Masnavi

A merchant there was, who a parrot did own; Confined in a cage, wisest bird in the town. This merchant to journeying made up his mind To fair Hindūstān, there some rich wares to find. From generous motives, to each of his slaves, To male, and to female, some gift to bring craves. He made them all tell him what best they would like; And promised to bring it, most gentlemanlike. He said to the parrot: “Poll! Poll! With the rest, From Hind I must bring thee what thou mayst like best.” 5 The parrot replied: “Sure, thou’lt see parrots there, To them pray impart how it is that I fare. Inform them, a parrot who loves them all well, By thee’s kept confined, close shut up in a cell. He sends you his love, and his very best wish; Desiring from you wise advice, parrotish. He fears he may pine, through longing to see His dear absent friends, - die in foreign countree. He asks if it is altogether thing fit, That he should be caged, while you on the trees sit. 10 If this is the way in which true friends should act; Leave him in his cage, while you forests affect. He wishes you’d call to your mind your lost friend, When drinking your bumpers, ere fieldward you wend.

’Tis sweet to be thought of by far-away dame, One’s sweetheart, whose love’s set one’s heart in a flame. While you are disporting with those you love best, He’s eating his heart out; grief gives him no rest. One bumper you’ll drink for the love of poor Poll, If only you wish him your love to extol. 15 Or, thinking of him who’s in slavery kept, Your bowl’s whole contents dash to earth, as though wept. O where is the promise, and where is the oath, Th’ engagements sworn to him by sugarsome tooth? If absence of his came from truancy’s pranks, You’ve set your forgetfulness ’gainst his sin’s ranks. The ills you inflict out of spite and disdain Are sweet to your lover, he does not complain. Your petulance prized is beyond fairy gifts; Your vengeance most dear is; his hope it uplifts. 20 No soul can imagine what pleasure is felt, Or grace seen, in all the fell blows you have dealt. Your wrath is thus sweet; how much more so your grace! If mourning so grieve, what from feast would take place? He weeps; but he hopes you’ll believe not his tears; And, out of affection, not lessen his fears. He loves your great kindness, your anger as well. He equally dotes on those opposites fell. The thorn escape should he, and visit the rose, He’d warble as nightingale, moved by love’s throes. 25 Most wondrous this bird’s strangest use of his bill; With thorns, as with roseleaves, he would his mouth fill. Not nightingale this; fiery dragon it is; All wrongs seem to him, through his love, purest bliss. He loveth a rose, and himself is a rose. He loveth himself; and seeks love for its woes.”

Just so is the soul. Its tale, just parrot’s tale. O where is the One to whom all souls make wail? Where is the man, feeble, who’s yet innocent? His heart, Solomon and his whole armament. 30 When he, with tears bitter, is heard to complain, The seven vaults of heaven re-echo the strain. In anguish he groans; God, in mercy, him hears. His cry is: “O Lord!” And God wipes off his tears. Abasement in him, is by God highly prized. His blasphemies, o’er other men’s faith are raised. Each instant, in soul, he ascends to heaven’s gate; His mitre’s with crowns capped, of infinite state. His frame’s here on earth; his pure soul with the Lord In heaven’s highest sphere, above man’s thought or word. 35 A heaven such as this thou contemplatest not; Thou every moment imaginest - what? With him “where” and “nowhere” are quite equal felt. To angels the “four rivers” seem a mere belt. Break off we this theme. Let’s discuss other things. Cease trifling. “’Tis God who knows best” sense’s rings. Let’s seek to inquire how it fares with our friends,— The merchant, his parrot. Who is’t understands?

The former had promised, at latter’s request, To give to the birds of far Hind his bequest. 40 So when he had reached that land, greatly renowned In wooded retreat, flock of parrots he found. He stopped his beast, cried out, at top of his voice, That message his Polly had made, as his choice. One bird of the flock, he saw, then took to quake, Fell prone to the earth; no more breath seemed to take. The merchant regret felt for what he had done, Exclaiming: “Alas! The poor bird I’ve slain, lone! That creature was surely related to Poll; Two bodies; one soul; just as is magic doll. 45 Why did I deliver that fatal message? I’ve killed a collateral of Poll’s lineage!” The tongue, by itself, acts just like flint and steel. A word from it, fire-like, we scathing can feel. Strike not, then, so rashly, fire’s sparks from thy tongue, In message or talk, feeble hearers among. The night is pitch dark; strewn around, cotton beds. Amongst beds of cotton, ’tis, sparks one most dreads. He sins who, unmindful of dire consequence, Lets fall spoken spark, - fires a whole world, immense. 50 One rash word may set an assembly ablaze. Molehills into mountains, and higher, it can raise.

In basis, our souls would appear Jesus-like. To kill, to resuscitate, words are godlike. If lifted could be from our souls the dark veil, Each word of each soul would with miracles trail. Dost wish to speak always to men with sweet words? Have patience. Impatience must not fret the cords. ’Tis patience beloved is by all men of sense. Impatience a fault is, of children, intense. 55 Who patience exhibits shall mount to heaven’s dome. Impatience who showeth, tastes wrath that’s to come. A saint is not hurt, whate’er else may betide, To swallow fell poison should he once decide. He’s whole, and he’s sound; strict diet’s his rule. Poor students are healthy in fever’s dread school. The Prophet has cautioned: “Brave though you may be, Commit not mad rashness, howe’er the foe flee.”

Within thee’s a Nimrod. Approach not the fire. Approach it thou must? To be Abr’am aspire. 60 A swimmer thou art not; - nor seaman by trade; From headstrongness strive not the deep sea to wade. From fire Abr’am brought forth a fresh-plucked red rose. A diver, from sea-bottom, pearls’ store can choose. A saint handles earth, turns it straightway to gold. A sinner, by touch, to earth turns this; - behold. A just man’s accepted of God, the Most High. His deeds are the works of God’s hand, still. Eigh! Eigh! Th’ imperfect one’s hand is aye Satan’s foul limb; Responsible rests he, howe’er he may climb. 65 To him wisdom’s self’s but a mere misguidance. Th’ imperfect man’s science is crass ignorance. Whatever as cause acts, as cause counted is; A perfect man’s blasphemy’s pure faith, my quiz. Rash combatant, fight’st thou on foot ’gainst horseman! Thy point thou’lt not carry; - as sure as thou’rt man.

So, Egypt’s magicians, in old Pharaoh’s days, Contended ’gainst Moses; and rashly, always. At length they owned Moses superior was; Men honour, revere him, who most of power has. 70 They said to him, then: “Command ’s thine! See! Purely! ‘Thy rod cast down’ first. This thy wish is; surely.” He answered: “Nay, nay! First cast ye down your wands. Produce to our sight the tricks ye’ve in your hands.” The honour thus paid was a slur on their faith, Removing contention from out of their path. When they had perceived what was thus due to him, They error acknowledged, though somewhat too dim. The “perfect man” ’s free both to eat and to speak. If thou art “imperfect,” eat, speak not, in freak. 75 Thou art but an ear. He’s a tongue; - not like thee. To ear was addressed God’s word: “Silent be.”

A newly-born infant, still sucking the breast, Is speechless some while. He’s all ear, at the best. His lips to keep closed he has, for a set time; To speak till he learns, - words to frame and to chime. If ear he lend not, he’ll not learn common sense; Becomes laughingstock; - folly shows, most immense. If hearing he have not, deaf being at root, He mute must remain; no tongue has he, to boot. 80 Since, then, we must listen, before we can speak, Lend ear to thy teachers, to guide thee who seek. A room should be entered, as rule, through its door. Effects ever seek where thou seest their cause’ spoor. The speech that has need to be heard by no ear, The voice is of God; it’s to us ever near. Inventor is He. From no one has He learnt. Of all, He’s the stay; not a prop does He want. All others require, as in speech, so in deed, From others, instruction; they all patterns need. 85

If thou art not negligent, - hear’st what’s been said, Adopt dervish frock; go and weep in homestead. Himself Adam saved from all blame by his tears. So tears run wherever repentance appears. To weep, Adam came down to this nether world; To sigh, moan, and groan; far from sweet Eden hurled, From paradise shut out, from heaven driven down, Like schoolboy in fool’s-cap, his great sin to drown. If thou’rt seed of Adam; - if from his loins sprung; Like him, do thou seek for God’s pardon, whilst young. 90 With burnings of heart, and with moisture of eyes, As sun and as rain, do thou sorrow’s fruit raise. Of all the rich solace, what knowest thou of tears? Thou beggest still for bread, like a blind man, with leers. Thy stomach make void of foul greed’s lust for bread. Thy heart thou’lt find filled with deep love for Godhead. Thy infant soul wean from the gross milk of greed, Then teach it to join, next, in angel’s pure creed. So long thou remainest in darkness and thrall, A bantling of Satan thou art, out at call. 95

The morsel that brings a pure light to the soul Is earned by endeavour; not begged with a bowl. Should oil, upon trimming, extinguish a lamp, Not oil may we name it; ’tis water; ’tis damp. The honestly-earned morsel, wisdom imparts; Gives softness to souls, and a warmness to hearts. If thou be aware that from thy morsel spring Heartburnings and hate, know it’s not a blest thing. Hast wheat ever sown, and reaped barley instead? Hast known colt of ass from a mare in birth bred? 100 A morsel, when eaten, ’s a seed; its fruit, thought. A morsel, when swallowed, ’s a sea pearls has brought. From good, honest morsels come, taken in mouth, Good works, and firm strivings to shun the soul’s drought. Reflections, though true, we’ll now bring to an end. To merchant and parrot’s tale ear we will lend.

Our merchant his trading had quickly despatched, Then homeward he turned; with joy housedoor unlatched. To ev’ry male slave a rare present he brought; For each of his handmaids some gift he had bought. 105 The parrot him questioned: “What news bringest thou me? And whom hast thou seen? What’s been said? Tell. Let’s see.” The merchant him answered: “I’m sorry for that. I’d rather my hand eat, than tell it thee; - flat. In thoughtlessness, folly, ah! why did I prate About thy fool’s message, until ’twas too late?” The parrot then asked: “What’s this fuss all about? What’s caused tribulation? Let’s hear it right out.” The merchant now said: “I told all thy sad grief To flock of green parrots; - so like thee, their chief. 110 Of them, one, affected with thy tale of woe, Heart-broken, a gasp gave, expired, and fell low. I conscience-struck was for the words I had said. But what is the use? A word breathed can’t be stayed.”

A spoken word’s arrow swift shot from a bow, It can’t be recalled, whate’er we may do. An arrow once shot off will never come back. At source, inundation alone can have check. An outlet once found, there’s no stoppage for it. A world is then ruined, through lack of quick wit. 115 Act, consequence little dreamt of may produce. The progeny’s far ’yond our power to reduce. The work of one Maker ’s this universe all. Our acts’ consequences to our accounts fall. Jack shoots off an arrow; - directs it to Jill. The arrow poor Jill hits; - straightway does her kill. If only it wound her, for great length of time It tortures. Pain’s God’s work; wherever the clime. Should Jack, at that moment, expire from his fright, To plague her Jill’s wound would not cease, day or night. 120 If from the effect of great pain, then, she die, Remote cause is Jack, still, of her misery. Account he must render for those pangs of hers. Although they’re God’s acts, man to man them refers. And so propagation, seed-sowing, and all; Effects of them operate. God’s sole, the call.

