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, << The way of sure deliverance is here. Take heart! 175 You then upon yourselves will chastisements inflict, 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; 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. 10 That he should be caged, while you on the trees sit. 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. He's eating his heart out; grief gives him no rest. One bumper you'll drink for the love of poor Poll,1 Or, thinking of him who's in slavery kept, 1 2 Your bowl's whole contents dash to earth, as though wept. Or grace seen, in all the fell blows you have dealt. 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. 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. Break off we this theme. Let's discuss other things. 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, 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. Exclaiming: "Alas! The poor bird I've slain, lone! 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, The night is pitch dark; strewn around, cotton beds. Lets fall spoken spark,-fires a whole world, immense. In basis, our souls would appear Jesus-like. 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? Who patience exhibits shall mount to heaven's dome. 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. The original expression for "saint," here, is : a mau of heart.” 45 50 55 |