Chapter XV: Preface (1)

This is the book of the Rhymed Couplets (Mathnawī, Mesnevī). It contains the roots of the roots of the roots of the (one true) Religion (of Islām); and treats of the discovery of the mysteries of reunion and sure knowledge. It is the Grand Jurisprudence of God, the most glorious Law of the Deity, the most manifest Evidence of the Divine Being. The refulgence thereof “is like that of a lantern in which is a lamp”[37] that scatters beams more bright than the morn. It is the paradise of the heart, with springs and foliage. One of those springs is “the fount named Salsabīl”[38] by the brethren of this religious order (of mystical devotees known as the _Mevlevī_ or _Dancing Dervishes_); but, by saints and the miraculously endowed, it is called “the Good Station”[39] and “the Best Resting-place.”[40] The just shall eat and drink therein, and the righteous shall rejoice and be glad thereof. Like the Egyptian Nile, it is a beverage for the patient, but a delusion to the people of Pharaoh and to blasphemers; even as God, whose name be glorified, hath said: “He misleads therewith many, and He guides therewith many; but He misleads not therewith (any), save the wicked.”[41] It is a comfort to men’s breasts, an expeller of cares. It is an exposition of the Qur’ān, an amplification of spiritual aliments, and a dulcifier of the disposition; written “by the hands of honorable scribes,”[42] who inscribe thereon the prohibition: “Let none touch it save the purified.”[43] It is (a revelation) “sent down (from on high) by the Lord of (all) the worlds,[44] which vanity approacheth not from before, nor from behind,”[45] which God watches over and observes, He being “the best as a Preserver,”[46] and “the Most Compassionate of the merciful ones,”[47] unto whom pertain (many) titles, His utmost title being God, whose name be exalted.

We have been brief in (stating) this little; for a little is an index to much, and a mouthful may point out a pond, as a handful may serve as a sample for a whole threshing-floor, however large.

Thus saith the feeble servant, in need of the mercy of God, whose name be extolled, Muhammed son of Muhammed son of Huseyn, of (the city of) Balkh,[48] of whom may God accept it: “I have exerted myself to enlarge this book of poetry in rhyming couplets, which contains strange and rare narratives, beautiful sayings, and recondite indications, a path for the devout, and a garden for the pious, short in its expressions, numerous in their applications. This have I done at the instance of my lord and master, my trust, and as the soul in my body, the moral store of my to-day and my morrow, the Sheykh Hasan son of Muhammed son of Hasan, commonly known by the appellation of Akhī-Turk (my brother Turk), a chief of the knowing ones (Gnostics?), a leader of right direction and sure knowledge, a helper of the human race, a confidant of men’s hearts and minds, a charge of God among His creatures, His pure one among His reasoning servants, (a compendium of) His commandments to His Prophet, of His mysteries with His chosen one, a key to the treasures of the throne, a custodian of the riches of the extended earth, a man of excellencies, a sharp sword for the severance of truth and religion (from falsehood and blasphemy),[49] the Bāyezīd[50] of the age, the Juneyd[51] of the period, the true friend son of a true friend son of a true friend, may God be pleased with him and with them, originally from the town of Urmiyya,[52] and related to the venerated Sheykh,[53] as he himself expressed it: ‘I was a Kurd one evening, and was an Arabian in the morning.’[54] May God sanctify his spirit, and the spirits of his successors! Blessed is such a predecessor; blessed are such successors! He was descended from a line on which the sun had cast its lustrous mantle, and personal nobility such that the stars shed their lights around it. May their courtyard ever be a centre to which the sons of saints will turn, and a temple of hopes about which embassies of spotless men will circulate. May it not cease to be thus while a constellation rises and a sparkling orb appears above the horizon in the east; so that it may be a thing held to by those who are possessed of insight, the godly, the spiritual, the heavenly, the celestial, the men of light, who keep silence and observe, who are absent though present, who are kings clothed in rags, the nobles of nations, endowed with virtues, the lights of guidances. Amen, O Lord of (all) the worlds. And this is a prayer not to be rejected; for it is a prayer joined in by all the good. And glory be to God in His unity. And may God pronounce blessings on our lord, Muhammed, and on his family and kin, the good, the clean!”

THE BOOK OF THE MESNEVĪ.

IN THE NAME OF GOD,

THE ALL-MERCIFUL, THE VERY-COMPASSIONATE.

PROEM. The Reed-Flute.

From reed-flute[55] hear what tale it tells;
What plaint it makes of absence’ ills:

“From jungle-bed since me they tore,
Men’s, women’s, eyes have wept right sore.
My breast I tear and rend in twain,
To give, through sighs, vent to my pain.
Who’s from his home snatched far away,
Longs to return some future day.
I sob and sigh in each retreat,
Be’t joy or grief for which men meet. 5
They fancy they can read my heart;
Grief’s secrets I to none impart.
My throes and moans form but one chain,
Men’s eyes and ears catch not their train.
Though soul and body be as one,
Sight of his soul hath no man won.
A flame’s the flute’s wail; not a breath,
That flame who feels not, doom him death.
The flame of love, ’tis, prompts the flute,
Wine’s ferment, love; its tongue not mute. 10
The absent lover’s flute’s no toy;
Its trills proclaim his grief, his joy.
Or bane, or cure, the flute is still;
Content, complaining, as you will.
It tells its tale of burning grief;
Recounts how love is mad, in brief.
The lover lover’s pangs best knows;
As ear receives tongue’s plaint of woes.
Through grief, his day is but a dawn;
Each day of sorrow, torment’s pawn. 15
My days are waste; take thou no heed,
Thou still are left; my joy, indeed.
Whole seas a fish will never drown;
A poor man’s day seems all one frown.
What boot from counsel to a fool?
Waste not thy words; thy wrath let cool.
Cast off lust’s bonds; stand free from all.
Slave not for pelf; be not greed’s thrall.
Pour rivers into one small gill,
It can but hold its little fill. 20
The eye’s a vase that’s ne’er content;
The oyster’s filled ere pearl is sent.[56]
The heart that’s bleeding from love’s dart,
From vice of greed is kept apart.
Then hie thee, love, a welcome guest;—
Physician thou to soothe my breast.
Thou cure of pride and shame in me;
Old Galen’s skill was nought to thee!
Through love, this earthly frame ascends
To heaven; a hill, to skip pretends. 25
In trance of love, Mount Sinai shakes,
At God’s descent; ‘and Moses quakes.’[57]
Found I the friend on whom I dote,
I’d emulate flute’s dulcet note.
But from my love, while torn away,
Unmeaning words alone I say.
The spring is o’er; the rose is gone;
The song of Philomel is done.
His love was all; himself, a note.
His love, alive; himself, dead mote. 30
Who feels not love’s all-quick’ning flame,
Is like the bird whose wing is lame.
Can I be quiet, easy, glad,
When my delight’s away? No! Sad.
Love bids my plaint all bonds to burst.
My heart would break, with silence curst.
A mirror best portrays when bright;
Begrimed with rust, its gleam grows slight.
Then wipe such foul alloy away;
Bright shall it, so, reflect each ray.” 35