A saint acquires powers, most astounding, from God. The flying bolt he can avert with a nod. The door can be shut between cause, consequence, On saint’s reclamation, by God’s prescience. 125 He makes said unsaid, from beginning to end. Hence, neither does skewer burn, roast to coal trend. From every mind that has knowledge of fact, Remembrance effaced is, though brains may be racked. Of this, dost thou proof require, most worthy friend, The text read: “What verse We annul, or We mend.” Again: “They my warning made you to forget.” By these is oblivion’s great power ’fore us set. To make us remember, forget, they power have. They’ve hearts subjugated o’er creation’s wave. 130 Whene’er dull forgetfulness blinds eye of man, No act can he do, howe’er wide his scan. Dost dare, thou, great saints to make laughingstock? To words of the Prophet give heed, silly block. Earth’s lords have dominion o’er bodies of clay. Enlightened saints rule hold o’er hearts; - their own sway. All acts are fruits, doubtless, of experience. Man, then, is but pupil. All’s, else, mere pretence. I’ll close now this subject; much more I might say; Prevented I am by the rules I obey. 135

Remembrance, forgetfulness, both are of God. Support and aid, too, must depend on His nod. Of thoughts, God, men’s good and bad souls voids, each night, By millions. Since this has seemed good in His sight. By day, their hearts fill with their thoughts all, again, Those oystershells He fills with rich pearls amain. He knows all the thoughts that here trouble our frames. ’Tis He that gives guidance to souls in their games. Thy talent, thy judgment, unto thee are given, That means thou may’st have to redeem thy fallen leaven. 140 The goldsmith’s rich art’s not by weaver possessed, By jocund vein here, there another’s distressed. Though mind’s frame and talents endowments are, all, They seem to a foe mere machines for his thrall. When sleep is departed, thoughts, talents return, One’s foe so comes back, has of war one more turn. With dawn, all our thoughts, all our talents, awake, As erst, good or bad; ere repose we could take. So carrier pigeons, wherever they’ve been, Return to their homes, quit the woodlands all green. 145 We see, thus, that all things revert to their source. Parts ever must go shares in whole’s intercourse.

So soon as our bird heard that parrot’s sad state, A shudder he gave, fainted, grew stiff as slate. The merchant, on seeing this, seized with dismay, Himself dashed to earth; wished he’d been far away. His clothes rent in sorrow; his beard he plucked out; And moaned, in distress wildly sobbing, throughout: “My parrot, why, dearest, thus broken of heart? Dead art thou, now, really? So fain to depart? 150 Poor pet! Darling bird! With thee, hours I could talk. My sweetheart! My second self! Loved was thy walk. Alas for poor Polly! Where’s now his sly chat? Alas, my companion! How shall I bear that? Had Solomon seen a green parrot like mine, What pleasure had he felt in other birds’ line? Dear prattler, in whose words I took such delight! And then, thus to leave me, with naught in my sight! Thy tongue to me dearer than gold’s wealth untold; At sound of thy sweet voice my joy was tenfold.” 155

O tongue! Thou’rt a fire, and also a cornstack! My patience, the cornstack! Hark! How its flames crack! My soul doth, in secret, of thee complain sore; But whate’er thou wishest, it does evermore. O tongue: Thou’rt a treasure, beyond all earth’s price! And yet thou’rt a plague, that’s not always too nice! A whistle art thou, birds decoying afield. A solace to love’s wayward, fitful, spoilt child. To men thou’rt all darkness, and blasphemy’s bale; To saints, guide, companion too, through this dark vale. 160 Thou’rt pitiless! Pity on me take, awhile. Thy bow thou hast strung, on poor me to work guile. Thou hast taken my bird; thou hast flustered my soul. So cruel why be? Why delight take so foul? An answer pray give; or else, deal out justice; Or hope let me have to taste joy’s chalice. My dawn! Thou dispellest my deep’ning darkness. My light! Day with thee is all sunshine brightness. Alas! That swift bird, boldly soaring, of mine, My lowest fall plumbed, traced my lineage divine. 165 The ignorant, wooers of trouble are, all. “I swear,” down to “misery” read, thou poor thrall. From misery free made me thy countenance. From spume, so the clear stream of thy assistance. Regret is a nursing of phantoms by day. Neglect, stern realities drives not away.

A zeal for the truth is in God, there’s no doubt. The heart, with God’s will, is constrained to burst out. He’s zeal, Who is “other,” far, than all things else, Beyond all praise, laud, blessing, thanks, in heart’s pulse. 170 Alas! my hot tears have become briny lake,— An offering worthy my lost idol’s sake. My parrot! My wise bird! My starling art thou! Interpreter, reader of thoughts, secrets, thou. All daily events, results, just or unjust, By Him ordained were, as I know, from the first. The Parrot, inspired, who by voice of man spoke, Existed ere dawn of existence first broke. That Parrot is plainly within thyself felt; Around thee His motto is ev’rywhere spelt. 175 Art joyful? From Him, know, all joys here do spring. Art wronged? Thou submittest. Thou’rt under His wing. O thou, who for body dost injure thy soul, Thy proud flesh to pamper, dost wrong to thy whole. I, too, am in flames. Who, then, seeks burning brand, The trash to consume of conceit from the land? That which is once burnt cannot blaze out again. Select flaming brand, living fire choose, amain. Alas! Lackaday! What has thus come to me? My full moon in clouds why thus hidden to be? 180 I scarcely can breathe; with deep sorrow heart burns; Male-lion-like,

grief all kind condolence spurns. He who in his senses has thus become drunk, How fierce would he rage, if in cups he were sunk. A lion in heat, he, despising all bounds; No forest would hold him, nor dense jungle-grounds.

Of rhymes do I dream? ’Tis my love orders me Of love still to dream; - swain devoted to be: “Thyself make thou happy. Rhymes leave, now, alone. The rhyme I seek, thou art. I love thee, my own. 185 What’s rhyme, that thou turnest thy thoughts thitherward? Mere bramble on wall, hedging round our vineyard. I care not for words, for asseverations; My time if I pass in these sweet delusions. Suggestion there is, one, kept secret from men. To thee I’ll impart. Thou keep’st secrets, like pen. Suggestion occult, Abr’am knew not one jot. One secret, that Gabriel as yet conceives not. One mystery, to Jesus that never was known, In jealousy God spake to me all alone.” 190

What do we with tongue? We affirm; we deny. I’m no affirmation; denial am I. In impersonality, person I find. In ungenerosity, goodness of mind. Earth’s potentates slaves are of their own slaves’ will. All mortals, mere corpses of dead corpses, still. Kings, subject are here to their own subjects’ whim. Man’s drunk with those intoxicated of him. The hunter of birds them entraps in his toils, Himself is then pounced on, despite of his foils. 195 A beauty makes prey of the men soft of heart. Sweethearts fall the victims of false lover’s dart. If lover thou see, know, a sweetheart he’s, too, ’Tis but a relation. Each one’s one of two. If thirst seeks for water in this wide domain, The water, on its side, the thirst courts again.

Should any one love thee, do thou silent be. Thy ear claims he then, thou attentive should’st be. The torrent bank up that threats dire overflow; Or ravage ’twill make of the lands down below. 200 What care I if cities in ruins should fall, In ruins we treasures find dear to us all. Man merged in God, most entirely is drowned As wave of a sea, soul but goes a set round. Is bottom of that sea preferred more, or top? Is God’s shaft desired more, or shield, it to stop? By doubts and by fears thou’lt piecemeal be torn, heart. If thou well distinguish from joy, sorrow’s smart. Desir’st thou to taste, then, true happiness, joy? ’Tis not thine to choose. Beauty ever’s most coy. 205 Each spangle of beauty’s star outshines the moon. To wreck a whole world’s naught to beauty’s full moon. What is it we’re good for? To sacrifice self. Then hasten, my good friend, to offer thyself. A lover’s whole life is but self-sacrifice; He wins not a heart, save his own heart’s the price. A heart I once courted with soft blandishment; With pretexts was put off, most magniloquent. I said my heart brimful was quite with her love; Said she: “Hold thy tongue, now; that theme let’s not move.” 210 What have you been doing, you two eyes of mine? Why saw you that cruel one? Left me to pine? Presumptuous man! Didst thou hold her so cheap, Because, by her kindness, made easy thy sleep? What’s easily got in this world, ’s easy spent. A child will give jewels at cake’s allurement. With love I’m o’erwhelm’d, now, of such a sad sort, That ancients and moderns to it are all sport.

I’ve made short my story; details are not given. ’Twould otherwise scorch heart and tongue’s whole joint leaven. 215 When I may say “lip,” I mean “margin of sea;” When “No!” you may take its true sense “Yes!” to be. My sourness of looks by much sweetness is caused. By words’ multitude, silence strict I’ve imposed. My sweetness I’ll hide, in this world, in the next. As veil, austere features I’ve firmly annexed. My secrets to shield from the ken of all ears, One out of a hundred, alone, here appears.

The world is right jealous, for reason that best: God first jealous was, long before all the rest. 220 He’s soul. The two worlds His august body form. The body, through soul must receive good or harm. Whoso in his worship turns truly to God, Foul shame ’twould be for him to bow to faith’s rod. Whoever’s a keeper of wardrobe to king, Brings loss to his sovereign by petty trading. With potentate, whoso, by grade, council holds, If placed as a guard at a gate, roundly scolds. Admitted to honour by kissing of hands, To stoop, kiss the foot, degradation now stands. 225 To kiss foot of sovereign’s a great honour, sure. Compared with hands-kissing, ignominy pure. A king would be jealous of servant so base His foot who should kiss, when his hand was the place. God’s jealousy wheat is on full threshing-floor; Man’s jealousy, chaff blown away out of door. Know: Jealousy rise doth take, still, in our God; Man’s jealousy budded from that noble rod.

Let’s quit that deep subject; take up plaint and wail, Against the great hardship of love’s chastening flail. 230 I cry, for that He loves to hear all my cries. My moans, lamentations, are what He enjoys. How should I cease wailing at His fell caprice? I’m not of His darlings, nor in His service. How should I not be, in my soul, black as night? Deprived of His look, sweetness, warmth, and mild light. All his disagreements are pleasant to me. My life I’d give up, sacrifice I would be. I love all my anguish; I dote on my pain, So long as it pleases my heart’s treasured swain. 235 My sorrow’s my eyes’ choicest collyrium; My tears are as pearls from deep-sea tedium. Tears poured forth by lovers at His adored feet, Are pearls; though we’re used them as tears to misgreet. My soul’s Soul’s the tyrant of whom I complain. Complaint I make not. I describe but my pain. My heart but pretends it has been too much hurt; Excuse is this merely. I smile at such blurt.

Do justice now, God, of all justice the fount! Thou sittest in justice’ seat; threshold I count. 240 From chief seat to threshold! How far raised above! Where stand “we” and “I” in the sight of our love? O Thou who art free, quite from “I” and from “we,” Thou heart’s-joy of all men and women that be; Where men and where women join, One art Thou, Sole! Where units appear, Thou’rt the sum of the whole! This “I” and this “we” Thou’st ordained for Thy state; That psalms, hymns, and lauds may still rise to Thy gate. When “I” and when “we” shall unite both in One, Absorbed they’ll be in Thy essence alone. 245 Existencies, potencies, all rise from Thee. Denial and potency, Thou’rt from these free. Can eye now behold Thee as truly Thou art? Can heart Thy love picture, and smiles, e’en in part? The heart that’s a slave to a love or a smile Can never be worthy to see Thee awhile. Engrossed he that’s now with pleasure and pain, Can he, by these accidents, live o’er again? Green pastures of love, in their infinitude, More fruits yield than care, and than beatitude. 250 Love’s far above these evanescent two states; Without spring and autumn, its verdant estates.

