or destined for blest heaven ? I cannot tell.
Yet will I ne'er resign, wine, lute, and love,
Nor earthly cash for heavenly credit sell.
The good and evil in thee as time flies.
The weal and woe that heaven's decrees have sent,
Impute them not to motions of the skies.
They're than thyself ten times more impotent.
When dread God mixed my clay. He knew my fate,
My future acts, and could each one foretell ;
'Twas He who did my sins predestinate,
Would it be just to punish me with Hell?
If grace be grace, and God be love, I plead.
From Paradise why Adam banished He ?
To frail men pardon given is lov« indeed ;
In grace hard-earned by works no grace I see.
Pen, tablet, heaven, and hell I hoped to find.
Above the skies from all eternity ;
At last the master-sage enlarged my mind :
« Pen, tablet, heaven, and hell, are all in thee. »
How cold's the heart which ne'er yearns like a Dove
With fondness, nor that thrilling madness knows.
Day's are misspent without entrancing love.
No days are wasted half so much as those.
Great God Himself did all those fine forms make. What makes Him cast them out to scorn and shame? If He has made them, why them should He break ? For though He marred them, they are not to blame.
He who the world's foundations laid, we guess, Full many a bosom bruises, day by day, And oft a ruby lip and beauteous tress Does bury in the earth, and shroud with clay.
E'er youth's conceit had waned it seemed to me
That answers to Life's problems I had found,
But now grown old and Avise, too late, 1 see,
That my life's spent, and all my life's unsound.
He brought me hither, and I then was dumb,
From life I gather but a dark surmise,
I go against my w ill ; — thus — w hy I've come.
Why live, why die, are thoughts which cause surprise.
Ah ! wealth takes wings, and then with grief we gape,
And Death's harsh hands delight our hearts to tear ;
And from the other world lets none escape,
To bring us tidings of the loved ones there.
The Power on high which makes us oft to smart
Will ne'er a victim loose from his sad plight,
But when it lights upon an anguished heart,
Straightway essays another blow to smite.
What use to Thee's my service here below ?
Or how can sins of mine dishonour Thee ?
Oh ! pardon then and punish not — I know
Thou'rt slow to wrath and prone to clemency.
For ever may ray eyes on wine be bent,
And my heart pant for some bewitching maid !
Men say « May great God aid thee to repent ! »
Ah ! that I could not e'en with His kind aid I
My coming brought no profit to Thy hand,
Nor does my going, none can this deny.
To come and go's a lot I cant withstand.
Ear never heard the wherefore or the why.
Why spend Life in vain acts where reason reels
All — Being and Not — Being to survey ?
Since Death is ever pressing at our heels,
'Tis best to drink and dream one's life away.
My spirit doth bemoan her present state,
Her earthly partner she would fain disown,
And quit earth, but the stirrup of harsh Fate,
Uplifts my foot from dashing on a stone.
Crave not to take your fill of joys, or love.
Nor wait on turns of fortune good or ill.
Be of light heart, bright as the sky above,
Earth rolls its destined round, and ne'er is still.
What eye can pierce the veil twixt God and men ?
Or read the riddle of earth's destinies ?
I've pondered oft for three score years and ten,
But still I'm baffled by these mysteries,
They say when the last Trump shall strike us dumb.
That God will sternly judge, and doom to Hell,
Can aught but good from perfect goodness come ?
Compose your trembling hearts, 'twill'all be well.
True, I dinnk wine, all wise men do, I think.
At this I hope God wont take great offence ;
Before Time was. He knew that I would drink,
And who am I to thwart His prescience ?
Ah 1 can e'er hypocrites Thy love inspire, Like that Thou show'st to those who near Thee dwell ? Thou say'st « All sinners I will burn with fire, » Say that to others : we know Thee too well.
LARUR5! ET SOURIRES i73
For me heaven has no music, nor repose, No soothing charm has e'er my fears allayed, Whene'er I found brief respite from my woes, Back to griefs thrall 1 was at once betrayed.
With bread I'm more content for all life's span And water from a broken jar whilst free Than lord it over one poor fellow-man, Or to another bow the vassal knee.
I am not one whom death does much dismay,
Life's terrors all death's terrors far outrun ;
The life that God has lent me for a day,
Had man the choice, would have been lived by none.