Thou’st heard what tale the flute can tell;
Such is my case; sung all too well.

I.

The Prince and the Handmaid.

A prince there was, long since in time it is.
Of Church and State the power and wealth were his.
The chase on horse one day to follow, bent;
With pompous courtier-train afield he went.
A handmaid[58] fair was wand’ring near a grove.
Her he espied, and straightway fell in love.
His heart was snared; her form its cage, its stall.
He lavished gold; and made her thus his thrall.
But now, behold the wayward spite of fate!
The maid fell sick, this prince’s joy to bate. 5

An ass had Hodge; no saddle to the fore.
A saddle bought; a wolf straight Jacky tore.
A jug had Dick; the well, alas, was dry.
The well then filled; the jug was broke hard by.

Now leeches called the prince, from left, from right.
“Two lives,” quoth he, “depend upon your might.
My health is naught; she’s life of life to me.
I’m sad at heart; my sov’reign balm is she.
Who finds a remedy to save her life,
Much gold, with jewels, his; and thanks more rife.” 10

All promised marvels; each, to use his skill;
To search the case; to ease the maiden’s ill.
“Each one of us has Jesu’s[59] healing power.
Of all their ills we cure men every hour.”
Through pride, “God willing” said they not, I trow.[60]
Man’s nothingness, in them the Lord would show.
That is to say--to leave out this good word
Is sin; said by mere rote, it will not please the Lord,
How many shrink from tonguing it aloud,
Whose hearts each action with “God willing” shroud. 15

The doctors now prescribe full many a drug.
In vain they ponder, vain their shoulders shrug.
The maid a very skeleton became;
The prince’s tears their want of skill did blame.
With oxymel, through fate, did bile increase;
E’en almond oil ran dry where rubbed as grease.
Lax myrobalans act as nutgalls first;
As naphtha feeds a fire, drinks brought but thirst.

The prince no sooner saw their art was vain,
Than barefoot sped, heaven’s _worship-house_[61] to gain. 20
The holy altar, there, he bowed before;
With flood of tears he bathed its sacred floor.
Then, heart-relieved with sorrow’s fierce outbreak,
’Mid praise and blessing, thus his suit he spake:
“To Thee, whose meanest gift is world-wide sway,
Who know’st each secret wish, why need I pray?
Our refuge art Thou in our every need;
We’ve erred again; do Thou in mercy lead.
’Tis Thy behest, to whom all thoughts are known,
That man with words approach Thy awful throne.” 25

His humble supplication proffered so,
Sweet mercy’s fount at once did overflow.
His tears undried, deep slumber on him fell,
And heavenly-dulcet tones he heard thus tell:
“Glad tidings, prince, to thee this day I bring:
Next daydawn at thy gate a guest shall ring;
A heav’n-sent stranger, versed in healing art,
In him have faith; he’s true in speech and heart.
Imagine not his treatment magic’s spell;
God’s power alone can make thy maiden well.” 30

The promised hour at hand, the daydawn broke;
The sunbeams paled the stars; the prince awoke.
An outlook sought he, whence to watch the way,
And first th’ expected stranger to survey.
One he espied of most majestic mien,
Of radiance mild,--as sun, dark clouds between;
Or moon at full;--so seem’d he from afar.
Mere fancy’s pictures ever objects mar.
Things non-existent often frenzy paints;
We see mankind deluded over feints. 35
Their peace, their war, not seldom for a sham;
Their pride, their shame, some sorry epigram.
But visions, such as blessed saints entrance,
Reflections are from heaven’s inhabitants.

The semblance by our prince seen in his swoon,
The features wore that now in flesh are shown.
The prince, in lieu of ushers, forward came,
To meet the heaven-sent guest, in his own name.
Their trains one column formed from mingling bands;
Their hearts united, fettered not their hands. 40
The prince: “Would thou’dst my soul enslaved; not she!
But here below effect a cause must see.
Be my Muhammed! I thy ‘Umar stand,
With girded loins awaiting thy command.”

Pray God to grant thee ever meek respect;
The puffed-up fool’s remote from Heaven’s elect.
A shameless monarch to himself’s a curse,
A firebrand to his realm; nay, even worse.

Food in the wilderness by God was sent;
Food without toil, food gratis, without stint. 45
Some graceless scoffers out of Moses’ host
Dared to demand the onions, lentils lost.[62]
Such toilless food then ceased to fall from Heaven;
To dig, to sow, to reap, in lieu is given.
Fresh suit, much later, Jesus made; God willed;
Again food rife became; men’s dishes filled.
That food’s a gift from Heaven is clearly said,
In Jesu’s prayer: “Give us our daily bread.”[63]
Men’s bold presumption Heaven again incensed,
When basketsful to beggars were dispensed. 50
Jesus proclaimed the miracle would last;—
That food would never lack as in the past.
Men doubted, asked for more to store away;
They trusted not God’s word for bread each day.
Importunate those suitors, full of greed;
Heaven’s gate of mercy closed against their breed.

