Poems from the Divan of Hafiz

But to thee, oh Hafiz, to thee, oh Tongue That speaks through the mouth of the slender reed, What thanks to thee when thy verses speed From lip to lip, and the song thou hast sung?

Let every one upon whose heart desire For a fair face lies like a burden sore, That all his hopes may reach their goal unchecked, Throw branches of wild rue upon his fire. My soul is like a bride, with a rich store Of maiden thoughts and jewelled fancies decked, And in Time’s gallery I yet may meet Some picture meant for me, some image sweet.

_Stanza 3._—Zohra is the planet Venus, the musician of the heavens, and the protector of all musicians and singers upon the earth. Zohra played a part in very ancient mythology. The Mahommadans borrowed and adapted the Magian legends concerning her, and their account runs as follows: Once upon a time the angels fell to marvelling over the wickedness of man and the ease with which he was led astray, notwithstanding the warnings sent down to him through the prophets. But God, hearing their words, determined to expose them also to temptation, that they might learn how easy it was to fall. Therefore he appointed two of them, whose names were Harut and Marut, to go down to the earth as judges over man, and he taught them a secret word by the power of which every evening, when their work of judgment was done, they could return to heaven. For some time the two angels accomplished their duties faithfully. But at length a woman called Zohra, more beautiful than any other woman upon earth, came before their judgment-seat demanding redress against her husband, and the two angels conceived a violent passion for her. On the following day, when she returned with the same petition, they drew her aside and declared their love to her. She replied that she would satisfy their desires if they would do three things: destroy her husband, worship the gods she worshipped, and drink wine. Murderers and idolaters the angels could not agree to become, but they consented to drink wine, “not knowing,” says the Persian commentator of the Mesnavi of Jelaleddin Rumi, “that wine was the source of sin and the mother of shame.” Then said Zohra: “Every night, by the power of a divine word, ye return to heaven. Teach me also that word.” The angels confided to her the secret of God, and as soon as she had heard the word she pronounced it in her turn and rose up into heaven, where God changed her form and turned her into a star. The angels attempted to follow her to heaven, but they were refused admittance. On the intercession of a very pious man, however, they were allowed to choose whether they would be punished in this world or the next; they chose the former, and now suffer punishment in the land of Babel—whither, if any man have a mind to learn magic, he may go and learn it of them, for they are masters of all magic arts. Tradition says that Mahommad, whenever he looked upon the planet Venus, was wont to exclaim: “God curse Zohra! for it was she who led the two angels Harut and Marut into sin.”

For the history of the times of Hafiz, see Defrémery in the _Journal Asiatique_ for 1844 and 1845, Malcolm’s “History of Persia,” Price’s “Mohammedan History,” Markham’s “History of Persia.” For the life of the poet, see V. Hammer; Defrémery in the _Journal Asiatique_ for 1858; Sir Gore Ouseley and Daulat Shah, whose work is mainly a string of anecdote—I have been told that Lutfallah’s is little better.

My face is seamed with dust, mine eyes are wet. Of dust and tears the turquoise firmament Kneadeth the bricks for joy’s abode; and yet ... Alas, and weeping yet I make lament! Because the moon her jealous glances set Upon the bow-bent eyebrows of my moon, He sought a lodging in the grave—too soon!

_Stanza 4._—See Note to Stanza 4 of Poem XXXIII.

If seekers after rubies there were none, Still to the dark mines where the gems had lain Would pierce, as he was wont, the radiant sun, Setting the stones ablaze. Would’st hide the stain Of my heart’s blood? Blood-red the ruby glows (And whence it came my wounded bosom knows) Upon thy lips to show what thou hast done.

Oh wind, if thou passest the garden close Of my heart’s dear master, carry for me The message I send to him, wind that blows! “Why hast thou thrust from thy memory My hapless name?” breathe low in his ear; “Knowest thou not that the day is near When nor thou nor any shall think on me?”

Slaves of thy shining eyes are even those That diadems of might and empire bear; Drunk with the wine that from thy red lip flows, Are they that e’en the grape’s delight forswear. Drift, like the wind across a violet bed, Before thy many lovers, weeping low, And clad like violets in blue robes of woe, Who feel thy wind-blown hair and bow the head.

It is difficult to conceive anything more exquisite than the little scarlet tulip growing upon a barren Persian hillside. On the top of a bleak pass over the mountains between Resht and Tehran, I have seen companies of tiny tulips shining like jewels among the dust and stones.

Djemshid is supposed to have built Persepolis. There is a legend that his cup was found buried in its foundations, and that it was formed of an enormous turquoise. It is said that he was the first to drink wine, and that he recommended it to his subjects as a health-giving beverage. He, too, was the father of chemistry and the possessor of the philosopher’s stone.

Ask not the monk to give thee Truth’s pure gold, He hides no riches ’neath his lying guise; And ask not him to teach thee alchemy Whose treasure-house is bare, his hearth-stone cold. Ask to what goal the wandering dervish hies, They knew not his desire who counselled thee: Question his rags no more!

_Thus said the Poet: “When Death comes to you, All ye whose life-sand through the hour-glass slips, He lays two fingers on your ears, and two Upon your eyes he lays, one on your lips, Whispering: Silence!” Although deaf thine ear, Thine eye, my Hafiz, suffer Time’s eclipse, The songs thou sangest still all men may hear._

The span of thy life is as five little days, Brief hours and swift in this halting-place; Rest softly, ah rest! while the Shadow delays, For Time’s self is nought and the dial’s face. On the lip of Oblivion we linger, and short Is the way from the Lip to the Mouth where we pass— While the moment is thine, fill, oh Saki, the glass Ere all is nought!