Pay beauty’s high toll, Beauty, on Thy sweet face; Set forth lover’s torments with all due preface. That archness of look of my coquettish Swain Anew has my heart fired with love’s brand of pain. I gave Him permission to pour out my blood. I spoke of permission. He fled me for good. Why fleest thus, always, the groans of complaint? Why pourest Thou suffering’s floods on the faint? 255 O Thou, whom each morn, as it dawns in the East, Has found, like the sun, full prepared for a feast, What cause have I furnished for all this sad pain, O Thou, whose lips sweeter than sugar remain? Thou ever new life givest to this old world; The prayer hear of one whom from life Thou hast hurled! For heaven’s sake, quit talking of spring’s roses red, And think of the nightingale banished their bed. My eagerness grows not from joy, or from grief; My senses cajoled will not be by whim’s thief. 260 My state is just one very often not seen; Contest not; truth’s ever victorious been. Think not my state that of all these common men; Be not benefactor, to tyrannise then. If kindness and tyranny, joy, grief, are new; All new things must die. God inherits. That’s true. ’Tis dawn. O of dawn Thou who art the sole cause! Excuse for me make to Husāmu-’d-Dīn’s laws. Excuses for angels and souls Thou canst see; Thou art the soul’s life; coral’s shine is from Thee. 265 From Thy light have sprung men and brightness of dawn. We’re all aided by Thee, Thou cup of wine drawn. Why does Thy gift keep me in constant suspense;— Thy spiritual wine, that still charms ev’ry sense. A beggar from me’s wine in fermentation! Spheres lessons take from me in revolution! With me wine gets drunk; I get not drunk with it. From me body grows; I spring thence not one bit. We’re bees, all of us; and our bodies, the wax; With it we build cells to conceal our dark tracks. 270

These considerations would grow longer still. We’ll turn to our merchant. We left him so ill. He thus, lamentations, sad groans, sadder moans, Shot forth, with sighs, burning; - grieved hearts’ crater-stones. Complaints, contradictions, petitions, like words, Now literal, then keen metaphors, sharp as swords. The drowning, ’tis known to each one who breath draws, To save threatened life, will, though vain, grasp at straws; In hopes that some aid to his rescue will come, He struggles, he flounders, he thinks of his home. 275 His sweetheart takes pleasure his struggles to see; An effort’s more noble than despondency. A bridegroom is, surely, not quite free from cares. His moans we expect not. Pain’s not what he fears. The reason this, why the Lord’s blest scripture says: “Each day He’s engaged in some one of His ways.” Therefore thou, my dear son, thyself still exert Until thy last breath. Seek not toil to avert. Then, at the last moment, the time may have come, When favor ’ll be shown thee for all thou hast done. 280 How much, and how long, strives the soul of each man, The king’s at the window; - hear, see all, he can.

Our merchant the parrot cast out from his cage. The parrot flew up; on a tree took high stage. The bird that was thought dead, now swift flew away. His course like the sun’s from the morn to midday. The merchant sore marvelled at his flying bird; Could not understand it; thought: “What has occurred?” Then cried, looking upwards: “Come, pretty Poll mine! Relate all about this freak strangest of thine. 285 What was that bird’s game, there, of whom then thou spokest? What trick was ’t he played? Grief in me thou awokest.” The parrot him answered: “He taught me the trick. He came and said: ‘Free thyself now. Up! Be quick!’ No sooner had sounded thy voice in his ears, He, as was agreed on, fell dead, it appears. As much as to say, here, to me in my cage: ‘Thou death counterfeit; so thou savest thy old age.’”

Become thou but grain; thou’lt be pecked up by birds. A flower make thyself; all the children go thirds. 290 Thy grain hidest thou? Thou’rt naught else but brick-trap. Thy flower shuttest up? Thou’rt a weed on house-top. His beauty whoever may offer for sale, Invites many troubles his heart to assail. Hopes, fears, wraths, and jealousies strike him at once; As rain on his head pours in winter; - the nonce. All sorts of opponents, by jealousy moved; With them, even friends joy to see him so proved. Whoever may put off to sow seed in spring, Ignores the true value of time’s swiftest wing. 295 Let each one take refuge in mercy of God, Who grace manifold on our souls has bestowed. Then shalt thou find shelter, when shelter thou needest. Fire’s, water’s protection thou’lt have, as thou heedest. It was not the sea alone Noah, Moses, saved. Nor sea alone was it, their foes that ingraved. It was not the fire that stood Abr’am in stead, Till God conquered Nimrod by gnat in his head. It was not the mountain that called John to it, 300 And drove back pursuers with huge rocks that hit. It cried: “Hither, John; refuge come take with me. Thy life I will save from foe’s sharp sword. Come; see.”

“Adieu, master dear; I’m now off to my home. May’st thou, too, be free, when the judgment shall come. Good-bye, my kind master; compassion thou’st shown. From tyranny’s chains, now, through thee, have I flown.” He gave to our merchant some words of advice. Then flew away, shouting: “Good-bye! Very nice!” The merchant a “Safe journey” augured to him. Then thought: “Useful lesson I’ve learned, and trim. 305 His doings may serve as a pattern for me. I’ll imitate him. Better teacher can’t be. My soul is not, sure, inferior to his. See how souls should act, to gain heavenly bliss.” The body’s a cage and a thorn to the soul. Hence, seldom are body and soul wholly whole. The body says: “I’ll follow where thou mayest lead.” The soul answers: “Nay! Thy desire’s all I heed.” The body then argues: “There’s none like to thee, Thou’rt perfect, kind, beautiful, good as needs be.” 310 The soul now demurs: “This and next worlds are thine. All hearts to the feast hasten, where thou’rt to shine.” The body then says: “’Tis a time for delight.” And soul responds quick: “Season, sure, to bedight.”

When body sees crowds, throngs, profess love for it, Control of self loses, in teeth takes the bit, It does not reflect how the thousands and more, Itself like, has sin brought to ruin’s grim shore. The bait of gross flattery is always found sweet. Therewith be not caught. Lurid fire’s ’neath its greet. 315 Its sweetness is present; its flame’s not forecast; Its smoke of destruction will burst forth at last. Say not: “I’ll ne’er listen to flatterer’s tale; They’re sordid, its motives; - like ‘sprat to catch whale.’” A lampoon should thy panegyrist indite Against thee in public, thy rest’s disturbed quite. Thou knowest it was spoken in sheer angry spleen, When he in some wish unsuccessful had been. The barb of it rankles, still, in thy heart’s core, The price paid for flattery, ’tis, makes thee feel sore. 320 Long, long shalt thou feel the deep wound it inflicts. It stimulates pride; all the soul it infects. Man shows not how sweet flattery is to his soul. The instant he’s lampooned, he’s lost self-control.

Thus, pill or draught taken to combat disease, A long time, indeed, you’re thence robbed of all ease. And if you eat sweetmeats, their tastes are soon lost. Nor one, nor the other, is worth half the cost. Duration they have not; effects they produce. By contraries, contraries all we deduce. 325 As hidden effect of a diet of sweets, By long incubation, boils break out, or gleets. The flesh, with praise pampered, a Pharaoh becomes. The flesh, mortified, due submission assumes. A servant to all be; princely power be forgot. Submit to cuffs, ball-like; like bat, batter not. So soon, otherwise, as thee fortune forsakes, Thy flatterers will turn. ’Tis greed only, them makes. The throngs of gross flatterers, who sang loud thy praise. Will shake their heads, shout out: “Poor de’il! What a craze!” 330 On seeing thee, then, as thou wanderest about, They cry: “Cursed hobgoblin! From grave he’s come out!”

Like beardless, vain boy they’ve addressed as “My Lord,” To work on his vanity, fair fame defraud, In vice when he’s nurtured, his beard thickly grown, E’en Satan would blush a pact with him to own. ’Tis men Satan seeks out, to work them mischief. Thee he’ll never seek; worse than him, thou, a thief. So long as thou’rt man, Satan follows thy track. He tempts thee to drain manhood’s lees, still, and wrack. 335 When thou’rt become devil, just like to himself, He flees thee in fright; leaves thee quite to thyself. All they who before refuge took in thy power, With horror fly from thee, in this thy fallen hour. Our words are mere lies, all tergiversations. Without the divine grace, they’re sheer delusions. Without grace of God, holy aid from His saints, Best “record” of man must be blots and complaints. O God! Thy grace, sole, ’tis sustains us as men. Another to name with Thee suits not a pen. 340 To servants, sound judgment Thou’st kindly vouchsafed. This gift made the means, we’ve from error escaped.

One drop from the sea of Thy knowledge, does us With omniscience, surely, make confluous. That drop have I gathered up in my soul’s trust. Do Thou save it, Lord, from lust’s soil and sin’s gust. Sin’s soil, oh! permit not that drop to absorb! Those gusts forbid Thou more to lessen its orb! True, Thou art All-Powerful, and Thy gracious will Could force them to yield it back, grace to fulfil. 345 A drop, lost in air, dispersed in the soil, Is still, through Thy providence, safe from despoil. Become it, or others, a nonentity, Thy beck can them summon to new entity. How many diverse still combine to form one. Thou givest the word, they part, each to its zone. Each moment, from naught fresh creations still come, In flocks and in crowds. ’Tis Thou makest them a home. Each night, in profound sleep our consciousness sinks; Becomes non-existent; - waves on seashore’s brinks. 350 When morning afresh dawns, they wake up anew, Like fish in the sea, plashing drops, falling dew.

In autumn, the leaves see. They quit, then, the trees; Like scattered battalions, they fly with the breeze. The rook, in robes sable, as mourner acts, chief; In wood and field croaks for his much-deplored leaf. Command from Thee goes forth; - Thou, true Forest-King; Nonentity gives back each late stolen thing. O Death! Thou restorest, now, the whole prey of thine; The leaves, flowers, and fruits, in their due season shine. 355 Consider, my friend, in thyself; now, awhile, The spring and the autumn thou in thee seest smile. Look thou that thy heart be green, yield its good fruits Of righteousness, purity, - heaven’s best recruits. Through garlands of verdure thy rough branches hid; With bloom in profusion, hills, plains, all tumid.

These words of mine come from the Spirit supreme, To call to mind heaven’s everlasting grand scheme. Thou smellest a perfume of flowers. Flowers are not yet; Thou dreamest fermentation, though wine is not set. 360 That odour will draw thee to where the flowers grow, The joys of sweet paradise, “where rivers flow.” Of hope it perfume is that leads our souls on; As hope led forth Jacob in quest of his son. Bad tidings and fearful cost Jacob his sight. Reunion, in hope, to him brought back the light. If thou’rt not a Joseph, a Jacob be yet. As he did, weep, mourn; joy, like him, thou shalt get. If thou art not Shīrīn, thou may’st Ferhād be; And if not Laylà dear, Majnūn’s ravings see. 365 Accept the advice of old Gazna’s sage, wise. To thee, ever, new life from old life may rise: “To give one’s self airs, requires, first, a fair face; If beauty thou hast not, run not thou that race.” An ugly face ugly is, all the world round. A blind eye’s affliction, where’er it be found. In presence of Joseph, no coquetries use. But humble thyself; soft entreaties infuse.

