Once on a time from all the Circles seven
Between the steadfast Earth and rolling Heaven
THE BIRDS, of all Note, Plumage, and Degree,
That float in Air, and roost upon the Tree;
And they that from the Waters snatch their Meat,
And they that scour the Desert with long Feet:
Birds of all Natures, known or not to Man,
Flock’d from all Quarters into full Divan,
On no less solemn business than to find
Or choose, a Sultan Khalif of their kind,
For whom, if never their’s, or lost, they pined.
The Snake had his, ‘t was said; and so the Beast
His Lion-lord: and Man had his, at least:
And that the Birds, who nearest were the Skies,
And went apparell’d in its Angel Dyes,
Should be without—under no better Law
Than that which lost all other in the Maw—
Disperst without a Bond of Union—nay,
Or meeting to make each the other’s Prey—
This was the Grievance—this the solemn Thing
On which the scatter’d Commonwealth of Wing,
From all the four Winds, flying like to Cloud
That met and blackened Heav’n, and Thunder-loud
With Sound of whirring Wings and Beaks that clash’d
Down like a Torrent on the Desert dash’d:
Till by Degrees, the Hubbub and Pell-mell
And, Proclamation made of Silence, each
In special Accent, but in general Speech
That all should understand, as seem’d him best,
The congregation of all Wings addrest.
And first, with Heart so full as from his Eyes
Ran weeping, up rose Tajidar[1] the Wise;
The mystic Mark upon whose bosom show’d
That He alone of all the Birds THE ROAD
Had travell’d: and the Crown upon his Head
Had reach’d the Goal; and He stood forth and said.
“Oh Birds, by what Authority divine
I speak you know by His authentic Sign,
And Name, emblazon’d on my Breast and Bill:
Whose Counsel I assist at, and fulfil:
At His Behest I measured as he plann’d
The Spaces of the Air and Sea and Land;
I gauged the secret sources of the Springs
From Cloud to Fish: the Shadow of my Wings
Dream’d over sleeping Deluge: piloted
The Blast that bore Sulayman’s Throne: and led
The Cloud of Birds that canopied his Head;
Whose Word I brought to Balkis: and I shared
The Counsel that with Ásaf he prepared.
And now you want a Khalif: and I know
Him, and his whereabout, and How to go:
Alone for all: but, by the eternal laws,
Yourselves by Toil and Travel of your own
Must for your old Delinquency atone.
Were you indeed not blinded by the Curse
Of Self-exile, that still grows worse and worse,
Yourselves would know that, though you see him not,
He is with you this Moment, on this Spot,
Your Lord through all Forgetfulness and Crime,
Here, There, and Everywhere, and through all Time.
But as a Father, whom some wayward Child
By sinful Self-will has unreconciled,
Waits till the sullen Reprobate at cost
Of long Repentance should regain the Lost;
Therefore, yourselves to see as you are seen,
Yourselves must bridge the Gulf you made between
By such a Search and Travel to be gone
Up to the mighty mountain Káf, whereon
Hinges the World, and round about whose Knees
Into one Ocean mingle the Sev’n Seas;
In whose impenetrable Forest-folds
Of Light and Dark “Symurgh”[2] his Presence holds;
Not to be reach’d, if to be reach’d at all
But by a Road the stoutest might appal;
Of Travel not of Days or Months, but Years—
Life-long perhaps: of Dangers, Doubts, and Fears
As yet unheard of: Sweat of Blood and Brain
Interminable—often all in vain—
And, if successful, no Return again:
A Road whose very Preparation scared
The Traveller who yet must be prepared.
Who then this Travel to Result would bring
Needs both a Lion’s Heart beneath the Wing.
And even more, a Spirit purified
Of Worldly Passion, Malice, Lust, and Pride:
Yea, ev’n of Worldly Wisdom, which grows dim
And dark, the nearer it approaches Him,
Who to the Spirit’s Eye alone reveal’d,
Without which none who reach the Place could bear
To look upon the Glory dwelling there.”
Thus spoke the Tajidar: and the wing’d Crowd,
That underneath his Word in Silence bow’d,
Clapp’d Acclamation: and their Hearts and Eyes
Were kindled by the Firebrand of the Wise.
They felt their Degradation: they believed
The word that told them how to be retrieved,
And in that glorious Consummation won
Forgot the Cost at which it must be done.
“They only long’d to follow: they would go
Whither he led, through Flood, or Fire, or Snow”—
So cried the Multitude. But some there were
Who listen’d with a cold disdainful air,
Content with what they were, or grudging Cost
Of Time or Travel that might all be lost;
These, one by one, came forward, and preferr’d
Unwise Objection: which the wiser Word
Shot with direct Reproof, or subtly round
With Argument and Allegory wound.
The Pheasant first would know by what pretence
The Tajidar to that pre-eminence
Was raised—a Bird, but for his lofty Crest
(And such the Pheasant had) like all the Rest—
Who answere’d—“By no Virtue of my own
Sulayman chose me, but by His alone:
Not by the Gold and Silver of my Sighs
Made mine, but the free Largess of his Eyes.
Behold the Grace of Allah comes and goes
As to Itself is good: and no one knows
Which way it turns: in that mysterious Court
Not he most finds who furthest travels for’t.