Small gains by learning on this earth are won. They reap life's harvest, knowledge who esche\\' ; Take pattern by the fools who wisdom shun, And then perchance will fortune smile on you.
Myriads have run their race, with many a sigh, They strove for pleasures, luxury, or place. They drank their wine, and now all silent lie, Enfolded in their parent earth's embrace.
Wherefore waste thought on destiny and fate, And vainly rack thy brain to find the key ? Give respite to thy mind, it's not too late, When thine was fixed, they ne'er consulted thee.
Why think about the future which is dim ? And jade thy brain with vain perplexity ? Cast off thy grief, leave great God's plans to Him, He formed them all without consulting thee.
Heaven multiplies our sorrows and each care And grants no bliss it does not take away. If those unborn could know the ills we bear, What think you ? Would they rather come or stay ?
The tenants of the tombs to dust are hurled, Unknowing self, and all besides are they. Their crumbling atoms float about the world, Like fleeting clouds until the judgment day.
0 soul ! hoard up thy goods in thy few hours. Thy path with Pleasure's follies scatter o'er. And know 'tis all like dew that decks the flowers For one short night, and then is seen no more.
Heed not tradition nor the law accuse.
If to the poor their portion you assign. And injure ne'er a soul, and none abuse,
1 guarantee you heaven and bliss divine.
We're baffled in our search for Thee, opposed. Wealth cannot find Thee, only Poverty, Thou'rt very near us, but our ears are closed, Our eyes are blinded that we may not see.
Our forecasts often sadly mock our pains, Why toil then after vain desires and pine ? Why tire thyself with loads of Fortune's gains At last to drop them with this life of thine ?
A potter who was busy as a bee
Kneaded with might and main a lump of clay,
To him I his clay cried : « Use me tenderly,
I was a man myself but yesterday. » '
Deep in the concave of the heavenly vault,
There is a cup concealed from mortal's view
Which all must drain in turn ; then, do not halt,
But drink it boldly, when it comes to you.
Oh heart I this world is but a transient den,
Why should its paltry griefs distress thee so ?
Bow down and bear thy fate, th' Eternal Pen
His scroll won't alter for thy prayers, I know.
Whoe'er returned who went from here below
To tell of that long road they travell'd o'er?
Set not your heart on earth, you too must go.
And when you go you will return no more.
I fled here as a wandering bird in play,
Up to a higher sphere my course to frame,
But finding here no guide who knew the way,
Rushed out by the same door where through I came.
They go away and none is seen who dares
To teach the after-life's mysterious learning,
'Twill not be taught for insincere cold prayers.
For prayer is naught without deep heart felt' yearning.
We are but chessmen destined, we all know.
That great Chessplayer God to entertain.
He moves us on life's chess board to and fro.
And then in coffins shuts us up again.
I pray thee hark to my advice in rhyme.
Cast off this false hypocrisy's veneer ;
This life's a moment, but the next's all lime,
Sell not eternity for earthly gear.
Though creeds to number seventy-three begin,
I hold with none but that of loving Thee,
What matter faith, unfaith, obedience, sin ?
Thou'rt all we need ; the rest is vanity.
Tell one by one my scanty virtues lame.
As for my sins, forgive them by the score.
Let not my many faults Thy wrath inflame.
By Thy great mercy oh ! forgive once more.
Oh zone of heaven, no ties you own, no life.
No mercy, ah ! you tread me 'neath your heel,
A woman spins the clothes for man and wife,
She does more good, oh God for us, pray, feel !
I solved all problems from great Saturn's rings
Unto the heart of this earth with each breath.
And turned from fraud and lies and evil things,
Yes, every knot was loosed save that of Death I
Our Lord is merciful, his love us wins.
Despair not, sinner ! but His pity trust!
For though today you perish in your sins.
To-morrow Hell absolve your crumbling dust.
Of Mercy sure for faults though they're not light.
How can the pilgrim faint when Thou art near ?
' This quatrain reminds me of one of Landor's :
« I strove with none, for none was worth my strife ; >, « Nature I loved and after Nature Art ;
« 1 warmed both hands before the fire of life : « It sinkfi, and I am ready to depart. »
hinUZ» ET SOURIRES
On the Last Day Thy grace will wash me white,
And make my sins'record to disappear.
