The Persian Literature Volume I Part 46

A beggar am I; yet enamoured of one of cypress mould: One in whose belt the hand bides only with silver and with gold.

Bring wine! let first the hand of Hafiz The cheery cup embrace!

Yet only on one condition-- No word beyond this place!

Lx.x.xVII

When beamed Thy beauty on creation's morn, The world was set on fire by love new-born.

Thy cheek shone bright, yet angels' hearts were cold: Then flashed it fire, and turned to Adam's mould.

The lamp of Reason from this flame had burned, But lightning jealousy the world o'erturned.

The enemy Thy secret sought to gain; A hand unseen repelled the beast profane.

The die of Fate may render others glad: My own heart saddens, for its lot is sad.

Thy chin's deep pit allures the lofty mind: The hand would grasp thy locks in twines entwined,

Hafiz his love-scroll To Thyself addressed, When he had cancelled What his heart loved best.

Lx.x.xVIII

The preacher of the town will find my language hard, maybe: While bent upon deceit and fraud, no Mussulman is he.

Learn drinking and do gracious deeds; the merit is not great If a mere brute shall taste not wine, and reach not man's estate.

Efficient is the Name Divine; be of good cheer, O heart!

The div becomes not Solomon by guile and cunning's art.

The benisons of Heaven are won by purity alone: Else would not pearl and coral spring from every clod and stone?

CI

Angels I saw at night knock at the wine-house gate: They shaped the clay of Adam, flung into moulds its weight.

Spirits of the Unseen World of Purities divine, With me an earth-bound mortal, poured forth their 'wildering wine.

Heaven, from its heavy trust aspiring to be free, The duty was allotted, mad as I am, to me.

Thank G.o.d my friend and I once more sweet peace have gained!

For this the houris dancing thanksgiving cups have drained.

With Fancy's hundred wisps what wonder that I've strayed, When Adam in his prudence was by a grain bewrayed?[43]

Excuse the wrangling sects, which number seventy-two: They knock at Fable's portal, for Truth eludes their view.

No fire is that whose flame the taper laughs to scorn: True fire consumes to ashes the moth's upgarnered corn.

Blood fills recluses' hearts where Love its dot doth place, Fine as the mole that glistens upon a charmer's face.

As Hafiz, none Thought's face Hath yet unveiled; not e'en Since for the brides of Language Combed have their tresses been.

CXV

Lost Joseph shall return to Kanaan's land--Despair not: Affliction's cell of gloom with flowers shall bloom: Despair not

Sad heart, thy state shall mend; repel despondency; Thy head confused with pain shall sense regain: Despair not.

When life's fresh spring returns upon the das mead, O night-bird! o'er thy head the rose shall spread: Despair not,

Hope on, though things unseen may baffle thy research; Mysterious sports we hail beyond the veil: Despair not.

Has the revolving Sphere two days opposed thy wish, Know that the circling Round is changeful found: Despair not.

If on the Ka'bah bent, thou brave the desert sand, Though from the acacias thorn thy foot be torn, Despair not,

Heart, should the flood of death life's fabric sweep away, Noah shall steer the ark o'er billows dark: Despair not,

Though perilous the stage, though out of sight the goal, Whither soe'er we wend, there is an end: Despair not,

If Love evades our grasp, and rivals press our suit, G.o.d, Lord of every change, surveys the range: Despair not.

Hafiz, in thy poor nook-- Alone, the dark night through-- Prayer and the Koran's page Shall grief a.s.suage-- Despair not.

CXXIX

Endurance, intellect, and peace have from my bosom flown, Lured by an idol's silver ear-lobes, and its heart of stone.

An image brisk, of piercing looks, with peris' beauty blest, Of slender shape, of lunar face, in Turk-like tunic drest!

With a fierce glow within me lit--in amorous frenzy lost-- A culinary pot am I, in ebullition tost.

My nature as a shirt's would be, at all times free from smart, If like yon tunic garb I pressed the wearer to my heart.

At harshness I have ceased to grieve, for none to light can bring A rose that is apart from thorns, or honey void of sting.

The framework of this mortal form may rot within the mould, But in my soul a love exists which never shall grow cold.