‘Umar of Nîshâpûr by C.J. Pickering
In: National Review, December 1890. Pp. 506-521

Prose article with 50 quatrains from Nicolas. Translated into verse by C.J. Pickering. (Potter)

They who an ocean are of virtues and of wit,
By whose consummate glory are all their fellows lit,
Out of this obscure slumber find us not a way.
Tell us an old-wives’ tale and fall asleep in it.

The Kuran, which men use to call ” the Word sublime,”
Not constantly they read, only from time to time ;
But on the Beaker’s brim is written a verse of light
Which men forevermore may read in every clime.

Drink thou of this: it is the wine of life eterne;
Drink ! ’tis the reservoir whence joys of youth ye earn;
‘Tis burning like the tire, yet lighteneth our face
Even lilie the Water of Life; drink deeply from the urn.

On the world’s coquetry, fools, lavish not your coin,
When all her ways and windings know ye, line by line ;
Give not unto the wind this precious life, your own.
But hasten, seek the Friend, and quickly quaff the Wine.

Wake ! for the morning breaks, and rends the robe of night;
Why sorrowful? Rise and quaff the draught of dawn aright;
Drain thou the wine, sweetheart, for many a morn shall break.
And turn her eyes to ours, and ours be lorn of light.

The yesterday that ‘s gone endeavour to forget.
And mourn not for to-morrow : ’tis not risen yet;
Root not thy hope in aught of things that come and go.
Be happy now, and fling not life to the winds to fret.

A wise man unto me came in my sleep and said :
“From whose sleep ever bloomed the rose of gladness red?
Why wilt thou do a thing that ‘s so the twin of death ?
Drink, for full soon thou ‘It sleep with dust above thy head.”

See how the wind of dawn has rent the Rose’s robe,
How Bulbul by her beauty is lilled with joy and love!
Sit in the Rose’s shade, for many a bloom like this
Has out o’ the dust arisen and lain with dust above.

Since no one ean become a surety for the morrow.
Rejoice thee now, and clear thy heart of carking sorrow;
Drink wine i’ the liglit of wine, for the moon, my Moon, shall look
For us no more, how oft the heaven she circle thorow.

‘Tis a sweet day ; the breeze is neither hot nor cold ;
Soft clouds have laved the dust from every rose’s fold ;
And to the yellow rose in speech like ours implores
The nightingale, ” One draught, and lose thy hue of gold.”

Be of good cheer, for chagrin will be infinite ;
Upon the sphere of heaven stars shall conjoin and smite;
The potter’s clay that from thy body kned shall be
Will build the palace walls where others see the light.

Those who the whole world’s quintessential spirit appear.
Who wing their contemplation past the crowning sphere.
For all they know of Thee, are like the heavens themselves:
Dizzied and in amaze, they bow the head in fear.

‘Khayyâm, Time’s very self ‘s ashamed of anyone
Who in the day of sorrow sits faint-hearted down ;
Wine do thou quaff in crystal to the lute’s lament
Or e’er thy crystal bowl be shattered on the stone.

Lay in my palm the wine ; my heart’s on fire to-day;
And, fleet-foot as quicksilver, this life will not stay;
Wake! for the smile of Fortune is but as a dream.
Wake ! for the fire of Youth like water flows away.

What time her robing purple on her the violet throws.
And morning breezes ruffle petal-folds of rose.
Wiser were he who by his silver-breasted love
Quaffs of the wine and shatters goblet ere he goes

‘Twere best we o’er the wine-cup gave our hearts to glee,
And take light thought of aught that ‘s gone or come to be ;
And this our soul that ‘s lent us, prisoner as it is,
One moment from the bonds of Intellect set free.

Ah, that the scroll of Youth so soon should be uprolled,
Aud Pleasure’s springtide freshness wrinkle so and fold!
That bird of joy whereon is set the name of Youth
Knows neither how it came nor whither its course must hold.

When never a labour of ours has issue to our heart,
Wherefore should we take thought, whereto our impulse start ?
So sit we down in sorrow and sigh in our regret,
“Too late, too late, we came, too soon must we depart.”

In this wild whirl of time that breeds the base alone.
Uncounted griefs and pangs bear I till life be done;
My heart a rosebud shut i’ the rosiere of the world,
A blood-red tulip flower in time’s plantation grown.

At this wild whirl of Heaven I sorrow evermore.
And with my own base nature ever am at war ;
Science avails me not to rise above the world,
Nor Reason lets me rest where no earth-noises roar.

Deem not it is the world whereat I am dismayed,
Or death and soul’s departure frighten with their shade:
For that it is a fact, of death have I no fear ;
‘Tis that I live not well, whereof I am afraid.

O thou, who art the Kosmos’ quintessential strain,
For a brief breath let be the worry of loss and gain ;
Take but one cup from the eternal Sâki take.
And go forever free from the two worlds’ grief and pain.

That day the Steed of Heaven was saddled for the race,
Parwin and Mushtari sprang forth in all their grace,
In the Divan of Fate was my lot cast also :
How then should sin be mine, with Destiny in the chase?