For one may crawl upon his knees Life-long,
Another just arriving at the Place
He toil’d for, and—the Door shut in his Face:
Whereas Another, scarcely gone a Stride,
And suddenly—Behold he is Inside!—
But though the Runner win not, he that stands,
No Thorn will turn to Roses in his Hands:
Each one must do his best and all endure,
And all endeavour, hoping but not sure.
Heav’n its own Umpire is; its Bidding do,
And Thou perchance shalt be Sulayman’s too.”
Then came The Nightingale, from such a Draught
Of Ecstasy that from the Rose he quaff’d
Reeling as drunk, and ever did distil
In exquisite Divisions from his Bill
To inflame the Hearts of Men—and thus sang He—
“To me alone, alone, is giv’n the Key
Of Love; of whose whole Mystery possest,
When I reveal a little to the Rest,
Forthwith Creation listening forsakes
The Reins of Reason, and my Frenzy takes:
Yea, whosoever once has quaff’d this wine
He leaves unlisten’d David’s Song for mine.
In vain do Men for my Divisions strive,
And die themselves making dead Lutes alive:
I hang the Stars with Meshes for Men’s Souls:
The Garden underneath my Music rolls.
The long, long Morns that mourn the Rose away
I sit in silence, and on Anguish prey:
But the first Air which the New Year shall breathe
Up to my Boughs of Message from beneath
That in her green Harím my Bride unveils,
My Throat bursts silence and her Advent hails,
Who in her crimson Volume registers
The Notes of Him whose Life is lost in hers.[3]
The Rose I love and worship now is here;
If dying, yet reviving, Year by Year;
But that you tell of, all my Life why waste
In vainly searching; or, if found, not taste?”
So with Division infinite and Trill
On would the Nightingale have warbled still,
And all the World have listen’d; but a Note
Of sterner Import check’d the love-sick Throat.
“Oh watering with thy melodious Tears
Love’s Garden, and who dost indeed the Ears
Of men with thy melodious Fingers mould
As David’s Finger Iron did of old:[4]
Why not, like David, dedicate thy Dower
Of Song to something better than a Flower?
Empress indeed of Beauty, so they say,
But one whose Empire hardly lasts a Day,
By Insurrection of the Morning’s Breath
That made her hurried to Decay and Death:
And while she lasts contented to be seen,
And worshipt, for the Garden’s only Queen,
Leaving thee singing on thy Bough forlorn,
Or if she smile on Thee, perhaps in Scorn.”
Then came the subtle Parrot in a coat
Greener than Greensward, and about his Throat
A Collar ran of sub-sulphureous Gold;
And in his Beak a Sugar-plum he troll’d,
That all his Words with luscious Lisping ran,
And to this Tune—“Oh cruel Cage, and Man
More iron still who did confine me there,
Who else with him whose Livery I wear
Ere this to his Eternal Fount had been,
And drunk what should have kept me ever-green.
But now I know the Place, and I am free
To go, and all the Wise will follow Me.
Some”—and upon the Nightingale one Eye
He leer’d—“for nothing but the Blossom sigh:
But I am for the luscious Pulp that grows
Where, and for which the Blossom only blows:
And which so long as the Green Tree provides
What better grows along the Káf’s dreary Sides?
And what more needful Prophet there than He
Who gives me Life to nip it from the Tree?”
To whom the Tajidar—“Oh thou whose Best
In the green leaf of Paradise is drest,
But whose Neck kindles with a lower Fire—
Oh slip the collar off of base Desire,
And stand apparell’d in Heav’n’s Woof entire!
This Life that hangs so sweet about your Lips
But, spite of all your Khizar, slips and slips,
What is it but itself the coarser Rind
Of the True Life withinside and behind,
Which he shall never never reach unto
Till the gross Shell of Carcase he break through?”
Then like a Sultan glittering in all Rays
Of Jewelry, and decks with his own Blaze,
The glorious Peacock swept into the Ring:
And, turning slowly that glorious Thing
Might fill all Eyes with wonder, thus said He.
“Behold, the Secret Artist, making me,
With no one Colour of the skies bedeck,
But from its Angel’s Feathers did select
To make up mine withal, the Gabriel
Of all the Birds: though from my Place I fell
In Eden, when Acquaintance I did make
In those blest Days with that Sev’n-headed Snake,
And thence with him, my perfect Beauty marr’d
With these ill Feet, was thrust out and debarr’d.
Little I care for Worldly Fruit or Flower,
Would you restore me to lost Eden’s Bower,
But first my Beauty making all complete
With reparation of these ugly Feet.”
“Were it,” ‘t was answer’d, “only to return
To that lost Eden, better far to burn
In Self-abasement up thy plumed Pride,
And ev’n with lamer feet to creep inside—
But all mistaken you and all like you
That long for that lost Eden as the true;
Fair as it was, still nothing but the Shade
And Out-court of the Majesty that made.
That which I point you tow’rd, and which the King
I tell you of broods over with his Wing,
With no deciduous leaf, but with the Rose
Of Spiritual Beauty, smells and glows:
No plot of Earthly Pleasance, but the whole
True Garden of the Universal Soul.”
For so Creation’s Master-Jewel fell
From that same Eden: loving which too well,
The Work before the Artist did prefer,
And in the Garden lost the Gardener.
