Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

The bird shut up, imprisoned in a little cage,

That seeks not to get out, is ignorant, not sage.

The souls who've freed themselves from cages of the flesh,
Are worthy fellow-travellers with prophets, fresh.
Their voices they lift up, religion to impart:

<< The way of sure deliverance is here. Take heart!
Religion hath us saved from fleshly cages, sure.
No other way is there, salvation to secure.

175

You then upon yourselves will chastisements inflict,
That you may be delivered from the world's respect.”

Respect of mortal man a heavy fetter is;

Within religion's path the gravest bond is this.

Consider well this tale, ingenuous young friend;

179

'Twill teach thee many lessons may thy morals mend.

VII.

The Merchant and the Parrot.

A MERCHANT there was, who a parrot did own;
Confined in a cage, wisest bird in the town.
This merchant to journeying made up his mind
To fair Hindustan, there some rich wares to find.
From generous motives, to each of his slaves,
To male, and to female, some gift to bring craves.
He made them all tell him what best they would like;
And promised to bring it, most gentlemanlike.

He said to the parrot: "Poll! Poll! With the rest, 5 From Hind I must bring thee what thou mayst like best."

The parrot replied: "Sure, thou'lt see parrots there,

To them pray impart how it is that I fare.
Inform them, a parrot who loves them all well,
By thee's kept confined, close shut up in a cell.
He sends you his love, and his very best wish;
Desiring from you wise advice, parrotish.
He fears he may pine, through longing to see
His dear absent friends,-die in foreign countree.
He asks if it is altogether thing fit,

10 That he should be caged, while you on the trees sit.
If this is the way in which true friends should act;
Leave him in his cage, while you forests affect.
He wishes you'd call to your mind your lost friend,
When drinking your bumpers, ere fieldward you wend.1

1

1 Literally, "your morning cup," drunk at dawn ere leaving a house.

1

'Tis sweet to be thought of by far-away dame,

One's sweetheart, whose love's set one's heart in a flame.
While you are disporting with those you love best,

He's eating his heart out; grief gives him no rest.

One bumper you'll drink for the love of poor Poll,1
If only you wish him your love to extol.

Or, thinking of him who's in slavery kept,

1

2

Your bowl's whole contents dash to earth, as though wept.
O where is the promise, and where is the oath,
Th' engagements sworn to him by sugarsome tooth?
If absence of his came from truancy's pranks,
You've set your forgetfulness 'gainst his sin's ranks.
The ills you inflict out of spite and disdain
Are sweet to your lover, he does not complain.
Your petulance prized is beyond fairy gifts;
Your vengeance most dear is; his hope it uplifts.
No soul can imagine what pleasure is felt,

Or grace seen, in all the fell blows you have dealt.
Your wrath is thus sweet; how much more so your

grace!

If mourning so grieve, what from feast would take place?

He weeps; but he hopes you'll believe not his tears;

And, out of affection, not lessen his fears.

He loves your great kindness, your anger as well.

He equally dotes on those opposites fell.

The thorn escape should he, and visit the rose,

He'd warble as nightingale, moved by love's throes.

Most wondrous this bird's strangest use of his bill;

With thorns, as with roseleaves, he would his mouth fill.

Not nightingale this; fiery dragon it is;

All wrongs seem to him, through his love, purest bliss.

He loveth a rose, and himself is a rose.

He loveth himself; and seeks love for its woes."

1

1 Asiatics drink "to the love" of a friend; not "to his health.".

2 The parrot is known by the title "Sugar-eating."

S

15

20

25

Just so is the soul. Its tale, just parrot's tale.
O where is the One to whom all souls make wail?
Where is the man, feeble, who's yet innocent?
30 His heart, Solomon and his whole armament.

1

When he, with tears bitter, is heard to complain, The seven vaults of heaven re-echo the strain. In anguish he groans; God, in mercy, him hears. His cry is: "O Lord!" And God wipes off his tears. Abasement in him, is by God highly prized. His blasphemies, o'er other men's faith are raised.1 Each instant, in soul, he ascends to heaven's gate; His mitre's with crowns capped, of infinite state.2 His frame's here on earth; his pure soul with the Lord 35 In heaven's highest sphere, above man's thought or word. A heaven such as this thou contemplatest not;

Thou every moment imaginest-what?

With him "where" and "nowhere" are quite equal felt.
To angels the "four rivers" seem a mere belt.3

Break off we this theme. Let's discuss other things.
Cease trifling. ""Tis God who knows best" sense's rings.4
Let's seek to inquire how it fares with our friends,—
The merchant, his parrot. Who is't understands?

The former had promised, at latter's request,

40 To give to the birds of far Hind his bequest.

So when he had reached that land, greatly renowned

In wooded retreat, flock of parrots he found.

He stopped his beast, cried out, at top of his voice,
That message his Polly had made, as his choice.

1 A shade of an explanation to this very hazardous saying of the Sufi Gnostics is found in Qur'ān xvi. 108: "Whoever denieth God after he hath believed, except him who shall be compelled against his will, and whose heart continueth steadfast in the faith, shall be severely chastised."

2 The dervish orders call their peculiar cap a "mitre" or crown" (tāj).

3 The "four rivers" of Paradise, of water, milk, wine, and honey. Qur'ān xlvii. 16.

4 Qur'an iii. 31; and numerous other places.

One bird of the flock, he saw, then took to quake,

Fell prone to the earth; no more breath seemed to take.
The merchant regret felt for what he had done,

Exclaiming: "Alas! The poor bird I've slain, lone!
That creature was surely related to Poll;

Two bodies; one soul; just as is magic doll.

Why did I deliver that fatal message?

I've killed a collateral of Poll's lineage !

The tongue, by itself, acts just like flint and steel.

A word from it, fire-like, we scathing can feel.

Strike not, then, so rashly, fire's sparks from thy tongue,
In message or talk, feeble hearers among.

The night is pitch dark; strewn around, cotton beds.
Amongst beds of cotton, 'tis, sparks one most dreads.
He sins who, unmindful of dire consequence,

Lets fall spoken spark,-fires a whole world, immense.
One rash word may set an assembly ablaze.
Molehills into mountains, and higher, it can raise.

In basis, our souls would appear Jesus-like.
To kill, to resuscitate, words are godlike.

If lifted could be from our souls the dark veil,

Each word of each soul would with miracles trail.

Dost wish to speak always to men with sweet words?
Have patience. Impatience must not fret the cords.
'Tis patience beloved is by all men of sense.
Impatience a fault is, of children, intense.

Who patience exhibits shall mount to heaven's dome.
Impatience who showeth, tastes wrath that's to come.

A saint is not hurt, whate'er else may betide,1

To swallow fell poison should he once decide.

1 This section purports to have been suggested by the following couplet

from 'Attar:

O heedless child of lust, weep thou tears of blood.
If a saint eat poison, honey-like 'tis food."

The original expression for "saint," here, is : a mau of heart.”

45

50

55

« ZurückWeiter »