Think not I dread from out the world to go,
And as a disemhodied spirit fly,
I tremble not at death for it's no foe,
'lis my great faults that make me fear to die.
Against my lusts I war, but Frailty wins,
I think of my ill deeds o'ercome with pain,
And trust thou wilt absolve me from my sins,
But even so my shame will still remain.
I never drank of joy which had no fault,
For grief the sweet draught spoilt by adding gall,
Nor dipped my bread in Pleasures' piquant salt,
But keen remorse my conscience did appal !
From toil I've ne'er been free at any date,
Ne'er been for e'en one moment glad to be,
I served a long apprenticeship to Fate,
But yet of Fortune gained no mastery.
A sage my critics call me I confess.
But wise God knows full well they greatly err ;
Ah I 1 know not e'en Avhat I am, much less
^Vhy on this earth I am a sojourner I
I studied with the masters in each hall
And then did quickly fathom all they know.
Ah ! What's the end and issue of it all ?
I came like water, and like wind I go.
If for right deeds God does not make me long,
How can I make my heart to will aright ?
Each single act performed must needs be wrong.
Since none but He to good can me incite.
Have you no shame for sins from which you fly ?
Sins of omission and commission too ?
Suppose you gain the world, you still must die,
You cannot carry it away with you !
Some look for truth in creeds of difTrent names,
Some grope in doubt, or dogmas, in the schools,
But from behind the veil a voice proclaims :
« Your road lies neither here nor there, you, fools ! »
Since all man's business on this earthly ball
Is sorrow's pangs to feel, and grief to know,
Those germs are happy that ne'er lived at all.
Next those that having lived were first to go.
Nor you nor I can read Fate, we all fail.
To that enigma we can find no key.
They talk of you and me behind the veil,
But sweep that veil away, and where are we ^
Ah Love ! if Heaven too soon intends this wrong.
To take away thy precious life and mine,
We'll sit upon this turf, 'twill not be long
E'er grass shalljgrow upon my dust and thine.
Was e'er man born who ne'er erred with free will ?
Did ever mortal pass a sinless day ?
If I do ill, do not requite with ill!
Evil for evil, ah ! wilt Thou repay ?
Man like a ball goes whither joys him court,
As Fate's resistless bat directs the blows,
4*76 LàRKRS et SOURiRES
But He who uses us for this rude sport, He knows what drives us, yes, He knows, — He knows. Oh ! thou who hast done ill, and ill alone, And thinkest to find mercy at the throne, Hope not for grace ! for good not e'en begun Cannot be done, or evil done, undone ! I could repent of all — but drink ne'er ban, I could from all, but not from wine, me sever, If that I e'er became a pious man Could I abjure my favourite wine? oh ! never! We rest our hopes on Thy free grace, — not dreams, Only by deeds Thy pardon can be won.
Grace where it lists goes and great God esteems HI done as undone, — good undone as done. Oh ! foolish race of man, your faults thwart bliss, You are but bubbles tossed by winds unkind, Ah ! but a shadow poised o'er an abyss, A void before you, and a void behind.
Oh ! heart ! can'st thou the awful riddle know ? Where wisest men have failed, wilt thou succeed? ' Then drink and make thy Paradise below, Who knows if Heaven will be thy final meed ? With many a snare Thou dost beset me now, And threatenest if I fall Thou wilt me slay, Thy rule resistless sways the world, yet Thou, Imputest sin when I do but obey.
Give me a skin of wine, a crust, a book, A pittance bare, some verse to be now read, W^ith thee, oh Love ! to share my lowly nook, I would not take a monarch's throne instead ! WTio fixed the fate of quick and dead ? ah me ! Who rules the stars with orbits vast and how ? Though we are sinners vile, is it for Thee To blame us ? Who created us but Thou ? Oh ! that God would remake the stars, the whole. And earth, and that at once before my eyes. And either take my name from off his roll, Or else make life less sad and free from sighs. Ah ! helpless souls doomed for eternity. In Hell's fires to be tortured, each in turn. Do not presume to teach God clemency.
For who art thou to teach ? He nought can learn. I'd ne'er have come, could I have fixed my fate, I rather would not go if I am asked, And to be short, I would annihilate All coming, being, going, how we're tasked ! In all thine acts ne'er treat thy kin amiss, Nor kindle flames of wrath their peace to smother, Do you desire to taste eternal bliss ? Vex thine own heart, but never vex another.