The parrot had death simulated, as prayer. Do thou to pride die; thou mayest so live for e’er. 370 From Jesus a breath may, then, blow upon thee; Transform thee to what he was, what thou mayest be. A stone will not blossom because it is spring. As earth make thyself; flowers around thee may cling. For years thou a stone ’st been; lay this well to heart. Try patience a short time; ’twill give a fresh start. 373 VIII. The Harper. Hast heard, perchance, there was in days of good ‘Umer A minstrel talented, whose harpings moved the sphere? The nightingales all wept in transports at his voice, One pleasure made men’s hearts a hundredfold rejoice. His song enchanted every gathering where he went, Applause as thunder broke forth, to his heart’s content. Like voice of Isrāfīl, whose trump on judgment day, Will wake the dead to life, his made the saddest gay. Dear friend to Isrāfīl he was, and mendicant; His notes made plumes to sprout on hide of elephant. 5

Some day will Isrāfīl attention pay to moans. Their souls he will recall to old and putrid bones. The prophets, likewise, all, musicians are on hearts. Disciples hence expire with joy by fits and starts. Our outward ears the strains hear not which thence proceed; Those ears, in many ways, degraded are indeed. Mankind the songs of fairies never hear at all, They are not versed in fairies’ ways, their voices small. ’Tis true, the chants of fairies’ sounds are of this world; But songs sung by men’s hearts are far above them hurled. 10 Both men and fairies pris’ners are in earthly cage. Both, too, are thralls of sinful ignorance’s rage. Read thou the text: “O fairy troop,” in book of God. Consider, too: “Can ye pass out?” Who holds the rod? The inward hymn that’s sung by all the hearts of saints Commences: “O component parts of that thing NOT.” Now since they take their rise in this NOT, negative, They put aside the hollow phantom where we live.

Ye putrid corpses, wrapt in rank corruption’s cloth, Our everlasting souls are free from birth and growth. 15 Were I but to recite one stave from their blest song, All living souls would rise out from their tombs among. Lend ear attentively; that may not distant be; As yet, however, leave’s not given to tell it thee. The saints are Isrāfīls of this our passing time. The spiritually dead through them live life sublime. Our souls mere corpses are; their graves, our bodies’ crowds. At voice of saint do they arise, clothed in their shrouds. They say: “This voice has in it something to be feared. To raise the dead, God’s voice alone has power, we’ve heard. 20 We were all dead, and unto earth had we returned. The voice of God we’ve heard; our prisons we have spurned.”

The voice of God without, also within the vail, Can give the gift to all, it gave to Mary: “Hail!” O ye whose death was not that which attacks the flesh, At sound of the Beloved’s voice ye’ve risen afresh. That voice the Bridegroom’s voice most truly was, ’tis said, Although ’twas from the lips of His servant, Ahmed. God said to him: “Thy tongue, thy eye, thy ear, I am; All thy contentment, anger, thoughts, ’tis I undam. 25 Go on; ‘By Me he hears, by Me he sees;’ that’s thee; Thou art the head; thou holdest the place of Head’s trustee. In ecstasy, since thou art ‘He the Lord’s who is,’ I will be thine; for see, ’tis said: ‘The Lord is his.’ Now will I say to thee: ‘Thou art;’ and now; ‘I am.’ What I may say’s as clear as is the sun in heaven. Wherever I may shine an instant in a lamp, A world of doubts I solve; on all My seal I stamp. The darkness which the sun could never yet illume, By magic of My breath grows bright as peacock’s plume. 30 Wherever gloom may reign as undisturbed night, When shone upon by Me, like noonday’s forthwith bright.”

’Twas He who taught to Adam ev’ry thing’s true name, Through Adam to mankind imparted He the same. Take thou enlightenment from Adam or the Lord. Draw wine as thou mayest list from jar or from the gourd. The distance is not great between the gourd and jar. The gourd is not, like thee, made drunk by grape’s nectar. Draw water from the brook, or from a pitcher’s mouth; The brook is still the source whence pitcher’s filled; forsooth. 35

Seek light as listest; whether from the moon or sun. The moon derives her sheen from daystar’s golden tun. Imbibe what light thou canst from any twinkling star. The Prophet said: “Stars are all my disciples.” Hear! He further said: “How happy they who see my face, And happy they who look on them in their own place.” He said: “Good luck to all who have the happy chance To look on my disciples, - mirrors of my glance.” If thou by taper’s aid proceed to light a lamp, The eye that sees its light, perceives the taper’s stamp. 40 If one lamp from another should be lighted; well! The light received from this, has come from that one’s cell. And so, if through a thousand wicks the light should pass, Who sees the last enjoys the gift of all the mass. The light of this last lamp’s as pure as is the whole; No difference is there. And thus ’tis with the soul. The light diffused by teachers in these latter days, No other is than what was shown by earlier rays.

Our Prophet said: “The breathings of the Lord your God, In these your days of pilgrimage, on all sides prod. 45 Your ears and minds lend ye to all signs of the times; Perchance ye may inhale those breathings in these climes.”

One breathing came and found you. Straightway it was gone. To all who sought, new life it gave. It then had done. Another breathing’s come. Be ye not unprepared. Ye may not let it go by. Something must be shared. It found your souls on fire. ’Tis thence they cease to burn. Your souls it found all corpses. Life it made return. Your fiery souls by it all quickly were puffed out. Dead souls of yours by it began aloud to shout. 50 Their present calm, and this vivacity’s from heaven; Resembling not the turbulence by which man’s driven. One breathing from the Lord, when blown on earth and air, Ill qualities converts straight into all that’s fair. For fear lest any breathing such as this thee shake, Read thou the text: “They shunned the task to undertake.” Had not “they shrunk from it,” where now would’st thou have been? Had they not feared, would’st thou this grade have ever seen? But yesterday an opening gleamed for better things; Till greed for fleshly morsels stopped the way of kings. 55

For sake of some such morsel Luqmān was made bail. The time’s now that for Luqmān morsel’d not avail. The troubles we endure are all for morsel’s sake. Be Luqmān. Thou’lt extract the thorn that makes thee ache. A thorn or chafing hurt not Luqmān’s horny hand. Through greed thou lackest the discipline made him so bland. The thing thou thoughtest a date-palm, know, is but a thorn. Ungrateful, uninformed thou art, now, as when born. The soul of Luqmān was a vineyard of the Lord. Why then into his soul did thorn pierce like a sword? 60 Thorn-eating camel, truly, is this world of ours, Ahmed, then, came and mounted; - him that camel bears. O camel, on thy back thou bearest a vase of rose. On thee from thence have sprouted rosebuds, as God knows. Thy tastes thee lead to camel-thorn and wastes of sand. To thee the thorn’s a rose; the wilderness, rich land. O thou who in such quest hast wandered up and down, How long wilt thou contend rose-garden’s sandy down? Thou canst not now extract the thorn from thy sore foot. With that blind eye of thine, how wilt thou see its root? 65 A man whose vast desires the world could not contain, Is sometimes by one thorn’s point sent to death’s domain.

Now Ahmed came; a tender, kind companion, he. “Speak to me, O Humayrā,” said he, “speak to me.” Put thou thy shoe, Humayrā, quick into the fire. The rocks will rubies turn, from his feet’s blood in mire. This Humayrā’s a woman’s name, the poet’s love. Such is the Arab custom. Soul is meant. Now move. That Soul’s no need to fear from being named as girl. Of sex, as male or female, that Soul has no twirl. 70 That Soul is far above sex, accident, and mood. That Soul is not man’s darling, made of flesh and blood. That Soul is not the life that grows from cakes of bread; That’s sometimes of one mind, and other then instead. Of good is He the worker, good He is also. From goodness separate, no goodness e’er will flow. If thou’rt made sweet through sugar, it may happen still, That sugar none thou find, to sweeten thee at will. But if thou sweet become, like sugar, through good heart, This sweetness from thy sugar never will depart. 75

How can a lover find love’s nectar in himself? That question passes comprehension, my good elf. Man’s finite reason disbelieves love’s potent sway. Himself he yet esteems endowed with head to-day. He’s clever, and he’s knowing, nil he’s not; anon. Until an angel’s nothing, he’s a sheer demon. In word and act a man may be a friend of ours; But when it comes to heart and mind, he huffs and lours. If he from esse, reach not posse’s state, he’s nil; And willingly; - unwillingly, we may worlds fill. 80 The Soul, our God, ’s perfection. Perfect is His “call.” His Ahmed used to say: “Ensoul us, O Bilāl! Lift up thy voice, O Bilāl, - thy harmonious voice. Put forth the breath that I infused at thy heart’s choice. The breath that ’twas made Adam lose all consciousness; While all the hosts of heaven, too, felt their helplessness.” That Ahmed, Mustafà, at one blest sight stood lost. His wedding-night it was. Dawn-worship it him cost. He woke not from the sleep his blessed vision shed. Dawn-worship he o’erslept; the sun shone overhead. 85 On that, his wedding-night, in presence of his bride, His sainted soul kissed hands, high honour’s fullest tide.

Both love and soul are occult, hidden and concealed. If God I have “bride” named, let it stand fault repealed. I silence would have kept, from fear of love’s caprice, If for a moment only, I’d been granted grace. But He still said: “Say on. The word is not a fault. It’s naught but the decree there should appear default. It’s shame to him who only sees another’s faults. What fault is noticed by the Soul safe from assaults?” 90 A fault it is to eyes of creatures ignorant. But not with God the Lord, our Maker benignant. E’en blasphemy is wisdom with th’ Omnipotent; Attributed to mortals, mortal sin patent. If one sole fault be found amidst a hundred truths, ’Tis like a stick that’s used to prop sweet flowers’ growths. Both will be surely weighed in justice’ equal scales; For, like the soul and body, both are pleasant tales. The saints have therefore said, for sweet instruction’s sake: “The bodies of the pure with souls just balance make.” 95

Their words, their selves, their figures, whate’er these may be, Are all Soul Absolute, without a trace to see. Sworn enemy is Body to their spiritual life, Just as one game of backgammon, with names full rife. The body goes to earth; is soon reduced to clay; The soul endures like salt, and suffers no decay. The salt, than which Muhammed far more sapid is; From “Attic salt” that’s found in each dictum of his. That Attic salt’s an heirloom, heritage from him; His heirs are here with thee. Seek unto them passim. 100 They’re sitting in thy presence. What’s in front of thee? Thy soul demands thy care. Where can thy forethought be? If thou still be in doubt, and not sure of thyself, Thou’rt slave unto thy body; soul thou hast not, elf. Behind, before, above, below, stands body’s shade. The soul has no “dimensions;” clearly it’s displayed. Lift thy eyes, dear Sir, in glorious light of God; That thou be not accounted most shortsighted clod. Thou nothing knowest or carest about, save grief and joy; Thou nothing, by mere nothings hemmed in, man or boy. 105 To-day’s a day of rain. Yet journey thou till night; Not on account of downpour, but because it’s light.