Withheld is rain when alms have ceased to flow;
Where fornication reigns, black death will grow.
Whatever grief and sorrow’s on us sent,
Of wickedness and guilt’s a punishment. 55
The hardened sinner, who his God offends,
A ruthless robber is; he spoils his friends.
He who is shameless in his words and deeds,
Despair from disappointment is his meed.

Yon orbs of heaven obey their Maker’s word;
The holy angels meekly serve the Lord.
The sun’s eclipse is but a check to pride;
E’en Satan’s fall presumption caused to tide.
Return we now the sequel to attest,
Of what befell our prince with his new guest. 60

His circling arms the welcome form embraced,
And, lover-like, with joy his neck enlaced.
Kisses bestowed he on his hand and brow;
Hoped kindly he’d fared well from home till now.
His health and welfare asking, led him in.
“Its own reward is patience,” thought he then.
Patience at first is bitter; but at length
Its fruit is sweet. It gives us heart’s content.

Then he aloud: “A gift from God thou’rt come,
The proverb’s pith: ‘By patience overcome.’ 65
This meeting’s the reward of all my prayer;
Thou’lt solve the riddle of my dark despair.
Th’ expounder, thou, of all my soul’s desires,
Thou’lt extricate me from despond’s deep mires.
Be welcome, then; a very friend in need;
Hadst thou delayed, my case were sad indeed.
Prince of physicians! Who’d not welcome thee,
Deserves rejection. Do his eyes not see?”

Urbanity’s requirements thus bested,
Our prince the stranger to a chamber led. 70
The maiden’s tale and case he there unfolds.
The patient, next, unveiled, the guest beholds.
Complexion, pulse, _egesta_, all are seen;
Disposing causes, symptoms, sought, I ween.
Then he: “The remedies till now adduced,
Have detrimental been, no good produced.
The case has been from first misunderstood.
Protect us, Heaven! A blundering brotherhood!”

He saw her trouble; thence divined her ill.
Her secret kept he; hidden held it still. 75
The sickness was not caused by bile or spleen.
The scent of perfume’s better smelt than seen.
He traced her suffering to a mind oppressed;
Her body sound, her soul a wish suppressed.
Her hesitations made him guess her love;
The symptoms plain,--her heart was sick, poor dove!

A lover’s smart is not from fleshly pine;
A probe is love; it sounds hearts’ depths, divine.
Let love proceed from this or other cause,
It matters not; heavenward it mortals draws. 80
However well we strive love to portray,
We blush thereat, when love our hearts doth sway.
Words make most matters plain and manifest;
But love unspoken speaks whole volumes best.
When pen took up from zeal the writing trade,
In love’s description, oh! such blots it made!
Our wits in love’s affairs stand sore perplexed;
Love only can elucidate love’s text.

The sun alone can well explain the sun.
Wilt see’t expounded? Turn to him alone. 85
A shade, ’tis true, of him gives some small hint;
The shining sun surpasses all comment.
A shade, like evening chitchat, sends to sleep,
From sun’s effulgence does full knowledge leap.
That day-orb, still, each eve sets, here below;
The soul-sun, God, shines in eternal glow.
’Mong things extern that orb has not a peer;
But mock suns we can make, our nights to cheer.
On heart unless the soul-sun cast a ray,
No thought, no picture can its sheen portray. 90
Can mind His glorious essence comprehend?
His presence, then, to image who’ll pretend?

Of poet’s verse when God’s the holy theme,
Its minished head the sun may hide, ’twould seem.
At mention of His name each breast must find,
A duty ’tis His grace to call to mind.
The breath of life He to this body gave,
With Him to reunite, should mercy save.
These years I’ve conversed with Him. Life serene!
One repetition more! O blissful scene! 95
How pleasant heaven and earth their smiling hold!
He offers soul, mind, eye, a hundredfold!

Beyond my strength, O try me not these days!
My reason ’d fail to falter forth Thy praise.
The song of man, when uninspired by Thee,
Mere fulsome, flattering trash is seen to be.
Bid me describe, whose every nerve is seared,
A lover’s woe, whom mistress never cheered.
His lonesomeness, the anguish of his breast,
Not here I’ll paint; elsewhere it may be best. 100
He cries: “O succour me; I faint, I pant;
And quickly; lest delay the dagger plant!”

The Mystic[64] true relieves each moment’s need;
“To-morrow” ’s not a point in his pure creed.
Art not persuaded so? The proverb scan:
“Delay’s the thief of time;” say: “bane of man.”
Love’s sweetest favours are conferred by stealth;
Its darksome hints are treasured mines of wealth.
The tale’s most pleasant to a lover’s ears,
That tells of joys he’s tasted, ills he fears. 105

Speak, meddler, then, in plain, unvarnished guise;
No subterfuge employ; deal not in lies.
The veil tear off, dissimulation lost:
“When unadorned, beauty’s adorned the most.”
Should my sweet love unveil’d her charms display,
Thy smirks and smiles would all be borne away.
Thy suit prefer; use moderation still:
A blade of grass ne’er overturns a hill.
The sun that lights and warms this nether world,
If brought too near, had all to ruin hurled. 110
Seek not to sow dissension in the earth;
Vaunt not the Sun of Tebrīz’[65] holy birth.
Contention’s never-ending. Better far,
Commit to memory this wordy war.

The guest, convinced that love had caused her ill,
Proceeded next the prince’s mind to still.
“These chambers clear of every mortal soul;
Leave me alone the patient to control.
No prying ear may linger in the hall;
I’ve things to ask may not be heard by all.” 115

The place was cleared; no soul remained within,
Save leech and patient; other, none was seen.
In gentlest tones he asked: “Where was thy home?
For each town’s folk a different cure must come.
What friends, what family hast left behind,—
Companions, playmates, who to thee were kind?”
On pulse his finger. He then, one by one,
Inquired anew each point, omitting none.

So he whose foot is wounded with a thorn,
Upon his knee doth take the limb that’s torn. 120
With needle’s point he seeks the intrusive dart;
Not finding it, from lip he soothes the smart.