Wherefore one Day about the Garden went
A voice that found him in his false Content,
And like a bitter Sarsar of the North[5]
Shrivell’d the Garden up, and drove him forth
Into the Wilderness: and so the Eye
Then from a Ruin where conceal’d he lay
Watching his buried Gold, and hating Day,
Hooted The Owl.—“I tell you my Delight
Is in the Ruin and the Dead of Night
Where I was born, and where I love to wone
All my Life long, sitting on some cold stone
Away from all your roystering Companies,
In some dark Corner where a Treasure lies;
That, buried by some Miser in the Dark,
Speaks up to me at Midnight like a Spark;
And o’er it like a Talisman I brood,
Companion of the Serpent and the Toad.
What need of other Sovereign, having found,
And keeping as in Prison underground,
One before whom all other Kings bow down,
And with his glittering Heel their Foreheads crown?”
“He that a Miser lives and Miser dies,
At the Last Day what Figure shall he rise?”
“Aye,” said The Partridge, with his Foot and Bill
Crimson with raking Rubies from the Hill,
And clattering his Spurs—“Wherewith the Ground
I stab,” said he, “for Rubies, that, when found
I swallow; which, as soon as swallow’d, turn
To Sparks which through my beak and eyes do burn.
Gold, as you say, is but dull Metal dead,
And hanging on the Hoarder’s Soul like Lead:
But Rubies that have Blood within, and grown
And nourish in the Mountain Heart of Stone,
Burn with an inward Light, which they inspire,
And make their Owners Lords of their Desire.”[6]
To whom the Tajidar—“As idly sold
As dead when sleeping in their mountain mine
As dangerous to Him who makes them shine:
Slavish indeed to do their Lord’s Commands,
And slave-like, aptest to escape his Hands,
And serve a second Master like the first,[7]
And working all their wonders for the worst.”
Then The Shah-Falcon, tossing up his Head
Blink-hooded as it was—“Behold,” he said,
“I am the chosen Comrade of the King,
And perch upon the Fist that wears the Ring;
Born, bred, and nourisht, in the Royal Court,
I take the Royal Name and make the Sport.
And if strict Discipline I undergo
And half my Life am blinded—be it so;
Because the Shah’s Companion ill may brook
On aught save Royal Company to look.
And why am I to leave my King, and fare
With all these Rabble Wings I know not where?”—
“Oh blind indeed”—the Answer was, “and dark
To any but a vulgar Mortal Mark,
And drunk with Pride of Vassalage to those
Whose humour like their Kingdom comes and goes;
All Mutability: who one Day please
To give: and next Day what they gave not seize:
Like to the Fire: a dangerous Friend at best,
Which who keeps farthest from does wiseliest.”
Then on a sudden swoop’d The Phoenix down
As though he wore as well as gave The Crown:
And cried—“I care not, I, to wait on Kings,
Whose crowns are but the Shadow of my Wings!”
“Aye,” was the Answer—“And, pray, how had sped,
On which it lighted, many a mortal Head?”
A certain Sultan dying, his Vizier
In Dream beheld him, and in mortal Fear
Began—“Oh mighty Shah of Shahs! Thrice-blest”—
But loud the Vision shriek’d and struck its Breast,
And “Stab me not with empty Title!” cried—
“One only shah there is, and none beside,
Who from his Throne above for certain Ends
Awhile some Spangle of his Glory lends
To Men on Earth; but calling in again
Exacts a strict account of every Grain.
Sultan I lived, and held the World in scorn:
Oh better had I glean’d the Field of Corn!
Oh better had I been a Beggar born,
And for my Throne and Crown, down in the Dust
My living Head had laid where Dead I must!
Oh wither’d, wither’d, wither’d, be the Wing
Whose overcasting Shadow made me King!”
Then from a Pond, where all day long he kept,
Waddled the dapper Duck demure, adept
At infinite Ablution, and precise
In keeping of his Raiment clean and nice.
And “Sure of all the Race of Birds,” said He,
“None for Religious Purity like Me.
Beyond what strictest Ritual prescribe—
Methinks I am the Saint of all our Tribe,
To whom, by Miracle, the Water, that
I wash in, also makes my Praying-Mat.”
To whom, more angrily than all, replied
The Leader, lashing that religious Pride,
That under ritual Obedience
To outer Law with inner might dispense:
For, fair as all the Feather to be seen,
Could one see through, the Maw was not so clean:
But He that made both Maw and Feather too
Would take account of, seeing through and through.
Then from a Wood was heard unseen to coo
The Ring-dove—“Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yú!-”
(For this her sorrow broke her Note in twain,
And, just where broken, took it up again)
“-suf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf!”—But one Note,
Which still repeating, she made hoarse her throat:
Till checkt—“Oh You, who with your idle Sighs
Block up the Road of better Enterprise;
Sham Sorrow all, or bad as sham if true,
When once the better thing is come to do;
Beware lest wailing thus you meet his Doom
Who all too long his Darling wept, from whom
You draw the very Name you hold so dear,
And which the World is somewhat tired to hear.”
—And after these came others—arguing,
Enquiring and excusing—some one Thing,
And some another—endless to repeat,
But, in the Main, Sloth, Folly, or Deceit.
Their Souls were to the vulgar Figure cast
Of earthly Victual not of Heavenly Fast.
