FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ.
OH! I have borne, and borne in vain,
The pang of love's delirious pain;
But she for whom my tear-drops fell,
Oh! ask me, ask me not to tell.
Oh! I have borne the lingering smart
Of absence cankering in the heart;
But she for whom my tear-drops fell,
Oh! ask me, ask me not to tell.
Far have I roam'd with wandering feet,
And found a fair so heavenly sweet
That in my breast she still shall dwell,
But ask me not her name to tell.
How long her footsteps I pursued,
How long with tears their prints bedew'd,
How long she made my sighs to swell,
Oh! ask me, ask me not to tell.
Sounds of the kindest, tenderest tone,
To fondest lovers only known,
Last evening from her dear lips fell;
But ask me, ask me not to tell.
Why frown and bite that angry lip?
I love her honied kiss to sip:
How soft the melting rubies swell!
But ask me not her name to tell.
Dear love! when far from thee I pine,
All lonely is this home of mine,
What sighs my tortured bosom swell,
Oh! ask me, ask me not to tell.
To love's dear bliss before unknown,
To such a height has passion grown
That Hafiz ne'er its power can quell;
Then ask him, ask him not to tell.
FROM THE PERSIAN OF RUDEKI.
HE who my brimming cup shall view
In trembling radiance shine,
Shall own the ruby's brilliant hue
Is match'd by rosy wine.
Each is a gem from Nature's hand
In living lustre bright;
But one congeals its radiance bland,
One swims in liquid light.
Ere you can touch, its sparkling dye
Has left a splendid stain;
Ere you can drink, the essence high
Floats giddy through the brain.
FROM THE PERSIAN.
ONCE on a time, no matter when,
But 'twas some ages since; say ten-
(For asses now more wise appear,
And deer affect to herd with deer).
Once on a time then, it is said,
An Ass and Stag together fed;
In bonds of love so closely bound,
That seldom were they separate found.
The upland lawns when summer dried,
They ranged the meadows side by side;
And when gaunt famine chased them thence,
They overleap'd the garden fence,
Dividing, without strife or coil,
Like ministers of state, the spoil.
In that gay season when the hours,
Spring's handmaids, strew the earth with flowers,
Our pair walk'd forth, and frisk'd and play'd,
And cropp'd the herbage as they stray'd.
'Twas evening-stillness reign'd around,
And dews refresh'd the thirsty ground;
When, homeward browsing, both inhale
Unusual fragrance from the gale.
It was a garden, compass'd round
With thorns, (a perfect Indian mound),
Through which they saw enough within
To make a drove of asses sin.
No watchdog-gardener-all was hush'd;
They bless'd their stars, and in they push'd;
Fell to with eager haste, and wasted
Ten cabbages for one they tasted.
And now the Ass (to fulness fed)
Cherish'd strange fancies in his head;
On Nature's carpet idly roll'd,
By care or prudence uncontroll❜d;
His pride froth'd up, his self conceit,
And thus it bubbled forth How sweet,
Prince of the branching antlers wide,
The mirth-inspiring moments glide!
How grateful are the hours of spring!
What odours sweet the breezes bring
The musky air to joy invites,
And drowns the senses in delights.
Deep 'mid the waving cypress boughs,
Turtles exchange their amorous vows;
While, from his rose's fragrant lips,
The bird of eve love's nectar sips.
Where'er I throw my eyes around,
All seems to me enchanted ground;
And night, while Cynthia's silvery gleam
Sleeps on the lawn, the grove, the stream,
Heart-soothing night, for nothing longs
But one of my melodious songs,
To lap the world in bliss, and show
A perfect paradise below!
When youth's warm blood shall cease to flow,
And beauty's cheek no longer glow;
When these soft graceful limbs, grown old,
Shall feel Time's fingers, icy cold;
Close in his chilling arms embraced,
What pleasures can I hope to taste?
What sweet delight in Age's train?
Spring will return, but ah! in vain."
The Stag, half pitying, half amazed,
Upon his old associate gazed;
'What! hast thou lost thy wits?' he cried, 'Or art thou dreaming, open eyed?
Sing, quotha! was there ever bred
In any mortal ass's head
So strange a thought! But, no offence-
What if we first remove from hence,
And talk, as erst, of straw and oats;
Of scurvy fare, and mangy coats;
Of heavy loads, or, worse than those,
Of cruel drivers, and hard blows?
For recollect, my gentle friend,
We're thieves, and plunder is our end.
See! through what parsley we've been toiling,
And what fine spinage we are spoiling!
"He most of all doth outrage reason
Who fondly singeth out of season."
A proverb that, for sense surpasses
The brains combined of stags and asses:
Yet, for I must thy perils trace,
Sweet bulbul* of the long-ear'd race!
Soft soul of harmony! yet hear;
If thou wilt rashly charm our ear,
And with thy warblings, loud and deep,
Unseal the leaden eye of sleep;
Roused by thy song, and arm'd with staves,
The gardener, and a host of slaves,
To mourning will convert thy strains,
And make their pastime of thy pains.'
His nose in scorn the songster rears,
Pricks up his twinkling length of ears,
And proudly thus he shot his bolt-
'Thou soulless, senseless, tasteless dolt!
If, when in vulgar prose I try
My voice, the soul in ecstasy
Will to the pale lip trembling flee,
And pant and struggle to be free,
Must not my song-'
'O, past pretence!
The ear must be deprived of sense,'
Rejoin'd the stag,- form'd of dull clay,
The heart that melts not at thy lay!
But hold, my ardent prayer attend,
Not yet with songs the welkin rend;
*The Persian name of the nightingale.
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