If thorn in foot is thus a task to find,
Judge what must be a rankling pang of mind.
Could every chance observer spy those ills,
Where’d be the cankering care, the grief that kills?
Boys place a thorn beneath an ass’s tail;
The cure Ned knows not; jumping’s no avail.
Whisking’s still worse; it deeper drives the dart.
’Tis reason’s task to ease the burning smart. 125
The ass, if sharper grow the throbs and pains,
Kicks, plunges, rolls, his hide with gore bestains.

Our doctor’s mind, by art full well prepared,
With gentle measures sought the ill he feared.
Once more, with tact, he bids fresh memories come,
And leads the maid again to talk of home.
The spring once tapped, the stream began to flow;
She told th’ inquirer much he wished to know.
He lends his ear as she each scene displays;
His finger notes her pulse, as on she strays; 130
To learn if any name should raise a start,
And thus betray the secret of her heart.
Anew he mentions every friend, each place;
Repeated such as gave of hope a trace.
He asked: “On quitting, thou, thy native town,
Where first was it thy guardians set thee down?”

A place she named, and on to others passed;
Nor blush, nor pulse gave sign, or notice massed.
Of lords and citizens she gave report,
Of festivals, and seats of gay resort. 135
Town after town, house after house, by name,
She spoke about; no blush, no throb still came.
Her pulse retained its normal ebb and flow.
Till Samarqand’s name made her cheeks to glow,
Her pulse beat high, her colour went and came;
Of goldsmith youth she there had been the flame.
This point drawn forth,--this secret once confessed,
More easily our leech the sequel guessed.
“O maiden, let me know this youth’s abode.”
“At Holywell, near Bridge-end’s public road.” 140

“I knew,” said he, “at once, thy case was such.
Now trust me. Thee to serve I will do much.
Make thyself happy. Cast away all care,
As showers cheer meadows, thee I’ll greatly spare.
I’ll prove thy guardian angel; never fear;
Thy father’s place I’ll take;--thy burden bear.
Tell not this secret unto mortal soul,
However much the prince may thee cajole.
Keep safe this knowledge in thy own heart’s core;
So mayest thou, lass, thy lover see once more. 145
Our holy Prophet’s sacred maxim ’twas:
‘Who keeps his secret, speedy success has.’
The seed to earth committed sure must be,
Ere field or garden’s pride men may it see.
If gold and silver were not hard to find,
How could they grow?[66] They soon would be out-mined.”

The good physician’s soothing words perceived,
Our maiden’s mind from carking care’s relieved.
Some promises are truly meant, sincere;
Others are merely made to cheat the ear. 150
A good man’s promise is a gem of price;
Rely not on the words of sons of vice.

Our doctor, now, with subtle speech and wiles,
The maiden’s grief had turn’d to sunny smiles.
He leaves her then; seeks out the prince; and tells
The news he’d learnt, the source of all her ills.
“What’s now to do?” the prince’s care inquired;
“Delay is dangerous; patience may grow tired.”
The doctor then: “Send for him; come he must,
From his far home to fill some post of trust. 155
Invite him here; a dress of honour give;
On him shower gold; new life ’twill make him live.”
The prince assented; took the doctor’s plan;
Thought it was sound and wise from such a man.
Two trusty messengers he quickly sent,
Sedate, fair-spoken, loved where’er they went.
To Samarqand they journeyed, prompt and sure.
The goldsmith found; the prince’s message bore.
“Great man of art, the marvels of thy skill,
Are viewed with rapture, or with envy still. 160
Our prince has need of thee, his mint to guide;
For none like thee is heard of, far and wide.
This dress of honour, yonder gold he sends;
Requests thou’lt come, and be his best of friends.”

The gold and dress of honour won his heart;
Good-bye to home he said, with them to start.
He travels joyous; thinks his luck is great;
And never dreams of what’s to be his fate.
An Arab charger proudly bore him on;
He recked not at what price all this was won. 165
O fatuous fool! Thou hastest to thy doom.
The post thou dream’st of, soon will be thy tomb.
His fancy webs of power and fame did weave;
Death’s angel thundered: “Come, and all this leave!”

Arrived betimes at his long journey’s end,
The doctor led him to the prince, his friend.
Most nobly was he there received in turn.
One trims the lampwick, still, to make it burn.
The prince addressed him; bade him welcome there;
Mint-master nam’d him, treasurer, and mayor. 170
Our doctor once again his counsel gave:
“The damsel to this youth for service leave.
United to him, she’ll her health regain;
Love’s fever will subside with absence’ pain.”

The prince bestows the sick one on her mate.
United were the two in solemn state.
Six months they feasted on love’s joys so sweet;
The handmaid’s health from day to day more meet.

The doctor, now, a potion mixed for him.
His health declines; he every day grows slim. 175
The coin that passes much from hand to hand
Soon loses currency, has no demand.
So he, when beauty no more graced his cheek,
Began to lack worth with the handmaid sleek.
All love that’s built on outer skin-deep charms,
Is not true love. At length shame ’tis that warms.
Would it were shame alone that pricks him now!
He’d not been victimised and brought thus low.
His eyes pour forth two streams of bitter tears;
His altered features the worst foe he fears. 180

The peacock’s enemy his plumage call.
The monarch bleeds whose splendours neighbours gall.
The musk-deer for the musk-pod still is slain;
His blood for that alone the ground will stain.
The marten for its fur is trapped, surprised,
And strangled. Kings its pelt have prized.
The elephant, sagacious creature, dies,
For iv’ry pierced with weapons as he flies.

“He who slays me for what I leave behind,
Reflects not: ‘Blood that’s spilt demands its kind.’ 185
To-day ’tis I; to-morrow ’twill be thou;
Who’ll be most loser? ’Tis not I, all know.
The shadow of a wall, ’tis true, is wide;
The sun revolves; the shadow’s turn’d aside.
The world’s a mountain; all our works, a voice;
Our voice goes forth; its echo has no choice.”
Reflecting thus, the goldsmith breath’d his last;
The handmaid’s love and grief behind her cast.

