Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Paraphrased, for the most part, from the literal version of J.E. Cadell, by Charles Perez Murphy.
In: The National Magazine, Boston: Vol. XI, No. 3. Dec., 1899. 49 stanzas, with one illus. after Vedder. (Potter)
OF TO-DAY
About Existence, Friend, why fret thee aught?
Why weary soul and mind with useless thought?
Enjoy all things; pass gaily through this world;
Thy counsel, at the first, was never sought,
In heaven, we hear, are Houris, and bright streams,
Where wine runs red, and golden honey gleams.
lf these we worship here, why, where’s the harm?
For in the end we get them—so it seems.
The day is sweet, nor hot nor cool the air;
The dew has left the garden fresh and fair;
The bulbul, softly to the yellow rose
Lamenting, bids us to our wine repair.
Soft, misty veils the rose’s face still shroud;
For wine my longing heart doth cry aloud.
Sleep not, dear Love; it is no time for sleep;
Bring wine, ere morning’s sun be veiled in cloud.
Upon the rose breathes morn‘s fresh, fragrant breeze;
Fair glows a lovely face ‘mid orchard trees.
But sad is all your talk of yesterday;
Sweet is to-day; its passing pleasure seize.
To-day, when all the earth with gladness burns,
Each living heart to greet the desert turns;
On every branch gleams Moses’ snowy hand,
In every breath the soul of Jesus yearns.
Behold, the morning breeze has torn away
The garment of the rose; the bulbul’s lay
Is wildly glad. Yet roses fair as this
Have dropped to earth, and mingled with the clay.
Eternal life we find, and lasting truth,
In wine, that harvest of our fleeting youth;
In time of roses, wine and merry friends,
Be giad and drink,—for that is life, forsooth.
Eternal things, past, present, or to be,
Are mysteries too profound for you and me.
Discuss them not, but be content with wine;
To many a problem it affords a key.
In Heaven, they tell us, fairest Houris are,
Rich sweets, and purest wine in many a jar.
Hand me yon brimming cup; One ringing coin
Is more than boundless credit—off so far.
Drink while you may! Life will not long abide
As bright quicksilver runs, ‘twill swiftly glide.
Fortune is false, and hope a dream, and youth
Ebbs all too soon, like ocean’s heaving tide.
OF LIFE
To men unborn, if you and I could show
What ills await them in this world of woe,
They never would be born; and you and I
Had best have stopped away—as now we know,
I never yet have seen a prosperous day;
Propitious winds have never blown my way;
And if with joy one single breath I drew,
Grief quickly chilled my soul with dire dismay.
The Eternal knot no man has e’er untied,
Nor trod one single step himself outside.
I look from helpless child to helpless sage:
The space betwixt the two is far from wide.
Had choice been mine, I ne’er had come this way;
Were choice now mine, I gladly here would stay;
But, best of all, if in this world of Earth,
Were neither death, nor change, nor sure decay.
Where’er a rose, or flaming tulip, springs,
It takes its hue from blood of buried kings;
From some fair cheek, now dust, each violet grows
That to this summer air its fragrance flings.
Of all the travelers to that unknown shore
Who o’er this self-same road their burdens bore,
Not one came back. Then pass no pleasure by;
For, once.departed, you’ll return no more,
Belief from unbelief, as life from death,
Is separate by just a single breath,
Pass gaily over the dividing line,
Nor heed what Fear or Superstition saith.
We come with anguish to this world of Earth;
We live in wonder, from the hour of birth;
We go with pain, not knowing why, or where,—
Nor why or whence we came, nor life’s true worth.
Yon rolling stars but amplify our woe;
Whate’er they raise, they quickly overthrow.
Ah! Men unborn would never come to Earth,
If what awaits them here they could but know.
OF LOVE
When first it knew thee, to thy presence bright
My heart flew, quickly, and forsook me, quite.
Its mournful master it recalls no more;
Once having loved thee, it reflects thy light.
There’s not a heart but bleeds for thy disdain,
Nor sage, but for thy love hath gone insane;
Though love for love thou never dost return,
The love for thee abides in every brain,
For love of thee, all kinds of blame I bear;
Woe be to me, should I this faith forswear.
Short will the time from now to Judgment be,
If, all through life, thy tyrant chains I wear.
From each red drop that trickles from mine eye
Will spring a gorgeous tulip, by-and-by;
Which, when the heart-sick lover shall behold,
He’ll hope that thou art true, and cease to sigh.