With false pretexts men snare as I'm advised.
But to God's will we can but l)e resigned,
The deepest wiles our cunnin;:,' e'er devised
To balk resistless Fate no way can find.
There's none but grieves when Thou dtost us condemn,
None, who're not blind, but long Tby face to see,
làrmks 8T sourires '*•
And though perhaps Thou carest not for them, No soul exists but pines with love for Thee. With icy coldness which of us can cope ? For my well-being not a soul does care, With hands Fate makes me lift up without hope I grasp men's knees, but ah ! fmd no help there. This bosom-friend on whom you would intrude, To wisdom's eye seems now an enemy, Choose not your friends from the vile multitude, Their converse is a plague 'tis best to flee. Oh foolish man! this earth's a void, God saith, This vault of heaven with stars o'erspread is nought, Our sojourn in this seat of life and death Is but an instant with misfortune fraught. Death's shafts the thickest shields have ne'er withstood ; In all the pomps and riches of this earth, When I survey the world I see no good But virtue : all besides is nothing worth. • Weak souls who love this world, this dread abyss, Hold life-long fellowship with woe and pain. Hearts free from wordly cares have stores of bliss, AH others seeds of bitter grief contain. Good-will to friends and foes alike extend, No genial heart can e'er unkindness show, Harsh words will alienate a bosom friend, And goodness reconcile a deadly foe.
Both dark and fair please in a lover's eyes, WTiether the dear one silk or cotton wear. Or lie on down or earth, or towards heaven rise, E'en if she sinks to Hell, he'll seek her there. This world will last when Khayyam's every deed Will be forgot, yes, and his very name, Aforetime we were not and none did heed, When we are dead and gone, 'twill be the same. Some sages compass sea and land with mirth. Their secrets to search out and understand, I doubt extremely if they'll solve on earth. The scheme on which the universe is planned. I wasted life in hope, nor gained, I'm sure, In all my life of happiness a jot.
Now my fear is that life may not endure, Until some pleasure is at last my lot. Be very wary, ne'er the soul decry.
And on the world's afi"airs your lips refrain, Have as it were no tongue, no ear, no eye, Though tongue and ears and eyes you still retain. Some hanker after that vain fancy blind Of fair girls feigned in Paradise to be. But when the veil is lifted, they will flnd How far they are from Thee, how far from Thee. At birth when the great Founder fashioned me. He mixed much baser metal with my gold, No better and no wiser I'll e'er be, Than when I issued from His heavenly mould. To please the righteous, life itself I'll bear.
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And though men tread me down I'll ne'er rebel. They say « Inform us what is Hell and where », 111 company would make this earth a hell.
Down fall the tears from gloomy skies I see. Without this rain the flowers would never bloom, As now gay roses give delight to me, So shall my dust yield flowers to deck my tomb.
My comrades are all gone ; stern Death, ah me ! Has caught them one by one, they've gone below, They shared life's feast, and its few joys with me. But lost their lives, and died some time ago.
You ask me why this life's frail and unblest, 'Tis long to tell, yet I will make it plain, A bubble 'tis, blown from the ocean's bi^east, And then blown back to those same seas again.
Did no fair rose my Paradise now grace,
I would make shift to deck it with a thorn,
And if I lacked my prayer-book, a sad case,
Those Christian bells and books I would not scorn. .
You who fear not the fires of Hell which scorch, Nor wash in water at Remorse's well, "When blasts of Death shall quench your vital torch, Earth may perhaps your guilty dust repel.
Who mixed my clay in spite of me at birth ? Who framed my mind of good and bad, I sigh ? Who marked upon my forehead my small worth And all my evil deeds ? In truth, not I.
In our life's compass we stray ne'er inspired, Our pride of manhood humbled'and abated, Would we had died, long since have we been tired With the world's griefs and with its pleasures sated.
Death finds us soiled, at birth we're pure, we know, With grief we go ; we cried much at our birth Our eyes with tears dimmed, scorched with fires of woe, Life casting to the winds we sink to earth.
Ne'er in this false world we our friends should quote, (I give this counsel confidentially) Submit to pain, hope for no antidote, Endure your griefs, and ask no sympathy.
Of wisdom's dictates two are quite complete. Surpassing all your love which might appal. To fast is better than to gorge with meat, Wiser to live alone than join with all.