A dead mate’s love can never more be shown;
A dead mate’s voice will never more be known; 190
Love for the living, in the heart and eyes,
Will ever spring; the dead no more can rise.
One Living is there, death that never knows;
Love Him! The life from Him alone still flows.
Love Him, whom saints and prophets all have loved;
Through whom alone we all have lived and moved.
Say not thou canst not to His throne approach;
He’s gracious. His rich grace bears no reproach!

The goldsmith’s death through lethal drugs, be sure,
Was not from hope, or fear, or baser lure. 195
The doctor kill’d him, not to please our prince;
Him some divine suggestion did convince.
The story of the child by angel slain[67]
Cannot be fully grasped by minds too plain.
A saint that acts on Heaven’s high behest,
Can never do amiss; ’tis always best.
He who can pardon, he may also doom;
He’s God’s vicegerent; acts in Heaven’s room.
As Ishmaël beneath his father’s knife,[68]
Do thou for such a prince lay down thy life; 200
Thus may thy soul, in future blessed abode,
Muhammed-like, in peace be with thy God.
His lovers joyful are, most, when they slay
Their worldly joys with their own hands, as play.

Our prince took not the goldsmith’s life through lust.
Chase such suspicion from thy mind thou must.
Imagine not he’d stoop to mortal sin.
Can holy saint have tainted heart within?
The trial of the fire, and of the flame,
Is but to cleanse pure gold from every blame. 205
So too, temptation on us all is sent,
To part the good from those of bad intent.
Had he not acted thus by God’s command,
No prince, a wolf he’d been, rav’ning the land.
From lust, greed, foul caprice, his soul was free;
So did God will, whate’er the cause may be.
Elias sank his ship in full design;[69]
That wreck to future blessings was the sign.
Moses was shock’d thereat, with all his skill
And inspiration. Thou must needs judge ill. 210
A blood-red rose call not by murder’s name;
Just retribution see thou do not blame.
Had righteous blood been shed by him as naught,
Blasphemer were I to extol him aught.
Praise of the wicked God with horror views;
The good contemn all flatterers of sin’s crews.
Our prince was kind and virtuous, wise and just,
A man God-fearing, and in God’s full trust.
A victim put to death by such a friend,
Is slain in error, or for some wise end. 215
Did not our God mean mercy in His wrath,
How could the Lord of Mercies thunder forth?
A child may tremble at the lancet’s smart;
His mother knows there’s healing in the dart.
It may half kill him, but restores sound life;
So God’s great mercies far surpass our strife.
Men judge of what they see by what they think.
From judging justice, men of sense will shrink. 219

II.

The Oilman and the Parrot.

An oilman there was, who a parrot possessed,
Soft-voiced, and green-coated; could talk with the best.
The oilshop her charge when the man was away;
The customers coaxed she the whole live-long day.
Her speech was quite human, her words full of sense,
In all parrot-tricks she was void of offence.

One day the man popped out, on bus’ness intent;
The parrot, as usual, had charge while he went.
A cat, as it chanced, of a mouse in full chase
Bounced into the shop. This poor Poll could not face. 5
From perch away flew she; took refuge on shelf;
Some jars she knocked over; the oil spread itself.

The master returning, first sat himself down,
As lord of the manor; the shop was his own.
The oil-pools he spied, and then Polly’s wet coat;
A blow on the head made her feathers drop out.

In silence some days Polly brooded, from grief;
The oilman’s bereft of his wits, to be brief.
He plucked at his beard; he heaved a deep sigh;
“Alas!” then, he shrieked out, “day’s darkened on high 10
My hand, would it withered had, ere I’d struck Poll;
I’ve silenced her prattle that always was droll!”
His alms now he showers on each passing scamp,
In hopes Poll her chatter ’d get back by some tramp.
Three days and three nights in this guise did he pass,
Despair at his heart, like a lorn lovesick lass;
Incessantly sobbing and sighing, his word
Was: “Pray now, will speech e’er return to my bird?”

A bare-headed mendicant happened to pass;
Whose scalp was close shaved, smooth and shining as glass. 15
At once our Poll-parrot her silence forswore,
Screamed after the mendicant: “Poor head! Sore! Sore!
Old bald-pate! old bald-pate! What is it thou’st done?
Upset some one’s oil jar? The oil is’t all gone?”
The passers-by smiled all at Polly’s mistake,
’Tween bald-head and bare-head no diff’rence to make.

So thou, my dear friend, think thyself not a saint;
A quean to a queen bears resemblance, but faint.
Mankind on this point in great error still stands;
Th’ elect of the Lord are ignored on all hands. 20
The equals of prophets acknowledged they be;
Of saints they’re the brethren, as all men agree.
Fools say: “The elect are but human, you see;
To eat and to sleep they’re constrained, just as we.”

Through blindness they miss the real point of the strife,
The diff’rence between them’s immense all through life.
The wasp and the bee eat and drink from the fields;
The one stings, the other sweet honey still yields.
The deer of both sorts browse the same mountain’s side;
The one gives rich musk; dung the other; go, hide. 25
The canes of two species in one land may grow;
Quite empty that one; from this, sugar will flow.
By thousands, examples of pairs thus are known,
Which differ as much as does cheese from the moon.
Our bread, in one case, turns to dirt in our meat;
Another produces the mind, God’s own seat.
His food the one man swells with envy and greed;
By like means another gains virtue indeed.
One soil is productive; one barren and salt;
One angel’s in heaven; the other’s at fault. 30
In form, many pairs may appear as though one,
Clear water is sometimes as hard as a stone.
Excepting the taster by practice, who knows
The wholesome from unwholesome water that flows?

Supposing saints’ miracles tricks, magic-wrought,
They fancy them both the result of deep thought.
Magicians, at bidding of Pharaoh, did cast
Their wands down, to Moses’ rod as a repast.
From his rod to their wands a chasm there must be;
From his act to theirs we an interval see. 35
God’s curse on their witchcraft and devilish art!
His blessing on Moses, who chose the best part!

