From the Persian.
Boy, hand my friends the cup, ’tis time of roses now;
Midst roses let us break each penitential vow;
With shout and antic bound we’ll in the garden stray;
When nightingales are heard, we’ll rove where roses blow;
Here in this open spot fill, fill, and quaff away;
Midst roses here we stand a troop with hearts that glow;
The rose our long-miss’d friend retains in full array;
No fairer pearls than friends and cups the roses know;
Poor Hafiz loves the rose, and down his soul would lay,
With joy, to win the dust its guardian’s foot below.
If shedding lovers’ blood thou deem’st a matter slight,
No goodness I can plead to scare thee and affright,
O Thou, in whose black locks night’s Genius stands confest,
Whose maiden cheek displays the morning’s Master bright.
My eyes to fountains turn, down pouring on my breast,
I sink amid their waves, to swim I have no might.
O ruby lip, by thee life’s water is possest,
Thou couldst awake the dead to vigour and delight;
There’s no salvation from the tresses which invest
Those temples, nor from eyes swift-flashing left and right.
Devotion, piety I plead not to arrest
My doom, no goodness crowns the passion-madden’d wight;
Thy prayer unmeaning cease, with which thou weariest,
O Hafiz, the most High at morning and at night.
O Thou, whose equal mind knows no vexation,
Who holding love in deep abomination,
On love’s divan to loiter wilt not deign,
Thy wit doth merit every commendation.
Love’s visions never will disturb his brain,
Who drinketh of the vine the sweet oblation;
And know, thou passion-smit, pale visag’d swain,
There’s medicine to work thy restoration;
Ever in memory the receipt retain—
’Tis quaffing wine-cups to intoxication.
From the Turkish of Fezouli.
O Fezouli, the hour is near,
Which bids thee from this world depart,
And leave—what now thou hold’st so dear—
The loves of thy too ardent heart.
Yet till that fated hour arrive,
Be thy emprises, every one,
If thou wouldst fain behold them thrive,
In God’s Almighty name begun.
From the Turkish.
(Translated from the metrical History of the World.)
Eight Gennets {8} there be, as some relate,
Or one subdivided, as others state;
The first Dar al Galal, the next is Salem,
And Gennet Amawi stands next to them;
Then Kholud and Nayim and Gennet Ferdous—
And that last as most lovely is pictur’d to us;
A seventh there is, Dar al Karar the same,
And an eighth there is also, and Ad is its name.
God made Dar al Galal of white pearls fair,
Then of rubies Al Salem, so red in their glare;
He made Gennet Kholud so splendid to stand
Of bright yellow corals, so smooth to the hand;
Then blest Gennet Nayim of silver ore—
Behold ye its strength, and its Maker adore.
Gold bricks He employ’d when He built Ferdous,
And of living sapphires Al Karar rose.
He made the eighth Gennet of jewels all,
With arbours replete ’tis a diamond hall.
Broad and vast is paradise-peak—
The lowest foundation is not weak.
One over the other the stories are pil’d:
The loftiest story Ad is styl’d.
From above or below if you cast your eyes,
You can see the Gennets in order rise.
You ask, for whom are those mansions gay;
For the prophets of God, for his lov’d, I say.
Seven walls are plac’d, which to open are meant,
Far betwixt them is the extent;
Betwixt two walls the whole doth stand,
Walls uncrumbling, mighty and grand.
Within are bowers, cedar-woods dusk,
Houries and odours of amber and musk;
Eight are the gates for the eight estates,
Jewel-beset, gold-beaming gates;
Upon the first inscrib’d you see:
For those who repent this gate is free.
On the second: for those who up-offer pray’r;
On the third: for the sons of charity fair.
On the fourth this solemn inscription stands:
For those who fulfil the Lord’s commands.
In painted letters the fifth doth say:
For those who for pilgrimage gold up-lay.
The sixth fair portal thus proclaims:
For ye who inhibit from sin your frames;
The seventh: for God’s own warrior train,
Who bleed for his cause, nor flinch from pain.
’Tis written in white the eighth above:
For those who instruct for Allah’s love {10}.
For ye who serve God with heart and eye,
Control your passions when swelling high,
Your parents cherish and all your race,
For ye are the halls of joy and grace;
For the prophets of God are they decreed,
Who His law in the sacred volumes read.
From the Tartar.
O thou, from whom all love doth flow,
Whom all the world doth reverence so,
Thou constitut’st each care I know;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
O keep me from each sinful way;
Thou breathedst life within my clay,
I’ll therefore serve Thee, night and day;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
I ope my eyes and see Thy face,
On Thee my musings all I place,
I’ve left my parents, friends and race;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Take Thou my soul, my every thing,
My blood from out its vessels wring,
Thy slave am I, and Thou my King;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
I speak—my tongue on Thee doth roam;
I list—the winds Thy title boom;
For in my soul has God His home;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
The world the shallow worldling craves,
And greatness need ambitious knaves,
The lover of his maiden raves;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
The student needs his bookish lore,
The bigot shrines, to pray before,
His pulpit needs the orator;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Though all the learning ’neath the skies,
And th’ houries all of paradise,
The Lord should place before my eyes,
O Lord! I’d nothing crave but Thee.
When I through paradise shall stray,
Its houries and delights survey,
Full little gust awake will they,
O Lord! I’ll nothing crave but Thee.
For Hadgee Ahmed is my name,
My heart with love of God doth flame,
Here and above I’ll bide the same;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Relating to the worship of the Great Foutsa or Buddh.
From the Tibetian.