Don't hug your grief, but be by reason taught. And in this cruel w^orld be just and fair. And since the ending of this world is naught. Think you're a shadow, and shake off" dull care.
You must submit to heaven's decrees for you, With men alone avails hypocrisy, No wiles, of which thy cunning finds the clue, Can help you to outwit your destiny.
Still does the veil impede man's anxious quest, And all our fond conjectures us mislead, Our only prospect is earth's quiet breast, 'Tis given to none the dark beyond to read.
LAniÉFS ET SOURIRES 479
God sent us hither to our constant woe, Ah ! while we stay we only grief are knowing, At last we go against our will nor know% The reason of our coming or our going.
Young wooer, charm all hearts with rapture's signs, Glad winner, lead thy much-loved maid apart, A loved one far outweighs a hundred shrines, Seek not a temple : rather seek a heart.
Now in its prime my life I will not waste, I quaff good drink and listen to the fife, Decry not wine e'en of an acid taste, Its bitterness resembles human life.
Temples and mosques are fanes of God to me, 'Tis hymns that church bells chime into the air, Yes, church and mosque, the cross and rosary, Are all but various tongues of world-wide prayer.
Men say the Koran tells what saves the soul, But on its pages seldom care to pore, The tempting lines engraven on the bowl, That is the text they act on evermore. If men rebel and to God's power they sue. And if they wander, what of Providence ? If Heaven be earned by works or wages due, WTiat room for Mercy and Benevolence ?
Ah ! as they're fair to view those handsome dames,
I know not why the Heavenly Artisan
Has caused these blooming cheeks and beauteous frames.
To deck the mournful halls of Earth's divan.
Oh ! Thou who'rt love and wrath, we're always taught,
God, who createdst Heaven and e'en dread Hell,
Thou hast Thy court above and I have naught,
Why not admit me in Thy courts to dwell ?
I've viewed this world, my home, 'tis not divine,
Yes, and with all my wit deep themes essayed,
I've found no star, my love, so bright as thine.
No swan in such consummate grace arrayed.
Observe the world : in all you see there's dearth,
And all you say and do's not worth a thought,
Void is the whole of this most wretched earth.
The secrets treasured in your breast are naught.
Ah ! from the world all profit past me went,
What harvest of my life have I retained ?
What use are Fortune's treasures when they're spent ?
What's Pleasure's torch, when once its light has waned ?
Such as I am. Thy power life to me lent.
Thy care hath kept me near a century,
Through all these years I made experiment
If my sins or Thy mercy greater be.
To Thee whose essence thought has ne'er attained.
Our righteous or unrighteous deeds seem naught,
May Thy grace aid me, though with vice I'm stained,
And pardon all the ill that I have wrought.
0 soul ! could you from hence fly like a dove,
You'd soar a spirit near the heavenly Throne,
Were you not mad to leave your home above
And dwell an alien on this earthly zone ?
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For this world's storehouse crave not for one hour, Its dainties which seem real but are vain, Which foolish worldUngs to their harm devour, Renounce those things, their loss will prove thy gain.
My soul was once Thy bride, none loved it more, What caused Thee to divorce it from Thy side ? Thou didst not use to treat it thus of yore. Why then now doom it in this world to bide ?
Thy face in dense clouds Thou dost often screen, Yet dost display it in the Universe, Thou the spectator. Thou the Being seen. Sole to Thyself Thy glory dost rehearse.
Men say your o'erpraised, if your fame takes wing, A misanthrope, if you should live alone ; Trust me, though you were much the greatest king, 'Tis best to know none and by none be known.
Frown not at revellers, I advise with shame. Although thou keepest righteous company.
But drink, for drink, or not 'tis all the same. If doomed to Hell no Heaven thou'lt ever see.
' In Heaven, they say, fair maids dwell bright, not dumb. And fountains flow with wine I love so well, If these be lawful in the world to come, "V\Tiy 'tis not right to love them here? pray, tell.
Though Fd the world's sins on my head indeed, I know Thou wouldst to mercy be inclined, Thou sayst I will thee help in time of need, A needier one than I where wilt Thou find ?
That grace and favour which at first thou didst impart, That lavishing of joy and peace, what meant it? But now thy purpose is to grieve my heart ; Why is there now this change ? ah. do'st repent it ?