To me, like as apes are man’s miscreants all;[70]
To speak of them causes me, straight, sick to fall!
Whatever men practise, apes will copy still;
Our actions they mimic; of thought they know _nil_.
They cunningly do what they’ve seen that man did;
The reason they seek not; from them that is hid.
A man acts from reason; an ape from mere whim.
Perdition may seize all such actors, and him! 40
The hypocrite[71] worships[72] as aping the saint,
For form’s sake, or worse. His religion’s mere feint.
In pilgrimage, worship, and fasting, and alms,[73]
Believers and hypocrites vie, as in psalms.
Believers shall win in the last judgment day;
The hypocrites then shall receive their due pay.
The two are contending one great game of deeds,
As factions of Mervites and Rāzites[74] with creeds.
They each shall go there, where their party shall stand;
And each shall be classed as their actions demand.[75] 45

Just style these “Believers” their hearts fill with glee;
But dub them all “Hypocrites,” rage then thou’lt see.
The first one’s ashamed of the last one’s true self;
This last-named’s a plague to the first, like an elf.

No virtue in mere words or letters is found;
“Believer”’s a word in itself but a sound.
If “Hypocrite!” cast in their teeth be at last,
As scorpion’s sting to their souls it clings fast.
If “Hypocrite”’s name be not product of hell,
So bitter at all times why does its sound tell? 50
This name’s great repulsion is not in its form;
The bitter it smacks of is not from a corm.
The word’s but a vase; ’tis its sense is the wine;
The sense of a book in the title may shine.

Sweet lakes and salt seas do we find here on earth;
The barrier between them: “Thus far; go not forth!”
They both, in their origin, flow from one source;
Look not at their severance; it’s matter of course.
The touchstone’s the test by the which thou must try
If gold be quite pure, or debased with alloy. 55
The touchstone of conscience, where planted by God,
What’s certain, what’s doubtful, makes plain without nod.
A fishbone that sticks in the throat of a man
No ease ever gives till it’s coughed out again.
In ten thousand mouthfuls should one bone be found,
As soon as perceived, it’s spit out on the ground.

Perception of things mundane guides here below;
Religion’s keen sense leads where God’s glories glow.
The health of his senses man asks of the leech;
Religion’s sound sense from the Lord we beseech.[76] 60
For healthy perceptions, our frame must be sound;
Religion’s enjoyments through suff’rings are found.
The health of the soul’s through a waste of the flesh,
But after much searching it builds up afresh.

How blest is the soul that, for love of its God,[77]
Has flung away wealth, health, e’en life, as a sod!
Has pulled down its house a hid treasure to find,
And built it again from that treasure refined!
Who cuts off the streamlet to clear out its bed;
Then turns on the water with which it is fed! 65
Who gashes his skin to extract the spear-head!
(The skin may now heal, for the irritant’s fled.)
Who wrecks a strong castle to drive out the foe,
Then rears it still stronger, to hold evermo’!

The will of Almighty God who shall control?
These sentences written are parables all.
Sometimes in one way, in another sometimes,
Religion confuses before it sublimes.
Not terror, bewilderment, loathing, dismay;
But ecstacy, rapture, love, come into play. 70
In trance of love fixed, one contemplates the Lord,
Another, self losing, unites with his God.
Observe the rapt features of that one, of this;
Perchance by such watching thy soul may gain bliss.

Too numerous demons in human form walk;
Beware, then, with whom thou engagest in talk.
The fowler his whistle may ply in the field,
To lure the poor birds, saying: “Come and be killed.”
Each songster conceives ’tis the voice of its mate,
Descends from the air, and meets with its fate. 75
The sinner, in pious cant, uses a wile,
To trap the unwary who ponders no guile.
The upright deal faithfully, truly, in trust;
The wicked imagine but fraud and distrust.
A lion of wool is a beggar’s device;[78]
Musaylama’s named Muhammed in a trice.[79]
Musaylama liar, deceiver we know,
Muhammed was faithful in weal and in woe.
The wine of God’s love was the food of his soul.
The wine that inebriates dash from thy bowl. 80

III.

The Jewish King, Persecutor of the Christians.[80]

A certain Jewish King, in savage, brutal scenes,
From hate of Jesus, persecuted Nazarenes.
’Twas Jesu’s age, when he the Gospel first did teach;
In Jesus, Moses, and in Moses, Jesus preach.

That King God made squint-eyed; things straight he could not see.
A King and squint-eyed? Ah! that one the two should be!

A master once a squint-eyed slave commanded so:
“Come here; that bottle from its shelf, go, fetch me; go.”
The squint-eye straightway asked: “Which, master, of the two?[81]
The case explain; clear up the doubt, and truly show.” 5
His master answered: “Two there’s not; there is but one;
Put off thy strabism; with stupidity have done.”
“Good master,” quoth he, “chide me not; ’tis nature’s fault.”
The master quick rejoined: “Look now; break one; halt! halt!”
As soon as one was broken, both were gone from sight.
Poor squint-eye nearly lost his wits in childish fright.
There was but one; his eyes were cause that he saw two.
The one away, the other consequently was gone too.

Desire or rage, at times, makes people double see.
The mind’s distortion brings the eyes perverse to be. 10
From passion’s mists our reason ever blinded lies.
The heart its clouds sends up; the mind’s eye’s vision flies.
The judge to taking bribes who basely bends himself,
Can never well discern the right and wrong, from pelf.
Our King through Israelitish rancour grew so blind,
As nothing to distinguish in his rage of mind.
By thousands, faithful seekers of God’s will he slew.
“Vouchsafe us help, O God of Moses, Jesus too!”

