The Persian Literature Volume I Part 39

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 h.e.l.l:"

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, And h.e.l.l 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 Parwin and Mushtari 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 Ramazan 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 Sufi 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 h.e.l.l The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pis.h.!.+

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 pa.s.sing 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 ma.n.u.script 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 winged 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 Saki, you shall pa.s.s Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Gra.s.s, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One--turn down an empty Gla.s.s!

THE DIVAN

BY HaFIZ

[_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 ma.n.u.scripts either containing the same number of Odes, or having the same couplets following each other in the same order.

INTRODUCTION