At last one smaller Bird, of a rare kind,
Of modest Plume and unpresumptuous Mind,
Whisper’d. “Oh Tajidar, we know indeed
How Thou both knowest, and would’st help our Need;
For thou art wise and holy, and hast been
Behind the Veil, and there The Presence seen.
But we are weak and vain, with little care
Beyond our yearly Nests and daily Fare—
How should we reach the Mountain? and if there
How get so great a Prince to hear our Prayer?
For there, you say, dwells The Symurgh alone
And we but Pismires at his feet: can He
Such puny Creatures stoop to hear, or see;
Or hearing, seeing, own us—unakin
As He to Folly, Woe, and Death, and Sin?”—
To whom the Tajidar, whose Voice for those
Bewilder’d ones to full Compassion rose—
“Oh lost so long in Exile, you disclaim
The very Fount of Being whence you came,
Cannot be parted from, and, will or no,
Whether for Good or Evil must re-flow!
For look—the Shadows into which the Light
Of his pure Essence down by infinite
Gradation dwindles, which at random play
Through Space in Shape indefinite—one Ray
Of his Creative Will into defined
Creation quickens: We that swim the Wind,
And they the Flood below, and Man and Beast
That walk between, from Lion to the least
Pismire that creeps along Sulayman’s Wall—
Yea, that in which they swim, fly, walk, and crawl—
However near the Fountain Light, or far
Removed, yet His authentic Shadows are;
Dead Matter’s Self but the dark Residue
Exterminating Glory dwindles to.
A Mystery too fearful in the Crowd
To utter—scarcely to Thyself aloud—
But when in solitary Watch and Prayer
Consider’d: and religiously beware
Lest Thou the Copy with the Type confound;
And Deity, with Deity indrown’d,—
For as pure Water into purer Wine
Incorporating shall itself refine
While the dull Drug lies half-resolved below,
The baser Forms, to whatsoever Change
Subject, still vary through their lower Range:
To which the higher even shall decay,
That, letting ooze their better Part away
For Things of Sense and Matter, in the End
Shall merge into the Clay to which they tend.
Unlike to him, who straining through the Bond
Of outward Being for a Life beyond,
While the gross Worldling to his Centre clings,
That draws him deeper in, exulting springs
To merge him in the central Soul of Things.
And shall not he pass home with other Zest
Who, with full Knowledge, yearns for such a Rest,
Than he, who with his better self at strife,
Drags on the weary Exile call’d This Life?—
One, like a child with outstrecht Arms and Face
Up-turn’d, anticipates his Sire’s Embrace;
The other crouching like a guilty Slave
Till flogg’d to Punishment across the Grave.
And, knowing that His glory ill can bear
The unpurged Eye; do thou Thy Breast prepare;
And the mysterious Mirror He set there,
To temper his reflected Image in,
Clear of Distortion, Doubleness, and Sin:
And in thy Conscience understanding this,
The Double only seems, but The One is,
Thy-self to Self-annihilation give
That this false Two in that true One may live.
For this I say: if, looking in thy Heart,
Thou for Self-whole mistake thy Shadow-part,
That Shadow-part indeed into The Sun
Shall melt, but senseless of its Union:
But in that Mirror if with purged eyes
Then shalt Thou back into thy Centre fall
A conscious Ray of that eternal All.”
He ceased, and for awhile Amazement quell’d
The Host, and in the Chain of Silence held:
A Mystery so awful who would dare—
So glorious who would not wish—to share?
So Silence brooded on the feather’d Folk,
Till here and there a timid Murmur broke
From some too poor in honest Confidence,
And then from others of too much Pretence;
Whom both, as each unduly hoped or fear’d
The Tajidar in answer check’d or cheer’d.
Some said their Hearts were good indeed to go
The Way he pointed out: but they were slow
Of Comprehension, and scarce understood
Their present Evil or the promised Good:
And so, tho’ willing to do all they could,
Must not they fall short, or go wholly wrong,
On such mysterious Errand, and so long?
Whom the wise Leader bid but Do their Best
In Hope and Faith, and leave to Him the rest,
For He who fix’d the Race, and knew its Length
And Danger, also knew the Runner’s Strength.
And then, with drooping Crest and Feather, came
Others, bow’d down with Penitence and Shame.
They long’d indeed to go; “but how begin,
Mesh’d and entangled as they were in Sin
Which often-times Repentance of past Wrong
As often broken had but knit more strong?”
Whom the wise Leader bid be of good cheer,
And, conscious of the Fault, dismiss the Fear,
Nor at the very Entrance of the Fray
Their Weapon, ev’n if broken, fling away:
Since Mercy on the broken Branch anew
Would blossom were but each Repentance true.
For did not God his Prophet take to Task?
“Sev’n-times of Thee did Kárun Pardon ask;
Which, hadst thou been like Me his Maker—yea,
But present at the Kneading of his Clay
With those twain Elements of Hell and Heav’n,—
One prayer had won what Thou deny’st to Sev’n.”
For like a Child sent with a fluttering Light
To feel his way along a gusty Night
Man walks the World: again and yet again
The Lamp shall be by Fits of Passion slain:
But shall not He who sent him from the Door
Relight the Lamp once more, and yet once more?
When the rebellious Host from Death shall wake
Black with Despair of Judgement, God shall take
Ages of holy Merit from the Count
Of Angels to make up Man’s short Amount,
And bid the murmuring Angel gladly spare
Of that which, undiminishing his Share
Of Bliss, shall rescue Thousands from the Cost
Of Bankruptcy within the Prison lost.