He had a Vazīr, brigandlike for craft and force.
In knavish stratagems he had no peer; of course. 15
He whispered to the King: “These Christians, as in hives,
All keep their faith a mystery, to save their lives.
To kill them thus is profitless. Give breathing-time,
Religion can’t be smelt out just like musk or thyme.
A secret ’tis, well wrapped in many folds of guile.
In outward show, as friends, perfidiously they smile.”
The King, with grimace fierce: “What have we then to do?
What remedy proposest thou to make them rue?
I will not leave alive one Christian in the land,
Whose faith is shown to all, or in his bosom banned.” 20

The Vazīr to him: “King, my hands and ears cut off;
My nose and lips the same. Give orders; let them scoff.
Unto the gallows send me; I’ll of all be seen.
Then let an intercessor plead,--some prince,--your queen.
Let all this happen where some spacious public place
May let all see, that all may know of my disgrace.
Then drive me forth; away from thee in exile sent;
And they’ll receive me, under feint of sorrow bent.
‘In secret,’ I’ll pretend, ‘a Christian I’m at heart;
Call God to witness how my faith has worked my hurt. 25
The King a knowledge gained of zeal in me that burned;
Its flame to put out quite, his anger on me turned.
I strove to hide my faith, my leaning to keep hid;
Affected still to be, think, act, just as he bid.
Suspicion crossed his mind; my secret he espied;
All I could plead for nothing went; he said I lied.
“Thy specious words,” quoth he, “are needles in a loaf;[82]
My eye, as through a glass, sees all thy thoughts; thou oaf!
No curtain of thy trickeries can veil thy faith from me;
I’m proof against thy knaveries; thy cunning I can see.” 30
Were not the faith of Jesus the refuge of my heart,
He’d not have mutilated me in this sad sort.
For love of Jesus, head and life I will lay down;
All persecution suffer to gain a martyr’s crown.
My life I will not grudge to lose for Jesus’ sake.
His faith I hold from point to point without mistake.
I dread his doctrine’s fall to uninstructed guides.
The truth from their bad teaching still to ruin glides.
Thanks be to God, to Jesus thanks, who me have made
A teacher perfect of the faith so free from shade. 35
The Jew and Judaism I have forsworn in sooth;
About my loins the sacred cord[83] I wear; ’tis truth.
This age the age of Jesus is; O men, give ear!
His doctrine take to heart; nought else have you to fear.’”

The Vazīr having laid this plot before the King,
All shame and scruple vanished; ’twas a perfect thing.
In presence of the public, nose, ears were cut off.
The rabble wondered greatly; now’s the time to scoff.
He fled unto the Christians; begged them him to hear;
And straightway set up preaching; saintlike was he there. 40

The Christians soon with one accord accepted him,
In multitudes they round him flocked, all meek and prim.
The Gospel’s holy words, the prayer, the cord, he’d preach;
The mysteries of all of these to them he’d teach.
To outward view a guide to sanctity was he;
In very truth, a trap and fowler’s whistle; see.
Of such effect his wiles, disciples were deceived;
From Jesu’s teaching fell, and in this cheat believed.
It is so. Often does the flesh, for selfish end,
Intrude itself across the soul’s most fervent trend. 45
Meek virtue was not what they sought to gain the most;
Of him they learned to ferret out new sins, and boast.
Hair-splitting casuists, point by point they sin dissect;
They grow too wise; ’twixt rose and garlic links detect.
Of such avail’s the subtle cunning of these men,
That honest teachers oft are made to swerve by them.

The Christian folk in him their confidence thus place.
Gregarious, like sheep, ’s the mob of every race.
A gen’ral favourite was he; all loved him well;
Christ’s vicar called they him; as who the truth could tell. 50
This cursed Antichrist, so full of fraud and wile!
Grant help, O God! ’Tis Thou alone canst curb such guile.
The devil’s snares are spread abroad in tempting guise,
Their baits are various; we, like birds, shut fast our eyes.
If saved from one, another tempts; we thither stray;
Like hawks and eagles, heinous sins make us their prey.
Thou shieldest us, O gracious God! But ever still,
With froward hearts and minds we counteract Thy will.

This world’s a granary, of which we steal the corn.
The wheat is there all garnered; we it spoil in scorn. 55
We take no heed of future life in what we do;
Sly mice still help us to consume the fruits that grow,
Those mice a road have found to reach our winter store.
Through their inroads our victual spoils; it is no more.
First stop mouse-holes; make safe thy granary, O man!
Thy wheat then garner safely; winter’s at our van.

Give ear to what he’s said, the Lord’s own Chief of Chiefs:[84]
“No perfect worship’s needed, save in war’s reliefs.”[85]
If mice there be not to destroy our garnered meeds,
Where is our wheat, the fruit of fifty summers’ deeds? 60
To shreds all nibbled lie the products of our days;
No stores accumulate for provend on our ways.

How many sparks of fire from flint and steel have flown!
How many hearts, like tinder, make those sparks their own!
But in the dark some thief his finger presses there;
And ev’ry train puts out that has been lighted here.
Extinguished if those sparks were not, a flame would rise;
A burning light be kindled, flashing ’yond the skies.
A thousand snares are laid to catch our tripping feet;
But, Lord, if us Thou shield, harm never shall us meet. 65
If but Thy grace will guide us, lead us on our way,
No thief can steal our peace of mind, our light of day.

Each night Thou settest free the soul from trap of flesh,
To scan and learn the hidden records of Thy wish.[86]
Each night the soul is like a bird from cage set free,
To wander. Judge and judgment, then, it does not see.
By night the pris’ner loses sense of bars, of chains;
By night the monarch knows no state, no pomp retains;
The merchant counts no more, in sleep, his gains and loss;
The prince and peasant, equal, on their couches toss. 70

The Gnostic[87] is so e’en by day, when wide awake;
For God hath said: “Let quietude care of him take.”[88]
Asleep to all the things of earth by night, by day,
As pen in writer’s hand he doth his guide obey.
Whoever sees not in the lines the writer’s hand,
May fancy ’tis the pen alone has all command.
Of this, the Gnostic’s privilege, a trace ’d suffice
To rob of sleep and reason vulgar souls of ice.
His spirit wanders in the groves of th’ absolute.
His soul is easy; body, still, calm, quiet, mute. 75
The two absolved from greed, lust, sense, care, fear also;
Each, like a bird uncaged, is free; roams to and fro.[89]
Should he, birdlike, be whistled back to trap of sense,
Again he sinks, the slave of every vile pretence.