Ah, seek the treasure of a mind at rest And store it in the treasury of Ease; Not worth a loyal heart, a tranquil breast, Were all the riches of thy lands and seas! Ah, scorn, like Hafiz, the delights of earth, Ask not one grain of favour from the base, Two hundred sacks of jewels were not worth Thy soul’s disgrace!

Cypress and Tulip and sweet Eglantine, Of these the tale from lip to lip is sent; Washed by three cups, oh Saki, of thy wine, My song shall turn upon this argument. Spring, bride of all the meadows, rises up, Clothed in her ripest beauty: fill the cup! Of Spring’s handmaidens runs this song of mine.

To a certain extent it may be said that the Sufiism of Hafiz is partly due to the natural leaning of the Oriental poet towards a picturesque diction (for all poetry must, to satisfy Eastern readers, be couched in a veiled and enigmatic speech),[14] and has partly been read into the Divan by later ages. But this is not all. With Shah Shudja, I would accuse him of mixing up inextricably wine and love and Sufi teaching, and perhaps more besides. To some at least of the innumerable difficulties which assail every man who turns a thoughtful eye upon life and its conditions, Hafiz seems to have accepted the solution presented to him by Sufiism. He understood and sympathised with the bold heresy of Hallaj, “though fools whom God hath not uplifted know not the meaning of him who said, I am God.” Sometimes we find him enunciating one of the abstruser of the Sufi doctrines: “How shall I say that existence is mine when I have no knowledge of myself, or how that I exist not when mine eyes are fixed upon Him?”—a man, that is, can lay claim to no individual existence; all that he knows is that he is a part of the eternally existing. Or, again, he declares that his words are metaphorical, and should receive the full Sufi interpretation, as in the following couplet: “Boon companion, minstrel, and cup-bearer, all these are but names for Him; the image of water and clay (man) is an illusion upon the road of life.” But he handles Sufiism in a broad and noble manner, which links it on to the highest codes of morality accepted among the civilised races of mankind. “For all eternity the perfume of love comes not to him who has not swept with his cheek the dust from the tavern threshold”—“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Hafiz is saying in phraseology suited to the ears of those whom he addressed. “If thou desire the jewelled cup of ruby wine,” he continues (and it is of the hunger and thirst after wisdom that he speaks), “ah, many tears shall thine eyes thread upon thine eyelashes!” He did not forget that “the Sufi gold is not always without alloy,” and he was not one of those who believe that they have discovered the answer to all human demands when their own heart is satisfied. “Since thou canst never leave the palace of thyself,” he warns us, “how canst thou hope to reach the village of truth.” The song that filled his soul with gladness might strike on other ears to a different measure; and “where is the music to which both the drunk and the sober can dance?” He was, indeed, profoundly sceptical as to the infallibility of any creed, judging men not by the practice, but by the spirit that lay beneath it: “None shall die whose heart has lived with the life love breathed into it; but when the day of reckoning comes, I fancy that the Sheikh will find that he has gained as little by his abstinence as I by my feasting.”

True love has vanished from every heart; What has befallen all lovers fair? When did the bonds of friendship part?— What has befallen the friends that were? Ah, why are the feet of Khizr lingering?— The waters of life are no longer clear, The purple rose has turned pale with fear, And what has befallen the wind of Spring?

_Stanza 2._—The Luli or gipsies, as they were contemptuously called, were a people of the tribe of Keredj, of Indian origin, who inhabited the country between Shiraz and Isfahan. Their young men and maidens were famous for their beauty and musical accomplishments, and furnished minstrels and dancing girls to the wealthy inhabitants of Shiraz. Sir Henry Layard met with a similar tribe near Baghdad. “They bear,” he says, “a very bad reputation on the score of morality, and according to general report lead very dissolute lives. The dancing boys and girls who frequent Baghdad, and are notoriously of evil fame, come principally from this district. Whilst we were resting at the caravanserai a party of them came to perform their indecent dances before us, as they were in the habit of doing on the arrival of travellers.”—_Early Adventures._

A tale of April the meadows unfold— Ah, foolish for future credit to slave, And to leave the cash of the present untold! Build a fort with wine where thy heart may brave The assault of the world; when thy fortress falls, The relentless victor shall knead from thy dust The bricks that repair its crumbling walls.

_Verse 6._—“Oh rose, tearing thy robe in two”: that is, bursting into flower beneath the warm breath of the wind that blows from where thou art.

_Stanza 1._—According to Oriental belief, Jesus Christ’s gift of healing was due to a miraculous quality in His breath.

Trust not the word of that foe in the fight! Shall the lamp of the synagogue lend its flame To set thy monastic torches alight? Drunken am I, yet place not my name In the Book of Doom, nor pass judgment on it; Who knows what the secret finger of Fate Upon his own white forehead has writ!

Then said my heart: Here will I take my rest! This city breathes her love in every part. But to a distant bourne was she addressed, Alas! he knew it not, alas, poor heart! The influence of some cold malignant star Has loosed my hand that held her, lone and far She journeyeth that lay upon my breast.

Wind of the dawn that passest by, Swift to the street of my fairy hie, Whisper the tale of Hafiz true, Fresh and afresh and new and new!