Another Story told how in the Scale
Good Will beyond mere Knowledge would prevail.
And then came one who having clear’d his Throat
With sanctimonious Sweetness in his Note
Thus lisp’d—“Behold I languish from the first
With passionate and unrequited Thirst
Of Love for more than any mortal Bird.
Therefore have I withdrawn me from the Herd
To pine in Solitude. But Thou at last
Hast drawn a line across the dreary Past,
And sure I am by Fore-taste that the Wine
I long’d for, and Thou tell’st of, shall be mine.”
But he was sternly checkt. “I tell thee this:
Thou canst not even fill the sail of Prayer
Unless for Him thou breathe that vital Air
That shall lift up the Curtain that divides
His Lover from the Harím where He hides—
And the Fulfilment of thy Vows must be,
Not Love sprung out from Him, but sprung from Thee.”
“But” said Another, “then shall none the Seal
Of Acceptation on his Forehead feel
Ere the Grave yield them on the other Side
Where all is settled?” But the Chief replied—
“Enough for us to know that who is meet
Shall enter, and with unreprovéd Feet,
(Ev’n as he might upon the Waters walk)
The Presence-room, and in the Presence talk
With such unbridled License as shall seem
To the Uninitiated to blaspheme.”
Just as another Holy Spirit fled,
The Skies above him burst into a Bed
Of Angels looking down and singing clear
“Nightingale! Nightingale! thy Rose is here!”
And yet, the Door wide open to that Bliss,
As some hot Lover slights a scanty Kiss,
The Saint cried “All I sigh’d for come to this?
I who life-long have struggled, Lord, to be
Not of thy Angels one, but one with Thee!”
Others were sure that all he said was true:
They were extremely wicked, that they knew:
And much they long’d to go at once—but some,
They said, so unexpectedly had come
Leaving their Nests half-built—in bad Repair—
With Children in—Themselves about to pair—
“Might he not choose a better Season—nay,
Better perhaps a Year or Two’s Delay,
Till all was settled, and themselves more stout
And strong to carry their Repentance out—
And then”—“And then the same or like Excuse,
With harden’d Heart and Resolution loose
With dallying: and old Age itself engaged
Still to shirk that which shirking we have aged;
And so with Self-delusion, till, too late,
Death upon all Repentance shuts the Gate;
Or some fierce blow compels the Way to choose,
And forced Repentance half its Virtue lose.”
So spake the Tajidar: but Fear and Doubt
Among the Birds in Whispers went about:
Great was their Need: and Succour to be sought
At any Risk: at any Ransom bought:
But such a Monarch—greater than Mahmúd
The Great Himself! Why how should he be woo’d
To listen to them? they too having come
So suddenly, and unprepared from home
With any Gold, or Jewel, or rich Thing
To carry with them to so great a King—
Poor Creatures! with the old and carnal Blind,
Spite of all said, so thick upon the Mind,
Devising how they might ingratiate
Access, as to some earthly Potentate.
“Let him that with this Monarch would engage
Bring the Gold Dust of a long Pilgrimage:
The Ruby of a bleeding Heart, whose Sighs
Breathe more than Amber-incense as it dies;
And while in naked Beggary he stands
Hope for the Robe of Honour from his Hands.
And as no gift this Sovereign receives
Save the mere Soul and Self of him who gives,
So let that Soul for other none Reward
Look than the Presence of its Sovereign Lord.”
And as his Hearers seem’d to estimate
Their Scale of Glory from Mahmúd the Great,
A simple Story of the Sultan told
How best a subject with his Shah made bold—
One night Shah Mahmúd who had been of late
Somewhat distemper’d with Affairs of State
Stroll’d through the Streets disguised, as wont to do—
And, coming to the Baths, there on the Flue
Saw the poor Fellow who the Furnace fed
Sitting beside his Water-jug and Bread.
Mahmúd stept in—sat down—unask’d took up
And tasted of the untasted Loaf and Cup,
Saying within himself, “Grudge but a bit,
And, by the Lord, your Head shall pay for it!”
So having rested, warm’d and satisfied
Himself without a Word on either side,
At last the wayward Sultan rose to go.
And then at last his Host broke the silence—“So?—
Art satisfied? Well, Brother, any Day
Or Night, remember, when you come this Way
And want a bit of Provender—why, you
Are welcome, and if not—why, welcome too.”
The Sultan was so tickled with the whim
Of this quaint Entertainment and of him
Who offer’d it, that many a Night again
Stoker and Shah foregather’d in that Vein—
Till, the poor Fellow having stood the Test
Of true Good-fellowship, Mahmúd confess’d
One Night the Sultan that had been his Guest:
And in requital of the scanty Dole
The Poor Man offer’d with so large a soul,
Bid him ask any Largess that he would—
A Throne—if he would have it, so he should.
The Poor Man kiss’d the Dust, and “All,” said he,
“I ask is what and where I am to be;
If but the Shah from time to time will come
As now and see me in the lowly Home
His presence makes a palace, and my own
Poor Flue more royal than another’s Throne.”
