53

With Earth's first Clay They did the last Man's knead, And then of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:

Yea, the first Morning of Creation wrote What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.

54

I tell Thee this-When, starting from the Goal,
Over the shoulders of the flaming Foal

Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtarí they flung,
In my predestin'd Plot of Dust and Soul

55

The Vine had struck a Fibre; which about
If clings my Being-let the Súfi flout;

Of my Base Metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.

56

And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath consume me quite,

One glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

57

Oh, Thou, who did'st with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,

Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

58

Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake;

For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give-and take!

KÚZA-NÁMA
59

Listen again. One Evening at the Close
Of Ramazán, ere the better Moon arose,
In that old Potter's Shop I stood alone
With the clay Population round in Rows.

60

And, strange to tell, among the Earthen Lot
Some could articulate, while others not:

210

220

230

And suddenly one more impatient cried'Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?'

240

61

Then said another- Surely not in vain

'My substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
'Should stamp me back to common Earth again.'

62

Another said-'Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,

6

I Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy ;
'Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love
'And Fancy, in an after Rage destroy!'

63

None answer'd this; but after Silence spake

A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:

They sneer at me for leaning all awry ; 'What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake? '

64

Said one- Folks of a surly Tapster tell,

And daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell;

They talk of some strict Testing of us-Pish! He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well.'

65

Then said another with a long-drawn Sigh,

My Clay with long oblivion is gone dry:
But, fill me with the old familiar Juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by!'

66

So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,

One spied the little Crescent all were seeking :

And then they jogg'd each other, 'Brother, Brother!
Hark to the Porter's Shoulder-knot a-creaking!'

67

Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash my Body whence the Life has died,
And in a Winding-sheet of Vine-leaf wrapt,
So bury me by some sweet Garden-side.

68

That ev'n my buried Ashes such a Snare
Of Perfume shall fling up into the Air,
As not a True Believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.

69

Indeed the Idols I have loved so long

Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong:
Have drown'd my Honour in a shallow Cup,

And sold my Reputation for a Song.

250

260

270

70

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before

I swore but was I sober when I swore?

And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

71

And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour-well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.

72

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose !
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!

73

Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits-and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!

74

Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane,
The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again :

How oft hereafter rising shall she look
Through this same Garden after me-in vain !

75

And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in thy joyous Errand reach the Spot
Where I made one-turn down an empty Glass!

TAMÁM SHUD.

280

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300

NOTES

GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1340-1400).

THE CANTERBURY TALES

The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales is the first English poem which is at once a work of conscious and consummate art and completely national in subject and spirit. From Anglo-Saxon poetry we are separated by a chasm both of language and of character. The English language and the English people both emerged other than merely Saxon from that jostling and blending of races, tongues, and cultures which followed the Norman Conquest. The new national consciousness had begun before Chaucer to seek expression in literature, chiefly in political and satirical songs and poems. But these are rude and inartistic, and even the Vision of Piers Plowman, our first English picture of English society, is more interesting as a social, religious, and personal document than as a poem and a work of art. Its form, the long alliterative line, was incapable of any great artistic development. Art in English poetry begins with Chaucer; and before he wrote the Prologue, Chaucer's art had attained full maturity in style, verse, and picturesque, dramatic narrative. But for his themes Chaucer had hitherto gone exclusively, under French and Italian guidance, to that storehouse of mediaeval romance, allegory, and legend which was the common possession of Western Europe, and contains nothing distinctively national in character. Daunger and Bielaecoil, the Queen of Love and Daun Cupido, Ector and Troilus, Theseus and Palamon, belong to no country but the fantastic land of mediaeval romance in which so many incongruous elements are united. Nevertheless, through all Chaucer's romantic poems, except when in obedience to a mood or a behest he writes of Christian saints and Love's martyrs, one can trace the trend of his genius towards dramatic realism and satiric humour, whether in allegories like the Parlement of Foules and the Hous of Fame, or a love-romance like Troylus and Criseyde, the simple dramatic truthfulness of which shocked those who cultivated the ideal sentiment and ritual of the first part of the Romance of the Rose. It was a long time, however, before this dramatic bent in Chaucer found its natural outlet in the portrayal of real life. It may be, as Ten Brink thought, that his first essays in this direction were the prologue to the Wife of Bath's tale and such a story as January and May. It would be as natural that he should pass from romance to satirical fabliau as that later prose romancers should turn from chivalrous sentiment to picaresque story of thief and cheat. Realism always begins with low life and shady character. But be this as it may, the crown and flower of Chaucer's dramatic and humorous realism is the Prologue just because the picture is not confined to these, and the tone is not satirical only. In the same way, Don Quixote is greater than any picaresque romance because its canvas is so ample, its humanity so genial. In the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales the fantastic world of romance and allegory melts away, Troy and Thebes, palaces made of glass, and temples of brass