The Persian Literature Volume I Part 38

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jemshid gloried and drank deep: And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild a.s.s Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean-- Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Beloved, 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.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.

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?

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!

Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare, And those that after some TO-MORROW stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries, "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scattered, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

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 where in I went.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow; And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd-- "I came like Water, and like Wind I go."

Into this Universe, and _Why_ not knowing Nor _Whence_, like Water w.i.l.l.y-nilly flowing; And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, I know not _Whither_, w.i.l.l.y-nilly blowing.

What, without asking, hither hurried _Whence_?

And, without asking, _Whither_ hurried hence!

Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine Must drown the memory of that insolence!

Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate, And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road; But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.

There was the Door to which I found no Key; There was the Veil through which I might not see: Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE There was--and then no more of THEE and ME.

Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn; Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.

Then of the THEE IN ME who works behind The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find A lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard, As from Without--"THE ME WITHIN THEE BLIND!"

Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn: And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live, Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive Articulation answer'd, once did live, And drink; and Ah! the pa.s.sive Lip I kiss'd, How many Kisses might it take--and give!

For I remember stopping by the way To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay: And with its all-obliterated Tongue It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"

And has not such a story from of Old Down Man's successive generations roll'd Of such a clod of saturated Earth Cast by the Maker into Human mould?

And not a drop that from our Cups we throw For Earth to drink of, but may steal below To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.

As then the Tulip for her morning sup Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up, Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.

Perplext no more with Human or Divine, To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign, And lose your fingers in the tresses of The Cypress-slender Minister of Wine.

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press, End in what All begins and ends in--Yes; Think then you are To-day what Yesterday You were--To-morrow you shall not be less.

So when that Angel of the darker Drink At last shall find you by the river-brink, And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.

Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside, And naked on the Air of Heaven ride, Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest

And fear not lest Existence closing your Account, and mine, should know the like no more; The Eternal Saki from the Bowl has pour'd Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.

When You and I behind the Veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last, Which of our Coming and Departure heeds As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.

A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste Of Being from the Well amid the Waste-- And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!

Would you that spangle of Existence spend About THE SECRET--quick about it, Friend!

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True-- And upon what, prithee, may life depend?

A Hair perhaps divides the False and True; Yes; and a single Alif were the clue-- Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house, And peradventure to THE MASTER too;

Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains; Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and They change and perish all--but He remains;

A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd Which, for the Pastime of Eternity, He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door, You gaze To-day, while You are You--how then To-morrow, when You shall be You no more?

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit Of This and That endeavor and dispute; Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line And "Up-and-down" by Logic I define, Of all that one should care to fathom, I Was never deep in anything but--Wine.

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 trans.m.u.te:

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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.s'd the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road, Which to discover we must travel too.