One day did Mustafà go to the burial-ground. The Prophet at a funeral, his friend’s, was found. At filling in the grave he lent a helping hand; A living seed he planted in that holy land. The trees thereof are emblems, - cypress, fir, or yew; Their boughs are hands in prayer uplifted, - if men knew. They many lessons inculcate to men of sense, He who hath ears to hear may thence draw inference. 110 A contemplative mind from them new secrets culls. The heedless are amused with what men’s reason dulls. With tongue-shaped leaves and finger-twigs they us address; From inmost heart of earth they publish mysteries. As ducks dive into water, they plunge into earth. Like rooks they were, now peacocks, gay in their new birth. The winter shuts them up, as prisoners, in its ice. Black rooks then, bare; as peacocks spring bids them arise. God makes them look like dead in winter’s frozen reign, But with returning spring wakes them to life again. 115 Dull atheists contend this is a story old, And ask why we to God attribute it, so bold. They say these alternations ever thus were seen. The world of old, they think, as ’tis, has ever been. In spite of their contention, in breasts of His saints Has God at all times reared rich gardens free from feints.

Each flower that yields to sense agreeable perfume, Speaks volumes to saint’s heart with its mysterious tongue. Each perfume from a flower rubs atheist’s nose in dirt; Although he rush about, and boundless nonsense spirt. 120 An atheist’s like a chafer clinging to rosebud, Or like a nervous patient tortured by drum’s thud. He makes himself as fussy as each touting wight; But shuts his eyes to flashes of conviction’s light. He shuts his eyes perversely, with them will not see. The saint, on other hand, ’s clear-sighted certainly.

The Prophet, when returned home from the funeral, Found ‘Ā’isha was waiting, him to welcome all. So when her eyes fell on him, just as in he came, She him approached, and on him hand placed; gentle dame. 125 She touched his turban, cloak and coat, his sleeves and shoes, His hair and beard, his face and hands, peering for news. He asked her what she sought with so much eager zeal. She answered him: “To-day of rain there’s fallen a deal. I’m lost in wonderment to feel thou art not wet; No dampness is there here. I marvel still more yet.” He asked: “What veil worest thou God’s service to fulfil?” She answered: “I a plaid of thine threw o’er my frill.” He said: “That plaid it was for which the Lord, to thee, My lady pure, a shower caused visible to be. 130 That shower was not of raindrops from the clouds that fall; A shower of mercy ’twas; its cloud and sky, His call.”

[“In regions of the soul so many skies are there! They issue their commands to spheres of earth and air. The ups and downs in spirit’s path form quite a class; So many hills to climb; so many seas to pass.”]—Sanā’ī. The unseen world has other clouds, and other skies; Its sun is different; its water God supplies. Its rain proceeds from other clouds than does our own. God’s mercy ’tis that forms that rain when it pours down. 135 Those rains are never seen, save by the eyes of saints. Mere men “by new creation puzzled,” judge them feints.

One rain there is that nourishment brings in its track; Another rain also that works a whole world’s wreck. The rain of spring does wonders in the garden’s fold; The rain of autumn chills like ague’s shivers cold. The spring rain nourishes whate’er it falls upon. Autumnal showers but bleach and shrivel; all turns wan. Thus is it with the cold, the wind, and eke the sun; They’re means from which such different phases seem to run. 140 In things invisible the same rule still holds good; Advantage, loss, annoyance, fraud, affliction’s flood. The words of saints are like the vernal breeze in power; They cause sweet flowers to open in man’s bosom bower. And like the rains of spring on herbage of the field, They raise in pious hearts a harvest of rich yield. If thou shouldst see a trunk that’s blighted, dead, and dry, Attribute not this state to quickening air’s supply. The air still quickens, though dead stumps feel not its power. ’Tis only what’s alive, that freshens by a shower. 145

The Prophet gave advice: “From breezes cool, in spring, Your bodies cover not; they’re invigorating. Allow them, then, full play; they’ll give your sinews strength. See how, with them, the trees are clothed with leaves, at length. Beware, however; autumn’s chills ye must not court. They’re fatal to men’s lives; the trees they strip, in short.” Traditionists report the Prophet’s blessed words; But there they have stopped short; they add naught afterwards. The whole class, ignorant of application’s call, The mountain have discerned; its mines they have missed, all. 150 The autumn chill, with God, is fleshly lust and pride; The vernal breeze, the spirit, wisdom, sense to guide. Of wisdom, in thy head, a glimmering thou hast; Seek then for perfect wisdom; be to it steadfast. Thy partial stock from thence completed thou wilt bring. On neck of flesh completed wisdom put, as ring.

Thou seest now, applied, the breeze of spring is he, Who, perfect in himself, men perfect helps to be. From words of his take care thou close not up thy ear. Thy faith they will confirm; religion fruit will bear. 155 Reproachful, or in praise, hear all he has to say; From thee the fires of hell they’ll help to turn away. Reproaches, admonitions, life will bring at last If faith they but confirm, flesh in subjection cast. By admonition is the heart encouraged to good deeds; And by reproaches is the soul kept back from evil’s meeds. Upon the heart of teacher clings dark sorrow’s pall, If one twig from heart’s garden’s seen away to fall. Good ‘Ā’isha, the gem of honour’s casket wide, Then asked the Prophet (who’s of both the worlds the Pride): 160 “O thou who of all creatures every essence art, What was the reason rain this day has played its part? Was it a rain of mercy, such as sometimes falls; Or was it as a menace justice fitly calls? Was it a vernal rain, dispensing benefits; Or was it an autumnal shower, to dig grave pits?”

He answered: “’Twas a sprinkle, sent to soothe our care,— That fruit inherited by all who Adam share. Should man remain exposed for long to care’s fierce flame, ’Twould work him wrack and ruin, crush his mortal frame.“ 165 The world would go to ruin in a little while; Man’s greed would get the upper hand, did he not smile. The prop of this wide world is heedlessness, my son; And thoughtfulness on earth below’s a curse, when won. For thoughtfulness belongs unto the upper world; Triumphant here below, all’s soon to ruin hurled. This thoughtfulness a sun is; greed’s a mass of ice. This thoughtfulness is water; greed, the filth of vice. So from the upper world scant tricklings are sent down, That greed and envy may not ruin every town. 170 If those scant tricklings were to prove a copious rill, Defects and talents both would cease our soil to till. Let’s leave these moralisings; they would have no end. So go we back to seek the minstrel, our old friend. That minstrel’s talent had been rare; the world he’d charmed. At sound of his sweet voice, imagination ’d swarmed. Each heart, birdlike, began to flutter in its cage; Surprise enchained men’s minds when his notes threw the gage.

But now he was grown old; long years he’d passed on earth. Like falcon chasing gnats, he’d little cause for mirth. 175 His back was double bent, like belly of wine-jar; His brows above his eyes with crupper-straps on par. His voice, the former joy of all who might it hear, Was now cracked, out of tune, uncouth, none could it bear. His tones, that might have made dame Venus mad with rage, Were now like donkey’s brayings in his sinking age. What is there beautiful that goes not to decay? Where is the roof that will not ruin be one day? Unless it be the words of saint from God; they’ll last ’Till echoes of his voice shall sound in judgment blast. 180 He is the inner joy that glads our inner man; The source from whom our beings rose when time began. He is the amber draws the motes of thought and speech; He gave the means to measure revelation’s reach.

Our minstrel in old age felt poverty’s sure pinch. No money could he earn; bread, not enough for finch. He prayed: “O God, long life and full to me Thou’st given, To worthless sinner Thou hast shown foretaste of heaven. I’ve slighted Thy commandments seventy years and more, Not one day hast Thou let me pangs of want feel sore. 185 No longer can I earn; I’m now Thy household guest; I’ll harp for love of Thee, Thou giver of my feast.” His harp on shoulder slung, he went, in quest of God, To burial-ground of Yathrab; sat down on the sod. Said he: “I’ll ask of God the hire of my harpstrings; For He accepts the heart’s most humble outpourings.” He harped awhile, and then he laid him down and wept. His harp his pillow was; upon a grave he slept.

With sleep his soul was freed from prison and from pain, The harp and harper both were now made young again. 190 His soul, free, wandered forth, exempt from all dull care, In spacious fields of heaven, the soul’s park, light as air. There he began to warble, merry as a lark: “O that I here might dwell without a care to cark! How joyous I should be in such a paradise; These sweet ethereal fields breathe balm, and myrrh, and spice. I’d wander all about; no need of feet or wings. All sweets I’d feast on; lips and teeth were useless things. My mind at rest, from all care free, I’d ever roam. The angels I’d not envy in their heavenly home. 195 With bandaged eyes I’d survey realms without an end; All sorts of flowers I’d gather, yet not soil my hand. Like duck in pond, down deep I’d plunge in honey lake. In Job’s own fount I’d bathe, in wine I’d revel make. For Job with wine from heaven was cleansed in every pore; From head to foot he came forth healed, without a sore.”

If these poor rhyming verses covered heaven’s vast vault, They’d not tell half a tithe, they still would be at fault. The sum of heavenly joys I find an endless theme; My heart is far too narrow to embrace its scheme. 200 The world I would enclose in my poor poem’s fold, Has lent my thoughts the wings that make their flight so bold. Were but that world in sight; its road, were it but known; Few souls would here remain, were but its glories shown. Commandment has been given: “Thou shalt not covetous be.” The thorn from out thy foot is drawn; thy thanks let’s see. “My Lord! My God!” loud cried our minstrel in that place, Those glorious realms of mercy, boundless shores of grace. About that time the Lord on ‘Umer slumber sent. He could not keep awake; beneath sleep’s burden bent. 205 With wonder thought he ’twas unprecedented: “See! This sleep’s divinely ordered; purpose there must be.” His head he bowed; sleep bound him fast; a dream he saw, A voice from God he heard, - for him a sacred law. God’s voice the real source is of every cry and sound; The only voice, in fact; all other’s echo found. Turks, Kurds, and Persians, Arabs, all have understood That voice most wonderful, - of lip and ear no mood.

What say I? No! Not merely Turks and Persians all, The very rocks and trees have answered to that call. 210 Each moment’s clearly heard: “Am I not, then, your Lord?” Ideas and essences became “things” at His word. Had they not answered: “Yes, Thou art our God, O Lord,” From out of nothing straight that answer ’d come, in word! About what’s here been said respecting stocks and stones, Let’s hear what tell tradition’s most veracious tones. We’ll find related there how various rocks and trees, Both understood and spoke, as human being sees. A post in his own house, at Mustafà’s retreat, Sent forth a sob of grief, like heart in sorrow’s heat, 215 As he his sermon preached, surrounded by his flock, So that the moan was heard by old and young; no mock. Disciples one and all were petrified, perplexed, And marvelled what might make its wooden heart so vexed.

The Prophet put the question: “What may be thy need?” The column answered: “Prophet, grief my heart makes bleed. Against me, in thy sermon, thou’st been used to lean; A pulpit now thou’st mounted; far from me thou’rt seen.” The Prophet said: “Thou most affectionate of posts! Good fortune thee attend, sent by the Lord of Hosts! 220 If thou so wish, thou mayst become a fruitful palm; And men from east and west sing of thy dates in psalm. Or God may thee transplant to realms of paradise; Where as a cedar thou eternally mayst rise.” It answered: “I elect what ne’er will know decay.” Lend ear, O heedless man! Hast thou less sense than they? That post was forthwith buried, like a corpse of clay, In hopes of resurrection at the judgment day. Thou hence mayst learn that any whom the Lord doth call, Breaks straightway with the things of this our earthly ball. 225 Whoe’er receives a mission from the Lord his God, Forsakes the world, himself prepares the path to plod.