—So said the cheery Tale: and, as they heard,
Again the Heart beneath the feather stirr’d:
Again forgot the Danger and the Woes
Of the long Travel in its glorious Close:—
“Here truly all was Poverty, Despair
And miserable Banishment—but there
That more than Mahmúd, for no more than Prayer
Who would restore them to their ancient Place,
And round their Shoulders fling his Robe of Grace.”
They clapp’d their Wings, on Fire to be assay’d
And prove of what true Metal they were made,
Although defaced, and wanting the true Ring
And Superscription of their rightful King
“The Road! The Road!” in countless voices cried
The Host—“The Road! And who shall be our Guide?”
Yet to make doubly certain that the Voice
Of Heav’n accorded with the People’s Choice,
Lots should be drawn; and He on whom should light
Heav’n’s Hand—they swore to follow him out-right.
This settled, and once more the Hubbub quell’d,
Once more Suspense the Host in Silence held,
While, Tribe by Tribe, the Birds their Fortune drew;
And Lo! Upon the Tajidar it flew.
Then rising up again in wide and high
Circumference of wings that mesh’d the sky
“The Tajidar! The Tajidar!” they cry—
The Tajidar! The Tajidar!” with Him
Was Heav’n, and They would follow Life and Limb!
Then, once more fluttering to their Places down,
Upon his Head they set the Royal Crown
As Khalif of their Khalif so long lost,
And Captain of his now repentant Host;
And setting him on high, and Silence call’d,
The Tajidar, in Pulpit-throne install’d,
His Voice into a Trumpet-tongue so clear
As all the wingéd Multitude should hear
Raised, to proclaim the Order and Array
Of March; which, many as it frighten’d—yea,
The Heart of Multitudes at outset broke,
Yet for due Preparation must be spoke.
—A Road indeed that never Wing before
Flew, nor Foot trod, nor Heart imagined—o’er
Waterless Deserts—Waters where no Shore
Valleys comprising cloudhigh Mountains: these
Again their Valleys deeper than the Seas:
Whose Dust all Adders, and whose vapour Fire:
Where all once hostile elements conspire
To set the Soul against herself, and tear
Courage to Terror—Hope into Despair,
And Madness; Terrors, Trials, to make stray
Or stop where Death to wander or delay;
Where when half dead with Famine, Toil, and Heat,
‘T was Death indeed to rest, or drink, or eat,
A Road still waxing in Self-sacrifice
As it went on: still ringing with the Cries
And Groans of Those who had not yet prevail’d
And bleaching with Bones of those who fail’d:
Where, almost all withstood, perhaps to earn
Nothing: and, earning, never to return—
And first the VALE OF SEARCH: an endless Maze,
Branching into innumerable Ways
All courting Entrance: but one right: and this
Beset with Pitfall, Gulf, and Precipice,
Where Dust is Embers, Air a fiery Sleet,
Through which with blinded Eyes and bleeding Feet
The Pilgrim stumbles, with Hyæna’s Howl
Around, and hissing Snake, and deadly Ghoul,
Whose Prey he falls if tempted but to droop,
Or if to wander famish’d from the Troop
For fruit that falls to ashes in the Hand,
Water that reacht recedes into the Sand.
The only word is “Forward!” Guide in sight,
After him, swerving neither left nor right,
Thyself for thine own Victual by Day,
At night thine own Self’s Caravanserai.
Till suddenly, perhaps when most subdued
And desperate, the Heart shall be renew’d
When deep in utter Darkness, by one Gleam
Of Glory from the far remote Harím,
That, with a scarcely conscious Shock of Change,
Shall light the Pilgrim toward the Mountain Range
Of KNOWLEDGE: where, if stronger and more pure
The Light and Air, yet harder to endure;
And if, perhaps, the Footing more secure,
Harder to keep up with a nimble Guide,
Less from lost Road than insufficient Stride—
Yet tempted still by false Shows from the Track,
And by false Voices call’d aside, or back,
Which echo from the Bosom, as if won
The Journey’s End when only just begun,
And not a Mountain Peak with Toil attain’d
But shows a Top yet higher to be gain’d.
Wherefore still Forward, Forward! Love that fired
Thee first to search, by Search so re-inspired
As that the Spirit shall the carnal Load
Burn up, and double wing Thee on the Road;
That wert thou knocking at the very Door
Of Heav’n, thou still would’st cry for More, More, More!
Till loom in sight Káf’s Mountain Peak ashroud
In Mist—uncertain yet Mountain or Cloud,
But where the Pilgrim ‘gins to hear the Tide
Of that one Sea in which the Sev’n subside;
And not the Sev’n Seas only: but the sev’n
And self-enfolded Spheres of Earth and Heav’n—
Yea, the Two Worlds, that now as pictures sleep
Upon its Surface—but when once the Deep
From its long Slumber ‘gins to heave and sway—
Under that Tempest shall be swept away
With all their Phases and Phenomena:
Not senseless Matter only, but combined
With Life in all Varieties of Kind;
Yea, ev’n the abstract Forms that Space and Time
Men call, and Weal and Woe, Virtue and Crime,
And all the several Creeds, like those who fell
Before them, Mussulman and Infidel
Shall from the Face of Being melt away,
Cancell’d and swept as Dreams before the Day.
