x.x.xI

In blossom is the crimson rose, and the rapt bulbul trills his song; A summons that to revel calls you, O Sufis, wine-adoring throng!

The fabric of my contrite fervor appeared upon a rock to bide; Yet see how by a crystal goblet it hath been shattered in its pride.

Bring wine; for to a lofty spirit, should they at its tribunal be, What were the sentry, what the Sultan, the toper, or the foe of glee?

Forth from this hostel of two portals as finally thou needs must go, What of the porch and arch of Being be of high span or meanly low?

To bliss' goal we gain not access, if sorrow has been tasted not; Yea, with Alastu's pact was coupled the sentence of our baleful lot.

At Being and Non-being fret not; but either with calm temper see: Non-being is the term appointed for the most lovely things that be.

asaf's display, the airy courser, the language which the birds employed, The wind has swept; and their possessor no profit from his wealth enjoyed.[32]

Oh! fly not from thy pathway upward, for the winged shaft that quits the bow A moment to the air has taken, to settle in the dust below.

What words of grat.i.tude, O Hafiz Shall thy reed's tongue express anon, As its choice gems of composition From hands to other hands pa.s.s on?

x.x.xV

Now on the rose's palm the cup with limpid wine is br.i.m.m.i.n.g, And with a hundred thousand tongues the bird her praise is hymning.

Ask for a song-book, seek the wild, no time is this for knowledge; The Comment of the Comments spurn, and learning of the college,[33]

Be it thy rule to shun mankind, and let the Phoenix monish, For the reports of hermit fame, from Kaf to Kaf astonish.[34]

When yesterday our rector reeled, this sentence he propounded: "Wine is a scandal; but far worse what men's bequests have founded."

Turbid or clear, though not thy choice, drink thankfully; well knowing That all which from our Saki flows to his free grace is owing.

Each dullard who would share my fame, each rival self-deceiver, Reminds me that at times the mat seems golden to its weaver.

Cease, Hafiz! store as ruddy gold The wit that's in thy ditty: The stampers of false coin, behold!

Are bankers for the city.[35]

XLII

'Tis a deep charm which wakes the lover's flame, Not ruby lip, nor verdant down its name.

Beauty is not the eye, lock, cheek, and mole; A thousand subtle points the heart control.

XLIII

Zealot, censure not the toper, guileless though thou keep thy soul: Certain 'tis that sins of others none shall write upon thy scroll.

Be my deeds or good or evil, look thou to thyself alone; All men, when their work is ended, reap the harvest they have sown.

Never of Eternal Mercy preach that I must yet despair; Canst thou pierce the veil, and tell me who is ugly, who is fair?

Every one the Friend solicits, be he sober, quaff he wine; Every place has love its tenant, be it or the mosque, or shrine.

From the still retreat of virtue not the first am I to roam, For my father also quitted his eternal Eden home.

See this head, devout submission: bricks at many a vintner's door: If my foe these words misconstrue--"Bricks and head!"--Say nothing more.

Fair though Paradise's garden, deign to my advice to yield: Here enjoy the shading willow, and the border of the field.

Lean not on thy store of merits; know'st thou 'gainst thy name for aye What the Plastic Pen indited, on the Unbeginning Day?

Hafiz, if thou grasp thy beaker When the hour of death is nigh, From the street where stands the tavern Straight they'll bear thee to the sky.

XLV

O breeze of morn! where is the place which guards my friend from strife?

Where is the abode of that sly Moon who lovers robs of life?

The night is dark, the Happy Vale in front of me I trace.[36]

Where is the fire of Sinai, where is the meeting place?

Here jointly are the wine-filled cup, the rose, the minstrel; yet While we lack love, no bliss is here: where can my Loved be met?

Of the Shaikh's cell my heart has tired, and of the convent bare: Where is my friend, the Christian's child, the vintner's mansion, where?

Hafiz, if o'er the glade of earth The autumn-blast is borne, Grieve not, but musing ask thyself: "Where has the rose no thorn?"

LIX

My Prince, so gracefully thou steppest, that where thy footsteps fall--I'd die.

My Turk, so gracefully thou glidest, before thy stature tall I'd die.

"When wilt thou die before me?"--saidst thou. Why thus so eagerly inquire?

These words of thy desire delight me; forestalling thy desire I'd die.

I am a lover, drunk, forsaken: Saki, that idol, where is he?

Come hither with thy stately bearing! let me thy fair form see, I'd die.