Who’s not received the gift of knowledge from above, Will ne’er believe a stock could sigh and moan for love. He may pretend to acquiesce; not from belief; He says: “’Tis so,” to ’scape a name much worse than thief. All they who’re not convinced that God’s “Be” is enough, Will turn away their face; this tale they’ll treat as “stuff.” By thousands are confessing Muslims, men of mark, By doubt most sadly haunted; faith they’ve not, one spark. 230 Conformity with them is founded on surmise, And all their heart and conscience quieted with lies. ’Tis Satan sows the seed of doubting in their breast, Like blind men they will fall into the pit at last.

Mere reasoners are cripples, propped on wooden leg; And, like such cripple, often falling as they beg. How different’s a pillar of our holy creed! As mountain he is steadfast; faith his living meed. A blind man’s leg’s his staff; upon it he must lean, Or he will risk to fall at full length on the green. 235 A knight is he who sole has routed hosts of foes; Wise leader then becomes of liegemen’s ranks through woes. Those blind men find their way by trusting to a staff. They lean upon a creature; their sight is in a gaff. For, otherwise, they’d be far-seeing; they’d be kings; As ’tis, they’re blind, they’re corpses, - lifeless, senseless things. The blind can never sow, and surely never reap; They cannot edify; their talent they must keep. If ’twere not for God’s mercy, favour, and free grace, Their staff of reason ’d snap; they ’d fall prone on their face. 240 That staff’s a weapon made for quarrelling and fight; Then break it up in pieces, man of feeble sight! That staff was given thee, to help thee on thy way; With it men’s faces strikest thou, angry, ev’ry day.

What’s this you’re doing, blind ones? What are you about? Some constables call in, to calm this frightful rout. Fall down, and Him entreat, who furnished you with staff. Look well, and see what signs your weapon may engraff. Consider Moses’ miracle; reflect on Ahmed’s too. One’s staff became a serpent; one’s post chose what is true. 245 From that staff came a serpent; from this post, loud moan. Five times a day for praise we hear the crier’s tone. This trouble otherwise had been a senseless suit; So many miracles, so very little fruit. What’s reas’nable the mind can easily allow, No need’s there then for miracle, for tide to ebb and flow. The plan of miracles unreasonable count; But know it is accepted; faith it does not daunt.

Just like as demons, and as wild beasts, out of dread Of man, fled to the wilds, when envy reared its head, 250 So, out of dread of miracles by prophets wrought, Do cavillers take refuge in sophisms of thought. In name, they’re Muslims; and, by virtue of their wiles, We can’t know what they are; their faces are all smiles. Precisely as false-coiners on their metal base A coat of silver put, the sovereign’s name then trace, In word, God’s unity confessed, and holy law, Their hearts are like the poison-grain in sweet kickshaw. Not Venus will convince a sophist in debate; But true religion speaks, confutes his postulate. 255 His body’s like a stock, his spirit’s but a stone. Howe’er he contradict, them God directs alone. In words, mayhap, he may detect a hitch or two; But his own soul and body witness God is true. Some stones were held in hand by Abū-Jahl one day. Said he to Muhammed: “What hold I here? Now say. Since thou’rt a prophet, tell: What hold I in my hand? The secrets of high heaven thou claimest to command.”

Said Muhammed: “How can’st suppose I should not tell? The things themselves shall speak. I’m truthful; they know well.” 260 Said Abū-Jahl: “This last pretension’s harder still.” To him replied the Prophet: “They’ll obey God’s will.” From out of his closed hand a chorus now burst forth; Confession of God’s unity; His Prophet’s worth: “There is no god but God,” the stones distinctly sang; “Muhammed is God’s prophet,” also clearly rang. When Abū-Jahl this heard, he cast the stones away, In anger from his hand, as then he dared to say: “Most surely no magician ever was like thee. Magicians’ chief art thou; crown on their heads thou’lt be.” 265 May dust alight upon his head, blind miscreant! ’Twas Satan closed his inward sight; - cursed recusant.

Now turn we once again to hear the minstrel’s tale, For all this time he’s waiting; anxious, wan, and pale. The heavenly voice the Caliph called: “Ho! ‘Umer! Ho! Our servant’s want relieve; set thou him free from woe. A servant whom we hold in very high esteem, In public burial-ground, go, visit; him redeem. From out the public treasury do thou extract Seven hundred golden sequins, with due care and tact. 270 To him deliver them; and say: ‘O man of good, For present needs let this suffice; ’twill give thee food. Thy harpstrings’ hire it is. Go hence; and when ’tis done, Do thou again come hither; look for me alone.’” At sound of that dread voice did ‘Umer now awake, And straight himself disposed that task to undertake. Towards the burial-ground he turned his steps amain, The money in his breast, to seek the stranger, fain. He walked about the ground, right, left, and everywhere. No second soul was seen; the minstrel only there. 275

Thought he: “This cannot be my quest.” So, off again He wandered; still no other offered; this was plain. He said within himself: “The Lord of servant spake, Devout, approved, accepted, loved for God’s own sake. An ancient minstrel this. Of God can he be loved? Some mystery is here. Hail, riddle, by God moved! Once more he wandered o’er the spacious burial-ground, As lion seeking for his prey goes round and round. Convinced at length no other was there choice to make, He thought: “When I’m in doubt, light from above I take.” 280 Respectfully he then approached the sleeping guest. A sneezing seized him. Straight the harper woke from rest. When ‘Umer he espied, he marvelled, sore amazed; And rose to go away. Fear’s tremor held him dazed. He thought: “O Lord, have mercy Thou on me! This magistrate austere no harper ’ll kindly see.”

Now ‘Umer him considered; saw he was afraid; His cheeks all pale and wan; looks, modest as a maid; Then said: “Fear not! From me seek not to go away; Good tidings from on high to thee I bring this day. 285 Of thee the Lord hath spoken in terms of highest praise. The heart of ‘Umer’s moved to love thee and thy lays. Be seated, then, by me, as friend by side of friend; While I to thee impart the message God doth send. The Lord doth thee salute; thy welfare doth inquire; Trusts thou’st supported well all thy afflictions dire. This trifle sends for present needs, as harpstrings’ worth. When it is spent, come here again, and fear not dearth.” The old man trembled as he heard those words so kind; His finger in astonishment he bit; - near lost his mind. 290 Then cried aloud: “O God! Thou all-unequalled One! In my old age I sink for shame; this mercy I’ve not won.”

A torrent, now, of tears, he shed, in anguish deep; His harp then dashed to pieces. Why it longer keep? He thus apostrophised it: “O thou source of ill! Thou’st barred me from heaven’s path, as highwaymen who kill. My blood thou’st sucked these seventy years, thou thing of shame! Through thee I’m rendered vile in eyes of men of fame. O Lord, Most Merciful! Thou giver of all good! My past life pardon, squandered ill, in heedless mood!” 295

Man’s life’s a gift of God. Alas! How few will think! The value of each moment’s great, so near death’s brink. I’ve spent my life, not thinking how the moments fly. I’ve sung and harped as though a man should never die. Alas! that I in singing songs of mirth and glee, Entirely had forgot that death would visit me. Alas! that shrillest notes have set my ears in flames, And scorched my heart to shamelessness! Sad names! Alas! the gamut’s intervals were heard all night. The day has dawned; the caravan passed with the light. 300 My God! Help, help! Me save from him who cries for help! Protection I implore from self; - I, who thus yelp! I never shall obtain my right, except through craft. For craft is german more to me than self ingraft. By craft this self itself doth rear across my way. Beyond my craft myself I see, when craft’s at bay. Just like as when a man is telling gold with thee. Alone it thou considerest, - self thou dost not see. So did the harper weep, and loudly did complain. His sins he numbered up, committed in life’s train. 305

To him then ‘Umer: “This contrition deep of thine Is proof thou sober art, though grief thy heart entwine. Thy worldly journey’s over, other path now take; For this sobriety’s a sin thou must forsake. Sobriety’s a virtue in the road thou’st trod. The past and future both are curtains hiding God. Set fire to both of them! How long wilt thou remain Partitioned up by diaphragms like a reed cane? So long as reed has diaphragms, it’s not our friend; With lips and voice of ours its notes it cannot blend. 310 So long as thou goest round the house, thou waverer art; But when thou’st entered, then full ease reigns in thy heart. O thou, whose knowledge of full knowledge is not half, Contrition is, with thee, worse than thy fault, mooncalf. Thou’rt contrite for the past. On what occasion Wilt thou contrition feel for this contrition? At one time worshipper thou wert of notes of harp; And now, like lover, thou’dst kiss sighs and moans so sharp.”

Like mirror, ‘Umer having thus reflected truth, The harper’s heart received enlightenment, forsooth. 315 He, spirit-like, became relieved of moan and smile. His old mind took its leave, his new heart was docile. Amazement fell upon him, stupor bathed each sense, Ecstatic trance then followed, earth and sky flew hence. A yearning and a longing past description. As I cannot explain; try thy perception. Such ecstasy, such words, beyond all mood and tense; Immersion total in God’s glorious effulgence. Immersion such, escape therefrom impossible; That sea henceforth to him became impassable. 320 Our partial wisdom’s not part of omniscience, Until God’s promptings come its promptings to enhance. But when our souls are made those impulses to feel, That sea in waves straight rises, under which we reel. The story of the harper and his state now ends; Both harper and that state have grown to be our friends. The harper sealed his mouth from any further song. We, too, will leave his tale half told; it is too long.

In order to attain to his high state of bliss, Had one a hundred lives, they might be staked for this. 325 Be thou, then, like a falcon, ever on the wing, To catch that gnat, thy soul; sunlike, for ever sing. He casts himself, for love, from highest heaven’s height; If flagons empty, he with wine fills them, so bright. O spiritual Sun, transfuse Thou life to all. A new life give, O God, to this our earthly ball. Into the frames of men both life and soul infuse From out Thy hidden world, as water dost diffuse. The Prophet has informed us that, for warning’s sake, Two angels evermore sweet invocation make: 330 “O God, dispensers bless! Do Thou them feed and tend! Give them ten thousandfold for every mite they spend! But hoarders, O our Lord God, in this lower scene, Do Thou afflict with loss, - no profit intervene!”

How many hoardings better than dispensings are! Save in God’s service, wealth of God spend not. Take care! So mayst thou get in recompense a hundredfold. So mayst thou ’scape the punishment of sins untold. Men offered up their camels as a sacrifice; In hopes their swords ’gainst Mustafà would do service. 335 Seek thou the will of God from him who has it learnt; Not into every soul has God’s will been inburnt. The Prophet’s words forewarned those sons of heedlessness, That all such offerings are a heap of worthlessness. In war with God’s apostle, chiefs of Mekka all Such sacrifices offered, ghostly aid to call. Just like the unjust steward, who, as justice due, The treasure of his lord bestowed on rebel crew. He falsely pictured to himself he’d justice wrought, With public money spent, the poor to terms he’d brought. 340 Such justice from such culprit, what could it effect? His lord, to anger moved, excuses did reject.