So hast thou seen the Astrologer prepare
His mystic Table smooth of Sand, and there
Inscribe the mystic Figures, Square, and Trine,
Circle and Pentagram, and heavenly Sign
Of Star and Planet: from whose Set and Rise,
Meeting and Difference, he prophesies;
And, having done it, with his Finger clean
Obliterates as never they had been.
Such is when reacht the Table Land of One
And Wonder: blazing with so fierce a Sun
Of Unity that blinds while it reveals
The Universe that to a Point congeals,
So, stunn’d with utter Revelation, reels
The Pilgrim, when that Double-seeming House,
Against whose Beams he long had chafed his Brows,
Crumbles and cracks before that Sea, whose near
And nearer Voice now overwhelms his Ear.
Till blinded, deafen’d, madden’d, drunk with doubt
Of all within Himself as all without,
Nay, whether a Without there be, or not,
Or a Within that doubts: and if, then what?—
Ev’n so shall the bewilder’d Pilgrim seem
When nearest waking deepliest in Dream,
And darkest next to Dawn; and lost what had
When All is found: and just when sane quite Mad—
As one that having found the Key once more
Returns, and Lo! He cannot find the Door
He stumbles over—So the Pilgrim stands
A moment on the Threshold—with raised Hands
Calls to the eternal Sáki for one Draught
Of Light from the One Essence: which when quaff’d,
He plunges headlong in: and all is well
With him who never more returns to tell.
Such being then the Race and such the Goal,
Judge if you must not Body both and Soul
With Meditation, Watch, and Fast prepare.
For he that wastes his Body to a Hair
Shall seize the Locks of Truth: and He that prays
Good Angels in their Ministry way-lays:
And the Midnightly Watcher in the Folds
Of his own Darkness God Almighty holds.
He that would prosper here must from him strip
The World, and his old Vices’ garments rip:
And as he goes must gather from all Sides
Irrelevant Ambitions, Lusts, and Prides,
Glory and Gold, and sensual Desire,
Whereof to build the fundamental Pyre
Of Self-annihilation: and cast in
All foolish Loyalties, Regard of Sin
And Country: and, the Pile with this perplext
World platform’d, from the Fables of the Next
Raise it tow’rd Culmination, with the torn
Rags and Integuments of Creeds out-worn;
And top the giddy Summit with the Scroll
Of Reason that in dingy Smoke shall roll
Over the true Self-sacrifice of Soul:
(For such a Prayer was his—“Oh God, do Thou
With all my Wealth in the other World endow
My Friends: and with my Wealth in this my Foes,
Till bankrupt in thy Riches I repose!”)
Then, all the Pile completed of the Pelf
Of either World—at last thrown on Thyself,
And with the Torch of Self-negation fire;
And ever as the Flames rise high and higher,
With Cries of agonizing Glory still
All of that Self burn up that burn up will,
Leaving the Phœnix that no Fire can slay
To spring from its own Ashes kindled—nay,
Itself an inextinguishable Spark
Of Being, now beneath Earth-ashes dark,
Transcending these, at last Itself transcends
And with the One Eternal Essence blends.
The Moths had long been exiled from the Flame
They worship: so to solemn Council came,
They voted One of them by Lot be sent
To find their Idol. One was chosen: went.
And after a long Circuit in sheer Gloom,
Seeing, he thought, the TAPER in a Room
Flew back at once to say so. But the chief
Of Mothistán slighted so slight Belief,
And sent another Messenger, who flew
Up to the House, in at the windows, through
The Flame itself; and back the Message brings,
With yet no sign of Conflict on his wings.
Then went a Third, who spurr’d with true Desire,
Plunging at once into the sacred Fire,
Folded his Wings within, till he became
One Colour and one Substance with the Flame.
He only knew the Flame who in it burn’d;
And only He could tell who ne’er to tell return’d.
After declaring what of this declared
Must be, that all who went should be prepared,
From his high Station ceased the Tajidar—
And lo! The Terrors that, when told afar,
Seem’d but as Shadows of a Noon-day Sun,
Now that the talkt of Thing was to be done,
Lengthening into those of closing Day
Strode into utter Darkness: and Dismay
Like Night on the husht Sea of Feathers lay,
Late so elate—“So terrible a Track!
Endless—or, ending, never to come back!—
Never to Country, Family, or Friend!”—
In sooth no easy Bow for Birds to bend!—
Even while he spoke, how many Wings and Crests
Had slunk away to distant Woods and Nests;
Others again in Preparation spent
What little Strength they had, and never went:
And others, after preparation due—
When up the Veil of that first Valley drew
From whose waste Wilderness of Darkness blew
A Sarsar, whether edged of Flames or Snows,
That through from Root to Tip their Feathers froze—
Up went a Multitude that overhead
A moment darken’d, then on all sides fled,
Dwindling in the World-assembled Caravan
To less than half the Number that began.
Of those who fled not, some in Dread and Doubt
Sat without stirring: others who set out
With frothy Force, or stupidly resign’d,
Before a League, flew off or fell behind.
And howsoever the more Brave and Strong
In Courage, Wing, or Wisdom, push’d along,
Yet League by League the Road was thicklier spread
By the fast falling Foliage of the Dead:
Some spent with Travel over Wave and Ground;
Scorcht, frozen, dead for Drought, or drinking drown’d.