Thou before Whom the maze of sin is clear to see.
To him hath ears to hear declare this mystery:
Foreknowledge absolute of of Sin’s cause to conceive
In a wise man’s eyes the extreme of ignorance would be. (116

Of clay and water hast Thou kneaded me : what can I?i
Hast woven me of silk and wool to be : what can I?
And every deed I give to life, be it good or ill,
Was written on my soul by Thy decree : what can I?

O Knower of the secrets of the heart of every man,
Who in the hour of weakness bear’st the part of every man.
Accept, Lord, my penitence, and me forgiveness give.
Thou who Forgiver and Excuser art of every man.

While on the path of Hope let no heart pass unknown,
While on the path of Presence make a Friend your own;
A hundred clay and water Ka’abas are not worth
One Heart : whereafter seek, and Ka’abas leave alone.

Pagoda, Ka’aba, both are temples of true service.
The bell-peal is the hymning music of true service ;
The Mihrab and the Church, the Rosary and Cross,
In truth are one and all but tokens of true service.

Though our lot be not the roses, yet we have the thorn,
And there ‘s a Fire, although for us no Light be born;
And there ‘s the belfry-chime and Church and Brahma-thread,
Although no Khankah shelter or Darvish dress be worn.

The heart that Isolation’s fulness doth not own
Is helpless, daily mate of her own penitent moan:
How shall true joy be hers, except the soul is free ?
All else, whate’er it be, is root of grief alone.

Happy the heart of him who passes life unknown,
Who never wore cashmere or lawn or lamb’s-wool gown :
Who like the Simurgh wings his flight in highest heaven.
Who makes not like the owl ‘mid ruined worlds his moan.

In this world whoso hath but half a loaf of bread,
And in his breast a refuge where to lay his head,
Who of no man is slave, who of no man is lord —
Tell such to live in joy : his world is sweet indeed.

In convent and in college, § synagogue and church,
Of Hell they live in fear, for Paradise they search;
But whoso once hath known the mysteries of God
Will never let such weeds his soul’s fair field besmirch.

In Faith are two and seventy Worships, great and small.
But the worship of Thy Love will I choose before them all;
What ‘s Unbelief, Belief, Obedience, or Sin ?
Before Thee, the one Aim, let all pretences fall.

Limned on creation’s Tablet each and all exists,
Yet evermore from Good or Ill the Pencil rests ;
All that is destined must in Justice come to be.
And vain the wish that yearns, the sorrow that resists.

Thou, Whom the whole world seeks in frenzy and fire of mind,
Barren alike before Thee are rich and poor mankind;
Thou ‘rt mingled in all speech, and every ear is deaf,
Thou ‘rt present to all men, and every eye is blind.

Sometime to mortal man Thou show’st Thy hidden Face,
Sometime art manifest in Kosmic form and trace ;
And this magnificence show’st Thou to Thine own Self,
For Thou ‘rt the Eyes that see, the Vision they embrace.

The Drop to the Sea’s lamenting, “Separate are we.”
“Rather ’tis thou and I are all things,” laughs the Sea;
“Truly there is none other: we are God alone,
‘Tis but a tittle’s varying sunders thee and Me.”

The moment when I shall from death escape and flee.
And shed like leaf from bough my body from life ‘s tree.
With what glad heart I’II make the universe a sieve
Or e’er an earthly riddle sift the dust of me!

When azure Dawn begins to lift her light divine,
Look in thine hand there be the wine-bowl flashing fine :
They say that Truth is ever bitter in the mouth,
And by that argument the Truth must needs be Wine.

Ah, Wheel of Heaven ! no guest but fears thy perfidy.
Naked thou keep’st me stript as fish that ‘s in the sea ;
While all creation’s clad by spinning-wheels of earth,
There ‘s ne’er a spinning-wheel but far surpasseth thee !

Fool, for thy fear of death and boding of surcease,
When from extinction springs a life of endless bliss ;
Soon as in ‘Isa’s breath I grow a living soul
Eternal death shall leave my little life in peace.

Tho’ the world’s face thou make all populous to be,
‘Tis far less than to bring one sorrowing heart in glee;
If thou by graciousness but make one freeman bond,
‘Tis better than to set a thousand bondmen free.

Each heart wherein He kneads the leavening light of love,
Whether a haunter of mosque or synagogue he prove.
In the great book of love if he his name hath writ
Is free from Hell and free from Paradise above,

They are gone, the travellers, and ne’er a one returns
To tell of aught beyond the mystic Veil that burns ;
Thy work were better done by esperance than prayer,
For without Truth and Hope no prayer a profit earns.

Of all the travellers who tread the long, long way,
Has one returned for me to ask him news, I pray ?
Take care lest thou within this little inn of life
Leave aught on the score of hope; tho ‘It not review the day.

When I am dead, my friends, wash me with vintage rare.
Wine and the goblet o’er me invoke in lieu of prayer;
On Resurrection Day, if ye would seek my lair,
Look for me ‘neath the dust our wine-house portals bear.

O my beloved companions, hearten me with wine,
And make ye ruby red this ambered face of mine ;
Wash yo with wine my corpse when I am cold and dead.
And make my coffin wood of timber of the vine.