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 !

Twenty Rubáiyát from Omar Khayyám. George Milner. In: A Note on a new aspect of Omar Khayyám. With twenty specimen renderings of the Rubáiyát by George Milner. Manchester Quarterly, Vol. XVIII, 1899, pp. 9-18.

I
Orthodoxy

If I in pearls of song paid not thy due,
At least, I never from my face withdrew
The dust of sin; so, mercy, Lord, I crave ;
For why? . I never said that One was Two.

II
Abnegation

Better in taverns tell my thought to Thee
Than in the mosque, unthinking; bend my knee;
Dread Power! Just as Thou wilt—burn me in Hell,
Or at Thy side in Heaven let me be.

III
Humility

So far as in thee lies, do not deride
The helpless drunkard. Lay pretence aside ;
If henceforth in thy life thou seekest rest,
With humble folk content thee to abide.

IV
Tenderness

As in thee lieth, grieve not any one,
Let thine own anger burn for thee alone;
Would’st thou hereafter find eternal peace,
Fret, if thou wilt, thyself, but harass none.

V
Live for To-day

To-morrow !—Then for thee no moon may shine,
Make happy ow this passionate heart of thine;
Next moon may seek us long but find us not,
Drink with thy Moon—drink now the fragrant wine.

VI
The Koran and the Wine-cup

Men read the Koran slackly now and then—
Say this is best—we’ll read once more—but when ?
Ah, on the Wine-Cup’s rim a text is writ
Which they will read again and yet again.

VII
Oblivion

Wine and our drunken bodies—both are clear;
But on the drinking-bench no hope or fear ;
Souls, hearts, and garments reek with lees of wine
And earth, air, water are no longer here.

VIII
Friendship

Make but few friends in life, for that is best;
If some be near, keep far away the rest ;
When Wisdom’s eye is opened thou may’st find,
He is thy foe who leant upon thy breast.

IX
The Jug

This jug was once a lover such as I,
And with a fair one lip to lip did lie;
This curling handle on its neck, an arm
That round another’s neck lay tenderly.

LXVI
A Rejoinder

I saw a man who trampled on the clay
Contemptuous ; but I heard the trampled say
In mystic language, ‘‘ Be thou very still,
Thou may’st, like me, be trampled on to-day.”

LXXII
Eternal secrets

The eternal secrets are a tangled skein ;
Who would unravel them makes labour vain,
Tyro and teacher, simpleton and sage,
Alike in abject impotence remain.

LXXX
Spring

The breeze of Spring is in the world again,
And hope revives with soft-descending rain,
The budding boughs are white as Moses’ hand,
And Jesu’s perfumed breath floats o’er the plain.

LXXXII
The Rosebud

Each morn bedecks the tulip’s face with dew,
And tender violets are bent downward too:
But, best of all the rosebud is to me,
Whose closely gathered skirts show nothing through.

LXXXIII
The Empty Glass

Friends, when ye meet the waning day to crown
With mirth and wine, remember I am gone;
And as—poor helpless one !—my turn comes round
For drinking—turn a goblet upside down.

LXXXVI
“Follow Me”

If thou desirest Him—this shalt thou find
Wife, child, and friend must all be left behind ;
Alone into the wilderness depart,
And every burden from thy back unbind.

LXXXIX
The Potter

Within the crowded market yesterday
I saw a potter pounding lumps of clay
That said, in mystic tongue “‘ We were as thou,
And thou shalt be as we—deal gently, pray!”

XCIV
The Chess Board

Now I speak plain—not parables alone—
Heaven plays; we are the pieces; naught is known;
We’re moved across the Board of Life, then fall ;
Into the box of Nothing, one by one.

XCVIII
The Two Logs

Come, fill the cup, for day breaks white as snow ;
Learn colour from the wine in ruby-glow;
Bring me two logs of aloe and make one
Into a lute—the other burn below.

CI
Councel

I give thee counsel—listen unto me;
For sake of Heaven wear not hypocrisy;
Hereafter ends not; Time is but a day;
For that one day, sell not Eternity.

CIII
Pots and Potter

Into a potter’s shop I went last night,
And saw two thousand pots, to left and right ;
Some spoke aloud, some sadly held their peace,
But one, aggressive, cried with all his might—

“Who makes the pots? That’s what I want to know;
Who buys us, standing in ignoble row ?
Who has the right to sell us ?—tell me that ;
And when we’re sold, where is it that we go?