Famisht, or poison’d with the Food when found:
By Weariness, or Hunger, or Affright
Seduced to stop or stray, become the Bite
Of Tiger howling round or hissing Snake,
Or Crocodile that eyed them from the Lake:
Or raving Mad, or in despair Self-slain:
Or slaying one another for a Grain:—
Till of the mighty Host that fledged the Dome
Of Heav’n and Floor of Earth on leaving Home,
A Handfull reach’d and scrambled up the Knees
Of Káf whose Feet dip in the Seven Seas;
And of the few that up his Forest-sides
Of Light and Darkness where The Presence hides,
But Thirty—thirty desperate draggled Things,
Half-dead, with scarce a Feather on their Wings,
Stunn’d, blinded, deafen’d with the Crash and Craze
Of Rock and Sea collapsing in a Blaze
That struck the Sun to Cinder—fell upon
The Threshold of the Everlasting One,
With but enough of Life in each to cry,
On THAT which all absorb’d—
And suddenly
Forth flash’d a wingéd Harbinger of Flame
And Tongue of Fire, and “Who?” and “Whence they came?”
And “Why?” demanded. And the Tajidar
For all the Thirty answered him—“We are
Those Fractions of the Sum of Being, far
Dis-spent and foul disfigured, that once more
Strike for Admission at the Treasury Door.”
To whom the Angel answer’d—“Know ye not
That He you seek recks little who or what
Of Quantity and Kind—himself the Fount
Of Being Universal needs no Count
Of all the Drops o’erflowing from his Urn,
In what degree they issue or return?”
Then cried the Spokesman, “Be it even so:
Let us but see the Fount from which we flow,
And, seeing, lose Ourselves therein!” And, Lo!
Before the word was utter’d, or the Tongue
Of Fire replied, or Portal open flung,
They were within—they were before the Throne,
Before the Majesty that sat thereon,
But wrapt in so insufferable a Blaze
Of Glory as beat down their baffled Gaze,
Which, downward dropping, fell upon a Scroll
That, Lightning-like, flash’d back on each the whole
Past half-forgotten Story of his Soul:
Like that which Yúsuf in his Glory gave
His Brethren as some Writing he would have
Interpreted; and at a Glance, behold
Their own Indenture for their Brother sold!
And so with these poor Thirty: who, abasht
In Memory all laid bare and Conscience lasht,
By full Confession and Self-loathing flung
The Rags of carnal Self that round them clung;
And, their old selves self-knowledged and self-loathed,
And in the Soul’s Integrity re-clothed,
Once more they ventured from the Dust to raise
Their Eyes—up to the Throne—into the Blaze,
And in the Centre of the Glory there
Beheld the figure of—Themselves—as ‘t were
Transfigured—looking to Themselves, beheld
The figure on the Throne en-miracled,
Until their Eyes themselves and That between
Did hesitate which Sëer was, which Seen;
They That, That They: Another, yet the Same;
Dividual, yet One: from whom there came;
A Voice of awful Answer, scarce discern’d
From which to Aspiration whose return’d
They scarcely knew; as when some Man apart
Answers aloud the Question in his Heart—
“The Sun of my perfection is a Glass
Wherein from Seeing into Being pass
All who, reflecting as reflected see
Themselves in Me, and Me in Them: not Me,
But all of Me that a contracted Eye
Is comprehensive of Infinity:
Nor yet Themselves: no Selves, but of The All
Fractions, from which they split and wither fall.
As Water lifted from the Deep, again
Falls back in individual Drops of Rain
Then melts into the Universal Main.
All you have been, and seen, and done, and thought,
Not You but I, have seen and been and wrought:
I was the Sin that from Myself rebell’d:
I the Remorse that tow’rd Myself compell’d:
I was the Tajidar who led the Track:
I was the little Briar that pull’d you back:
Sin and Contrition—Retribution owed,
And cancell’d—Pilgrim, Pilgrimage, and Road,
Was but Myself toward Myself: and Your
Arrival but Myself at my own Door:
Who in your Fraction of Myself behold
Myself within the Mirror Myself hold
To see Myself in, and each part of Me
That sees himself, though drown’d, shall ever see.
Come you lost Atoms to your Centre draw,
And be the Eternal Mirror that you saw:
Rays that have wander’d into Darkness wide
Return, and back into your Sun subside.”—
This was the Parliament of Birds: and this
The Story of the Host who went amiss,
And of the Few that better Upshot found;
Which being now recounted, Lo, the Ground
Of Speech fails underfoot: But this to tell—
Their Road is thine—Follow—and Fare thee well.
[1] Tájidár—“Crown-wearer”—one Epithet of the “Hudhud”, a beautiful kind of Lapwing, Niebuhr says, frequenting the Shores of the Persian Gulf, and supposed to have the Gift of Speech &c.
[2] Sýmurgh—i.e. “Thirty-Birds”—a fabulous Creature like the Griffin of our Middle Ages: the Arabian Anka.
[3] It was sometimes fancied that the Rose had as many Petals as her Lover had Notes in his Voice.
[4] The Prophet David was supposed, in Oriental Legend, to have had the power to mould Iron into a Cuirass with the miraculous Power of his Finger.
[5] Sarsar—a cold Blast.
[6] Every Jewel had its special Charm, and so was worn in Ring or Amulet.
[7] There is a Story of some one who falling from a Roof, and wondering what his Turquoise had done for him, was answered, ‘Well—you see it has kept itself unbroken.’
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