Hence is it, every Muslim, fearing he may stray, In his devotions begs: “Lead Thou us in right way.” Their substance to dispense suits men of generous mood. A lover’s ready gift’s his life for his love’s good. Dispense thou food for God’s sake; food thou’lt surely have. Lay down thy life for love of God; thy life thou’lt save. We see the trees here shed their leaves at God’s command. Without their toil or trouble, other leaves He’ll send. 345 Shouldst thou, dispensing much, one day be found in want, The Lord will not forsake thee; His supply’s not scant. Whoever sows, must empty storehouses of grain; His fields will yield him richly tenfold heaps of gain. But he who’s left his corn in garners, to be used, Mules, horses, mice, and accidents have it reduced. This world’s a negative; the positive seek thou. All outward forms are cyphers; search, the sense to know. Lay down thy wretched life before th’ uplifted sword; New life thou’lt purchase, never-ending, of the Lord. 350 But if thou do not know, well, how to quit this scene, To me, then, lend thy ear; this tale for thee I mean.

In days of old there was a Caliph, as is said, Whose generosity Hātim Tāyī ’d dismayed. His fame for liberality went through the land; All poverty, all want, relieved was at his hand. The very sea went dry through his dispensing zest; And rumours of his benefits spread east and west. A fruitful cloud of rain was he to this our race; In turn, the object he of God’s surpassing grace. 355 So large his gifts, that seas and mines were out of date. Still fame brought caravans of suitors to his gate, His courts and halls the temples of the indigent. The noise had gone abroad how largely he had spent. The Persian, Roman, Turk, and Arab, all were there, And all admired his liberalities so rare. A Fount of Life was he, a very sea of gift. All nations profited, - in praise their voice did lift. 359 IX. The Poor Scenite Arab and his Wife.

An Arab woman once thus to her husband spake, Insisting strongly he’d of these words notice take: “How very poor we are! What hardships have we borne! The whole world lives in pleasures; we’re the butt of scorn! We have no bread; for condiment we’ve grief and cares. Jug, pitcher we possess not; drink we naught but tears. By day, our only raiment’s scorching solar heat; Our bedclothes in the night, the moon’s rays pale and sweet. The disk of Luna we may well imagine bread. Our hands we lift to heaven; keen hunger’s pangs we dread. 5 E’en mendicants feel shame at our dire poverty. Our days are dark as night, through drear adversity. Our kindred, as all strangers, sight of us now shun. Just like the wandering Jew, for fear we should them dun. When I would borrow half a handful of lentils, The neighbours wish me dead; their wrath on me distils. Amongst us Arabs pride is felt in war and gifts, Among those very Arabs thou’rt devoid of shifts. What need of war have we? We’re wounded; we are slain; The dart of want has pierced us through and through with pain. 10 What need of faults, O sinless one? We’re in hell-fire! What solace have we? Overwhelmed with deep desire! What gifts have we to give? We silent beggars sit! Could we but seize a gnat, its throat we’d straightway slit! If guest should come to us, as sure as I’m alive, When he was sunk in sleep, to strip him we would strive.” Such grumblings, and as follows, going on all day, She made her husband wish her fifty miles away: “Unbroken destitution’s brought us both to straits. My heart burns for our sorrows; hope’s gleam ne’er awaits. 15 How long are we to suffer torture such as this? With hunger’s agony, like coals of fire we hiss. Should any stranger guest come unexpectedly, What shame we’d feel him to receive dejectedly. If any visitor should pass our way this eve, Unless we eat his sandals, what food can we give?”

“Hence ’tis the wise have said in proverb, rendered free ‘A guest should never go where he’ll not welcome be.’ Who’d wish to be the guest confiding of a man, Who’ll strip thee to the skin, bare, gladly, if he can? 20 Unhappy in himself, can he thee happy make? He can impart no light; deep gloom’s his only stake. Not feeling gladsome in himself, with others met, He cannot yield to them what he has not as yet. Suppose a man ophthalmic start as oculist; Of granite-dust alone will his eye-salves consist. So ’tis with all in times of misery and need; Let no one, then, come blindly to our house to feed.”

Hast never seen reality of famine near? Look well at us; thou’lt see effects of food too dear. 25 Our outward look is black, like dark pretender’s heart. This lacks enlightenment, though his exterior’s smart. He has no hope of God, nor any good to show, Though more than Seth or Adam he pretend to know. Ev’n Satan unto him no trace of self has shown, And yet he claims to be a Vicar of God’s own. Some Gnostic terms he uses as a plagiarist, That he may lead the people as though secretist. A critic, ’sooth, is he; complains of Bāyezīd; Whereas Yezīd himself would blush at his bald creed. 30 Of heavenly bread and table, nothing has he known; The barest bone to him, vile dog, God has not thrown. He pompously proclaims: “My table have I spread; Vicegerent’s son, God’s Vicar, here am I indeed! Then welcome, all ye simpletons! Come in; Come in! From table of my bounty fill yourselves within.” For years he dupes them with “To-morrow’s” promise still. The arrant arch-deceiver, whose “To-morrow’s” nil.

A long time is required to sound a human mind, To find out what defects may lurk the mask behind. 35 A buried treasure is there under body’s wall? Or is it hole of serpent, toad, or scorpion, all? At length when ’tis discovered, impostor is he, His pupil’s life is wasted; what use then to see? But on some rare occasion, pupil of great parts Will come to the impostor, profit by his arts. He comes with good intention to the lecture-hall, Expects a guiding soul; he finds a carcase; all. As when, in dead of night, one does not know the east, To offer one’s devotion’s licit, turning west. 40 Pretenders carry famine in their heart of hearts. We suffer only want of bread for our repasts. Why, then, pretender-like, should we our want disguise? Why, for appearance’ sake, our soul, too, bastardise? The woman’s husband answered: “Pray now, silence keep! Our life is most part o’er. What’s left us but to weep?” “The wise man cares not for a little more or less. These both will pass away, like torrent’s waywardness. A torrent may be clear, or muddy, black as ink. It will not last. Why then should we about it think?” 45

“Within this world what millions, living creatures all, A life of joy still lead, quite free from let or fall. A dove is always cooing praises to the Lord, Upon a tree, so long as day may light afford. A nightingale sings hymns, God’s name to bless alway. For unto Thee he trusts, Who hearest us when we pray. A falcon, when he sits upon a royal fist, No longer stoops to carrion, wherewith to subsist. And so from gnat to elephant like state we find, They all depend on God, the best of feeders’ kind.” 50

“All those anxieties that fall on us like darts, Are but the vapours, tempests, of our human hearts. Those cares are like a sickle, made to cut us down. This is a fact, though we are slow the truth to own. Our ev’ry suffering, here, a portion is of death. This part of death, then, drive away whilst thou hast breath. If from this part of death thou findst thou canst not run; Thou’rt sure whole death will follow, as the light the sun. If thou canst learn to think this part of death is sweet, Thou knowest that God will make its whole thy tastes to meet. 55 Our troubles are the heralds of our death to come. Turn not thy face away from herald, as do some.”

“Whoever leads a joyous life finds death severe. And he who’s slave to body, mars his soul’s career. When sheep come home from pasture in the meadows green, The fattest ones are slaughtered, soon as they are seen. The night is spent, the morn is come, my bosom friend, When wilt thou bring thy grumbling gossip to an end? Once thou wert young, and more content a hundredfold; Then covetous becamest, though thyself art gold. 60 A fruitful vine thou wert; a blight’s come over thee; Thy fruit will never ripe, ’twill shrivel on the tree. Sweet fruit, with flavour, give, thy inward worth to prove. Thou backwards shouldst not walk, as ropemakers all move. Thou art my helpmate fond; and fellow-workers all, Of one mind still should be, or their joint work must fall. A pair should ever be conformable in aim. A pair of shoes examine; pair of boots, the same. If one boot of a pair be too small for the foot, The pair is useless; vain, the other’s size to moot. 65 One boot is small; the other, ’haps, too large is found. Hast ever known a lion consort with a hound? Two packs upon a camel equipoise require; The one must not be half, the other bale entire. I choose the road that leads straight to contentment’s door, Why takest thou the path to sin and misery’s floor?” The woman’s husband, suffering, but resigned still, Thus spake unto his wife, to calm her restive will.

The woman raised a shout: “O man of simple mind! I will no longer listen to thy words, though kind. 70 Talk not to me of claims, pretensions, and such stuff. I care not one pin’s point for pride and flimsy fluff. Why preach so loud of sentiment and honour’s call? Just look at our condition. Shame upon thee fall! Pride certainly is wrong; much worse in beggars’ camp. The day is cold and snowy; all our clothing’s damp. What nonsense and frivolity thy weak pate doles! And all the while thy tent, like cobweb, ’s full of holes. Where didst thou learn contentment’s rule to make thy pride? Has thy contentment taught thee shame from men to hide? 75 The Prophet has declared: ‘Content a treasure is.’ But what knowest thou of treasure? Suffering’s all thy bliss. Contentment’s but a water-reservoir that leaks. Do hold thy tongue, thou plague; and cease these foolish freaks. Thou namest me thy helpmate; lower, pray, thy tone. I’m fellow unto justice; mate to knavery, none. Since thou equality with lords and princes claimest, Why suck the blood of locusts that by chance thou maimest? Thou fightest for a bone with dogs in this debate. How shall I not complain, with hunger at our gate? 80 Don’t look at me contemptuously, and all askance. Lest I tell all my mind, thy baseness to enhance. Thou holdest thyself much wiser than poor soul like me. Hast ever found me wanting sense to make thee see? Think not to fall upon me, wolf-like, unawares, O thou at whose great wisdom woman’s folly stares! The wisdom thou so holdest superior to all, Not wisdom is; but serpent’s, scorpion’s, deadly gall. A foe may God prove ever to thy drivelling guile! So mayst thou turn out weaker than weak woman’s wile! 85 Thou art both snake and snake-catcher, in one combined. A serpent-charming serpent! Arab’s pride enshrined!

Did crows but realise their ugliness supreme, As white as snow they’d change, through rage and arrant shame. A charmer sings a charm against a snake, his foe; The snake charms him in turn; hence follows boundless woe. Were not his trap a charm prepared by the snake, Would he become the victim of some small mistake? The charmer first is caught in toils of greed and lust. And sees not ’tis the snake has charmed him, bound him fast. 90 The snake addresses him: ‘O charmer! See now! Look! Thy own work thou perceivest, my wiles hast mistook. Thou charmest in God’s name to make me thy bond-slave, And lead me captive, make me sport for fool and knave. The name of God it is that holds me fast enchained; That name thou usest as my trap. Art not soft-brained? That name will one day vengeance on thee for me take. In fear of that dread name, I, soul and body, quake. He’ll either take thy life with poison-fang of mine; Or, like me, unto prison He will thee consign!’” 95 Thus spake the woman bitterly unto her spouse, Whole volumes would not hold the words that she let loose.

He answered her: “My wife! Art woman? Art thou mad? ‘My poverty’s my pride.’ Reproach me not when sad. Possessions, wealth, are but a cap the scalp to hide. The scaldheads or baldpates alone in caps confide. Whoever’s hair has grown in curls or tresses full. Is always proud when he his cap away can pull. A man of God resembles precious sense of sight. Our eyes should not be bandaged, or we can’t see right. 100 The dealer who exposes slaves free from defects, Strips off the useless cloak that hides all ill effects. Were they not sound, would he the sheltering mantle strip? Nay! Contrary! With clothing he’d their vices clip, And say as an excuse: ‘He’s timid; she’s shamefaced, And shrinks from being here bare of vestments placed.’” “A man of wealth may full of sundry vices be. His riches are his mantle; none his failings see. Men all are covetous; their greed ’tis blinds them all, One touch of fellow-feeling binds them as one ball. 105 But should a poor man say what’s precious more than gold His saying is not heeded by the world so cold.”