From feigned love no lustre can be shed;
‘Tis like a smouldering fire, and well-nigh dead.
Nights, days, months, years, to weary lovers bring
No peace, no sleep, no rest for heart or head.
Let wine be in my hand, or ever nigh,
And love of beauty still inform mine eye.
Men say to me: “God grant that thou repent!”
Suppose He did? I would not even try.
To hearts on whom the light of love hath shone,—
To those whom love hath made his very own,—
To them, in synagogue, or church, or mosque,
Are hopes of Heaven and fear of Hell unknown.
OF GOD
Some God within this mould my body cast,
Foreseeing all my acts, from first to last;
From Laws of His my sins have birth; so why
Need I be burned in fires, when life is past?
Priest, monk and sinner, we are all the same;
From water and from earth at first wecame;
Of fame, or shame—whatever comes to us—
The honor is Thine own,— and Thine the blame,
Need He speak ill of such as you and I?
Or faults of ours by hundreds multiply?
His mirrors, we: All good and ill, in us,
Within Himself He surely must descry.
Along my path Thou layest many a snare,
And sayest: “I will trip thee, unaware.”
Each atom of this world obeys Thy Law;
I, too, obey,—yet sin, for all my care.
Lay not too hard commands upon the soul;
How can it o’er the body win control?
To drink, or to abstain, is sin. In brief,
He says: “Invert, but do not spill, the bowl.”
This whole, wide world hath gone in search of Thee,
But far astray, and in distress, are we.
We find Thee not; Thou speakest to deaf ears;
Thou art before us,—yet we cannot see,
Obedience is a pearl I ne’er did wear;
Ne‘er swept I, with my heart, Thine altar-stair.
Still, of Thy mercy, (since complaints of mine
Ne’er wearied Thee), I do not yet despair.
In ceaseless strife, my passions war within,
And constant pain I bear, because of sin.
Though Thou mayst pardon all , I burn with shame
From knowing that Thou knowest what has been.
To me, obedience is a pear] unknown;
Thy face I have not sought, because mine own
Was dark with sin. Yet do I not despair;
For Thou, Thyself, art God, and Thou alone.
All human sin is naught, in Thy just sight;
Ordain that men may read this truth aright.
To see Iniquity’s accomplice in
Divine Foreknowledge! That is folly’s height.
Great Knower of each thought and secret thing,
To Whom all men, in time of weakness, cling!
Give me, I pray, repentance, Thy best gift;
Accept my late remorse, O Righteous King!
THE WHEEL OF FATE
That Tyrant Wheel, revolving overhead,
Ne‘er loosed one knot, for living man or dead;
But when it finds a scarred and bleeding heart,
It adds another wound, more blood to shed,
O Tyrant Wheel! I chafe as thou dost turn,
Oh! set me free, for as thy slave I burn.
The fvol and the unwise are favored most;
Then why not I, who have so much to learn?
Lift high your cups, like tulips in the spring;
With tulip-cheeked companions drink and sing.
Soon will this Azure Wheel, with one fell stroke,
Your shattered cup in flying fragments fling.
Dark Wheel! As inhumane as Great Ayaz,
Or Mighty Mahmud, thou hast slain, alas!
Thy myriads, Let us drink! Man’s single life
Is quickly ended, and—’tis all he has.
OF THINGS ETERNAL
From Earth’s deep heart to Saturn’s starry height
Isprang, and solved all problems in my flight;
I leapt out free from bonds offraud and lies,
And every knot—save Death’s—I severed, quite.
Above the spheres, my heart, on that first day,
Strove hard to find where Hell and Heaven lay;
Till that Right-thinking Master said, at last:
“Seek both within thyself—for there are they.”
Hell is the echoing cry of human grief,
And Heaven, the echoed sigh of pain’s relief,—
Borne round this Earth, whereon men live and die,
Content or hopeless, in some vague belief.
All things were fixed, long since; the resting pen,
For good or ill, will never move again;
Himself predestined all, long, long ago,
And useless are the grief and strife of men.
Of countless millions, passed beyond the veil,
Not one has e’er returned to tell the tale.
To need, not pray’r, that secret will be shown,
Without firm faith, petitions can but fail.
Deep in the centre of the circling sphere,
There waits a cup for all who sojourn here.
Drink ofit, gladly; ’twill be time to grink;
So murmur not when thine own end draws near,
I do not fear to die; I’d not forego
A better world, mayhap, than this below.
To Him who loaned it gladly I’ll return
This life; and what comes then no man can know.