When light of dawn paints bright the blushing sky with red,
Ere orb of day comes forth as bridegroom from his bed,
Shrill chanticleer, as though it were last judgment’s trump,
Calls back to consciousness the sleepers. Up they jump.
The souls return their bodies to inhabit, then;
Each body fraught with thoughts, and words, and deeds again. 80

The soul turned loose, without the body’s cares or ken,
Attests the truth: “Sleep is death’s brother,”[90] to all men.
But lest it should escape, and not come back at call,
A tether to it’s bound; it’s not quite free withal.

It must come back by day from roaming where it wills,
The cares of life to bear;--a burthen that soon kills.
O! Would, O God, Thou’d keep my soul in Thy own hand,
As Sleepers in the Grotto;[91] Noah’s ark once to land!
Then had I ’scaped the tempest waking thoughts aye raise;
My mind, eyes, ears, had rested; all my task Thy praise! 85
Sev’n Sleepers?--Many are there of them in this world,
Before, behind me, right and left; they’re round me hurl’d!
My “Cave”[92] art Thou; my “Mate” art Thou; O God, my friend!
Men’s eyes and ears are sealed; they know not where they wend.

A Caliph asked of Laylà: “Art thou really she
For whom poor Majnūn went distracted? For I see,
Than other beauties thou art not so passing fair.”
Said she: “Be silent! Thou’rt not Majnūn; nor his pair.”

A man awake is sound asleep; more, he can’t be.
His watchfulness is worse than sleep; how should he see? 90
Our souls, if not awake to God’s most holy truth,
Are not awake. We’re slaves to them. The greater ruth!
The soul all day is buffeted by fancy’s whims;
Of loss or profit, life or death, as frenzy swims.
No peace enjoyed; no dignity remains in hand;
No vigour to attempt a flight to heaven’s strand.
Asleep is he who’s slave to every sordid wish;
Who begs of fancy; parleys with it, even. Pish!

A demon in his sleep he sees; an angel deems.[93]
Through lust he swoons with sensual pleasure as he dreams. 95
His seed he sows in sandy, salt, and desert land;
And wakes to find no harvest’s ripened to his hand.
A headache, with a beating heart, is all he feels;
“Alas!” he sobs, “that treach’rous gnome! My whole frame reels!”

A bird flies in the air; its shadow flits on earth;
A second bird it seems to be, though nothing worth.
Some simpleton runs after it; to catch it tries;
Himself tires out; meanwhile the creature safely flies.
The fool still knows not ’tis a shadow he pursues,
Its substance where to seek he has no power to muse. 100
He shoots his arrows at the fleeting, mocking shade;
His quiver emptied, he returns; no booty made.

Our life’s our quiver. When our years are vainly spent
In chasing phantoms, grief will one day have its vent.
Let God’s protection mercifully on us rest,
All fancies and all phantoms stand at once confest.
God’s servants are His shadows here below on earth;
To this world dead, but living in a second birth.
To their skirts cling; from them thy soul’s nutrition seek.
So may’st thou ’scape the perils of this scene’s last week. 105
The holy text of: “How He stretcheth forth the shade!”[94]
Of saints gives notice. Them his glory doth pervade.
Without their guidance venture not to thread this maze;
Like Ab’ram answer: “Fading things do not me please!”[95]
In days of trouble, consolation’s sun seek out.
The skirts of “Tebrīz’ Sun” will wipe out care, no doubt.[96]
Know’st not the road to that good man, and grief survene?
Inquire of his and my friend, great Husāmu-’d-Dīn.[97]

While on thy way, should envy seize thee by the throat,
Know, Satan’s sin was envy; malice made him gloat. 110
He envied Adam’s rise to such sublime estate.
He wars with all who’re good, through envy and through hate.
No mountain-pass as this life’s progress is so steep;
Let envy not increase thy load; thou canst but creep.
The flesh a hot-bed is of envy and of strife.
These soil the soul; for envy’s bane of mortal life.
Should envy seek thy soul to kill, invoke the Lord,
The God of mercy thee can save, with His true Word.
“Make clean My house, ye two,” did Ab’ram’s God once say.[98]
His house our frame; a house of glory, though of clay. 115
Should envy fill thy breast ’gainst one that envies not,
Foul stains ensue; thy heart’s impure; all good’s forgot.
Prostrate thyself, then, at the feet of holy men;
Cast dust upon thy head, God’s pardon to attain.

The Vazīr of our Jewish king was envy’s self;
His nose and ears he sacrificed, as ’twere but pelf,
In hopes the sting of envy ’d find an easy way,
To pour the selfsame wounds he ’d open lay.
His nose, from envy, in the air, who carries high,
His ears and nose to envy ’d give without a sigh. 120
The nose the organ is by which we trace a scent;
The scent then guides to where the odour finds its vent.
Who has no sense of smell is truly _minus_ nose,
Its odour we should trace to where religion blows.
To scent religion’s fragrance, not returning thanks,
Ingratitude is. Nose to lose merit such pranks.
Be grateful, thou; and venerate all grateful men;
Abase thyself; a champion be of theirs. Amen.
Be not a cut-throat, like that Vazīr, of men’s faith;
Seek not to turn believing souls from what God saith. 125
That Vazīr seemed a pastor of the truth, in sham;
As one who bitter aloes mixed in sweet plum jam.

Some men of sense discernment used, his ways to scan,
His honied phrases smacked to them of knavish plan.
Refined truisms, double-meaning, he’d deal out,
Like syrup into which some mortal poison’s put.

Be thou not caught with knavery’s fairly-spoken word;
A hidden meaning it may have. Be on thy guard.
Of evil-minded men the speech is never good;
Their hearts are dead and putrid; life cannot there brood. 130
A man’s an offset from a man, by nature’s law,
As sure as cake of bread is bread, and not mere straw.

God’s Lion,[99] ‘Ali, saith: “All words in folly made,
As weeds on dunghills, crowd apace; as quickly fade.”[100]
He who would rashly, thoughtlessly, repose thereon,
Begrimed will be, befouled, befooled, and spat upon.
He that gives vent to wind, mere wind, is bound to wash;
His worship else is vain; pollution doth it quash.[101]

The Vazīr’s talk was all: “Be diligent in pray’r.”
His acts proclaimed aloud: “Of duty never care.” 135