Renderings of some of the quatrains of Omar Khayyám
Edward FitzGerald, and some recent Omar Khayyam literature. Tinsley Pratt
In: The Manchester quarterly, Vol. XVIII, Jan. 1899
RENDERINGS OF SOME OF THE QUATRAINS OF OMAR KHAYYÁM.
Behold, I kneel! though sinful to the core,
My life is now with sorrow darkened o’er ;
Nor am I hopeless of Thy mercy, save
That little service have I shown before.
Creations First and Last of Thee I pray
That Thou wilt set me in the clearer way ;
Till now I followed but the lure of Sin:
—A prodigal although my years are grey.
Lend me Thine ear! While open stands the door,
I bow me down with sorrow stricken sore :
The master of the tavern stands a-gape
To find me kneeling thus upon the floor.
Do with me as Thou wilt! Or cherish me,
Or let me suffer in the flame for Thee!
Tis. well the tavern-haunter hears my grief,
That he the snare of sin may quickly flee.
Khayyam, what talk is this of grief and sin ?
How shouldst thou hope the meed of grace to win
By fruitless whining at the door of Fate ?
Thinkest thou there are no others of thy kin ?
What time is this for words ?—come, give me wine!
And let thy deep dark eyes upon me shine !
—Ah, love, we’ll put by sorrow till the morn,
The hours till then, O, loved one! all are thine.
Hear thou the truth from Khayyam. Though men say
Thou may’st not rob upon the world’s highway :
The Word runs, couldst thou read it but aright,
“Let not man’s blame the hand of justice stay! ”
Few friends are best. Why wilt thou ope thy mind
To every chance acquaintance of thy kind?
He whom thou holdest dear, perchance, shall prove,
At utmost need unstable as_ the wind.
Forbear thy wrath !—So far as in thee lies
Give pain to none, but look with gentle eyes
Upon thy brother’s fault, so shalt thou dwell
With those the world doth hold exceeding wise.
Ah, woe to him that feels not passion’s sway,
His life no morrow hath, nor yesterday,
—Dull clod of earth! without heart-cheering love
Far better thou wert buried ’neath the clay !
Scorn not the mean artificer of earth,
Nor coldly glance on those of humble birth ;
For know, thou proud one! that some hovel poor
Ere this hath reared the life of sovereign worth.
To-morrow is not thine, nor hast thou power
To stay thy going for a single hour :
Rejoice thy heart! and but remember this
—If not the seed-time thou hast known the flower.
To-day is sweet !—Why talk of yesterday ?
Thou canst not bid the breeze of Spring to stay !
The rose that blooms to-night perchance may fall
Or ere the morrow’s dawn awakens grey.
Take heed ! The sword of Destiny is keen :
If Fortune place thy wanton lips between
The almond sweets of life, receive them not,
For subtle poison lurketh there unseen.
He knew who breathed into this life of mine,
I should not scorn the treasures of the vine ;
Then let the churlish one say what be will,
Since I was born to sing of love and wine.
In cell and college some may seek for grace,
And yearn to look upon the Prophet’s face :
I say, if ye but read His lesson well,
The touch shall come within a little space !
What though my words have oft been laughed to scorn ?
Impotent are the lives of woman born :
I say but this—how great so e’er Thou be,
Thou canst not stay the coming-on of dawn!
Regard my virtues one by one. I pray:
My faults at every ten do Thou but stay ;
And, in Thy count, let this be in Thy mind
— Thus I perchance, had fallen by the way.”
The girdle of my woes hath many years :
I water oxen with my frequent tears:
Yet Hell to me is but an hour of care,
And Paradise a life devoid of fears.
As o’er the sandy desert wastes the wind
Sweeps on and leaves no trace for man behind,
Se sweeps the torrent of my grief through me,
Nor holdeth habitation in my mind.
Yon vault of blue that canopies my head
Shall nourish still the Earth when I am dead :
Why should I grieve? or, shall it be my gain
To sorrow ere my lusty days are fled ?
Within yon azure dome I read no grief
—Why should I render pleasure then more brief ?
My life is but a day within His eye,
And passeth with the falling of the leaf.
Unconquerable Fate! can nothing turn
Thy purpose from the life I cannot spurn ?
Then, sweet-faced bearer of the golden cup,
Give me to drink ere I to dust return !