“The functions of a dervish far transcend thy ken. The aim of mendicancy’s folly to most men. True dervishes retire away from wealth and power. Their bread the Lord, majestic, furnishes each hour. Our God is just. When had it happened that the just Have acted with injustice towards the poor who trust? To one, all blessings God gives, favours, luxuries; Another one, at will, with coals of fire He tries. 110 Who doubts that God thus acts with uncontrolled will, His portion be the fire of tribulation still.” “‘My poverty’s my pride’ is not an empty word, Therein are hid a thousand blessings well assured. In anger, imprecations thou hast cast on me. I am a humble suitor; snake-catcher thou’dst see. If e’er a snake I catch, I still extract its fangs, That harm may never follow, when its head one bangs. Those fangs are enemies to every serpent’s life, When I extract them, then, I make him free from strife.” 115

“I never will submit to spell of lust and greed. For cov’tousness I’ve conquered. Its maw I’ll not feed. Thank God that greed is not among my sins, at least. Contentment fills my heart; - a true, perpetual feast. Thou lookest at the crown of pear-tree full of fruit, Come down from that idea; no good will it boot. In raising up thyself, thou giddy hast become; ’Tis not the house that reels; thy brain’s grown troublesome.” “Once Abū-Jahl saw Ahmed; spitefully he said: ‘Thou ugly portraiture from Banū-Hāshim bred!’ 120 Said Ahmed: ‘True thou’st spoken, most veracious man; Thy words are worthy credit, let who cavil can!’ Then Abū-Bekr saw him, said he was a sun Of perfect beauty; east, west, everywhere he’d run. To him, too, Ahmed answered: ‘Thou hast spoken true, O upright man, set free from all the nine spheres’ clew.’ The company assembled marvelled at these words, And asked: ‘How can two contraries be what accords?’ Said Ahmed then: ‘A mirror am I, polished bright. Both Turk and Hindū see in me reflection’s light.’” 125

“O wife! If ever thou hast thought me covetous, Come forth from such idea, - too preposterous. That which thou takest for greed is heaven’s mercy, sure. And how can greed and mercy both at once allure? Make trial of true poverty, but for one day, or two. Thou’lt find therein true riches, with contentment, too. Be patient with our poverty, and banish grief; For poverty’s a crown bestowed by our great Chief. Put off sour looks and see, how many thousand souls, Through sweet contentment are as happy as the fowls. 130 See other thousands, also, drinking dregs of grief: It permeates their being, as sugar scents roseleaf.”

“Alas! Thou wast a treasure valued by my heart! I loved to pour my soul forth in thy ears apart! A kind of milk is speech; its teat the soul, - or gland. To make it freely flow requires a loving hand. If but the hearer listen, hang upon his lips, The speaker, though a corpse, grows eloquent, ne’er trips. Attentive audiences still confer the powers, To stutterers and stammerers, to speak for hours. 135 If strangers should break in upon my privacy, My womenkind retire, from mere delicacy. But if my visitor be confidant and kin, They come forth freely, play about with gladsome din. Whatever best they know, of work, or play, or jest, They do and say, for show, before a welcome guest. What use of sound of harp, of bass or treble notes, For deaf or senseless ear, that on no music dotes?”

“Our God has made the earth, the sky, and all between; His light, and eke His fire, upon that stage is seen. 140 The Lord without a purpose gave not musk its scent. For odour ’twas, not for diseased nostrils, meant. The earth He stretched forth, and fixed as man’s abode. The heavens He upreared to be by angels rode. Th’ inferior creature, man, ’s at strife with all on high; He bids for every place he sees, for all he’ll sigh.” “Dear wife! Chaste, modest matron! Art thou well prepared Into the tomb to sink, ere thy doomed hour’s declared? Were I to fill the earth with pearls of countless price, Thy daily bread thee failing, could they thee entice? 145 Then cease from all contention, strive not ’gainst the Lord, Or separation from thee will be my last word. What taste have I for strife, contention, or annoy, When even in peacemakings I’ve no longer joy? Be quiet! Hold thy peace! Or, by the Lord of life, I’ll quit this tent for ever; thou’lt not be my wife! Much better to walk barefoot than with shoe too small! The toil of travel’s sweeter than strife in one’s wall!”

She knew, thence, he was angered; - will had of his own; She burst in tears. Was ever woman tearless known? 150 Quoth she: “I’d never thought from thee such words to hear; Far different had I hoped; knew not I’d aught to fear.” She made herself most servile, thing of small amount; Remarked: “Thy humble servant am I; so me count. My soul and body, all I have, ’s at thy command; Sole arbiter art thou; dispose; I’ll not withstand, If I of poverty impatiently complained, Not for myself, for thee, was our sad lot disdained. In all afflictions thou our remedy hast been; I grieve to see thee want; my anguish thence grows keen. 155 Dear, darling spouse! For thee was all my deep dismay; My sighs and moans for thee came into bitter play. I call my God to witness, in my heart and mind, I’m ready life to lay down, if thou’rt so inclined. O that thy heart, - the life with which my soul’s endued,— Could trace aright the channel by my thoughts pursued! If merely through suspicion thou art vexed with me, My life I value not; breath, - body’s naught! Just see. I scorn all gold and silver, count them less than dirt, If they to thee bring anguish. No! I’m no such flirt. 160 Thine is the only picture painted on my heart; And canst thou talk of leaving me, from home depart? Discard me, if thou wilt. Thou hast the right and power, O thou for whose divorce excuse I make each hour! Recall to mind the time when I thy idol was, And thou, priest-like, didst worship me! Alas! Alas! My heart I cultivated just as thou desiredst. Thou thoughtest ’twas fond. I knew thou it with love inspiredst.

Like potherbs o’er the fire, thou addedst what thou wouldst, Sharp vinegar, or honey. What thou wishedst, thou couldst. 165 If blasphemy I’ve uttered, lo, I faith profess! My life is in thy hands; but, be not pitiless! I wot not thou wouldst prove imperious, like a king; So, like an ass turned loose, before thee took my fling. Thy pardon now I crave. Let me know joy again! Contention I forswear, repentance I maintain. With sword and winding-sheet I fall at my lord’s feet; Should he decapitate me, death to me’ll be sweet. Thou’st talked of separation; - bitter, worse than gall; Do what thou will with me, that hideous word recall. 170 In thee, for me, a pleader ever will be found; If I be mute, thou’lt still hear intercession’s sound. My potent advocate is, in thyself, thy heart; Relying upon that, I dared to sin, with art. Have mercy slily, - see thy grace thyself not, Lord! To me far sweeter than a honeycomb full stored!”

Thus pleaded she; in coaxing, wheedling terms, with skill. Her tears rolled down in streams, fast coursing at her will. Her weeping and her sighs were past endurance felt, Whose features, tearless, e’en his heart of steel could melt. 175 That shower precursor was of lightning’s vivid gleam, Whose flash lit in his breast a fire, with pity’s beam. She, of whose beauty was a slave her husband still, A double spell exerted through entreaty’s thrill. One, whose least coolness sets man’s heart in flames, By turning supplicant a twofold witchery claims. If he, whose pride at times pain causes to thy mind, To supplication stoop, thou’lt small resistance find. He, whose fierce tyranny our bleeding hearts most grieves, By tendering excuses, us excuseless leaves. 180 “Is goodly made to man” ’s a text from God’s own word; As truth made manifest, is by man ever heard. God, too, therein decreed: “that he with her may dwell;” Whence Adam’s love for Eve survived lost Eden’s dell. A hero man may be, a Hercules to grieve, But slave to woman’s will is he, without reprieve. He, to whose words the universe has all bowed down, Was he who sang: “Humayrā, speak to me!” Life’s crown!

Of fire and water, fire is quelled through water’s wet; Still, water boils through fire, when in a cauldron set. 185 The cauldron, like a veil, those lovers keeps apart; And water’s influence no longer cools fire’s heart. To outward show, as water, thou mayst rule thy wife; In stern reality, thou cleavest to her, - thy life. This attribute, humanity must own its force: “Man quails to sensual love,” which springs from failing’s source. The Prophet hath declared that woman, over sage, Despotic power e’er wields, and over men of age; That fools the upper-hand o’er women still maintain, 190 Because they’re harsh, gross, senseless, careless to cause pain. No gentleness, no pity, faith, or ruth have they; In that a bestial nature o’er them holds its sway. Humanity ’tis claims, for self, love, charity; While lusts and rage are marks of bestiality. Fair woman is a ray from out the sun of Truth; Not loved? A creator; not created, forsooth. The husband, now, contrition felt for what he’d said, As sinner, at death’s door, repents of evil deed. Thought he: “I have assailed the life of my life’s life; I’ve plagued and broke the heart of my dear darling wife!” 195

When God decrees an ill, man’s judgment falls asleep. And perspicacity knows not which way to leap. The doom of ill struck home, man straight feels deep regret; Propriety outraged, he turns to mourn and fret. Addressing, then, his wife, he said: “My shame is great! I’ve acted as a heathen, ah! I’m ready to entreat! ’Gainst thee I’ve trespassed, prithee, pardon to me grant; Upon me vengeance wreak not, root not up the plant! An infidel, however old, if he confess his sin, And make amends, God’s sheepfold opes and takes him in. 200 Thy heart is full of pity, goodness, kindness, grace; All being, eke nonentity, ’s in love with thy sweet face. True faith, e’en blasphemy, adores thy majesty; With that elixir all to gold turns instantly.”

In Moses and in Pharaoh parables we see. ’Twould seem that Moses’ faith was right; Pharaoh’s sin’s fee. By day would Moses pray unto the Lord of Hosts; At midnight Pharaoh, too, bewailed his impious boasts, And said: “Thou, Lord, this yoke upon my neck didst lay; Were’t not for yoke imposed, the egotist who’d play? 205 ’Tis Thou’st enlightened Moses’ mind, of Thy free grace; And hence hast left me blindly groping on my face. The countenance of Moses Thou’st lit up, like day; My heart, like moon eclipsed, Thou’st darkened with dismay. My star was never brighter than the full-faced moon; When darkened with eclipse, it surely sets too soon. True, kings and princes sound my praises in their routs; My star eclipsed, the rabble raise their clamorous shouts: With cleavers, marrowbones, tongs, pokers, hideous ’larm, They seek to fright some monster; really, shame all charm. 210 Alas for Pharaoh, with those fearful yells and noise! Alas his ‘Lord Supreme,’ drowned in that discord’s voice! Both I and Moses servants are of Thee, our King; Like woodman’s axe on tree, Thy wrath on me takes swing. Some boughs Thou loppest, to plant. They quickly grow again. Some others but as firewood burn, or moulder on the plain. What can the bough, to cope with axe’s severing edge? Can bough resist, return the blow, as blacksmith’s sledge? I call on Thy omnipotence! Thy axe withhold! Thy mercy manifest! These wrongs set right! Behold!” 215