{
  "meta": {
    "schema_version": "1.1",
    "endpoint": "/api/sources/sufism/attar-bird-parliament/00-bird-parliament.json"
  },
  "work": {
    "slug": "attar-bird-parliament",
    "name": "Bird Parliament (*Manṭiq al-Ṭayr*)"
  },
  "parents": [
    {
      "slug": "sufism",
      "name": "Sufi Poets",
      "url": "/sources/sufism/"
    }
  ],
  "chapter": {
    "num": 1,
    "slug": "00-bird-parliament",
    "title": "Bird Parliament",
    "of": 1,
    "words": 10997,
    "text": "## Bird Parliament\n\n\nOnce on a time from all the Circles seven\nBetween the stedfast Earth and rolling Heaven\nTHE BIRDS, of all Note, Plumage, and Degree,\nThat float in Air, and roost upon the Tree;\nAnd they that from the Waters snatch their Meat,\nAnd they that scour the Desert with long Feet;\nBirds of all Natures, known or not to Man,\nFlock'd from all Quarters into full Divan,\nOn no less solemn business than to find\nOr choose, a Sultan Khalif of their kind,\nFor whom, if never theirs, or lost, they pined.\nThe Snake had his, 'twas said; and so the Beast\nHis Lion-lord: and Man had his, at least:\nAnd that the Birds, who nearest were the Skies,\nAnd went apparell'd in its Angel Dyes.\nShould be without—under no better Law\nThan that which lost all other in the Maw—\nDisperst without a Bond of Union—nay,\nOr meeting to make each the other's Prey—\nThis was the Grievance—this the solemn Thing\nOn which the scatter'd Commonwealth of Wing,\nFrom all the four Winds, flying like to Cloud\nThat met and blacken'd Heav'n, and Thunder-loud\nWith Sound of whirring Wings and Beaks that clash'd\nDown like a Torrent on the Desert dash'd:\nTill by Degrees, the Hubbub and Pell-mell\nInto some Order and Precedence fell,\nAnd, Proclamation made of Silence, each\nIn special Accent, but in general Speech\nThat all should understand, as seem'd him best,\nThe Congregation of all Wings addrest.\n\nAnd first, with Heart so full as from his Eyes\nRan weeping, up rose Tajidar the Wise;\nThe mystic Mark upon whose Bosom show'd\nThat He alone of all the Birds THE ROAD\nHad travell'd: and the Crown upon his Head\nHad reach'd the Goal; and He stood forth and said:\n\n'O Birds, by what Authority divine\nI speak you know by His authentic Sign,\nAnd Name, emblazon'd on my Breast and Bill:\nWhose Counsel I assist at, and fulfil:\nAt His Behest I measured as he plann'd\nThe Spaces of the Air and Sea and Land;\nI gauged the secret sources of the Springs\nFrom Cloud to Fish: the Shadow of my Wings\nDream'd over sleeping Deluge: piloted\nThe Blast that bore Sulayman's Throne: and led\nThe Cloud of Birds that canopied his Head;\nWhose Word I brought to Balkis: and I shared\nThe Counsel that with Asaf he prepared.\nAnd now you want a Khalif: and I know\nHim, and his whereabout, and How to go:\nAnd go alone I could, and plead your cause\nAlone for all: but, by the eternal laws,\nYourselves by Toil and Travel of your own\nMust for your old Delinquency atone.\nWere you indeed not blinded by the Curse\nOf Self-exile, that still grows worse and worse,\nYourselves would know that, though you see him not,\nHe is with you this Moment, on this Spot,\nYour Lord through all Forgetfulness and Crime,\nHere, There, and Everywhere, and through all Time.\nBut as a Father, whom some wayward Child\nBy sinful Self-will has unreconciled,\nWaits till the sullen Reprobate at cost\nOf long Repentance should regain the Lost;\nTherefore, yourselves to see as you are seen,\nYourselves must bridge the Gulf you made between\nBy such a Search and Travel to be gone\nUp to the mighty mountain Kaf, whereon\nHinges the World, and round about whose Knees\nInto one Ocean mingle the Sev'n Seas;\nIn whose impenetrable Forest-folds\nOf Light and Dark \"Symurgh\" his Presence holds;\nNot to be reach'd, if to be reach'd at all\nBut by a Road the stoutest might apal;\nOf Travel not of Days or Months, but Years—\nLife-long perhaps: of Dangers, Doubts, and Fears\nAs yet unheard of: Sweat of Blood and Brain\nInterminable—often all in vain—\nAnd, if successful, no Return again:\nA Road whose very Preparation scared\nThe Traveller who yet must be prepared.\nWho then this Travel to Result would bring\nNeeds both a Lion's Heart beneath the Wing,\nAnd even more, a Spirit purified\nOf Worldly Passion, Malice, Lust, and Pride:\nYea, ev'n of Worldly Wisdom, which grows dim\nAnd dark, the nearer it approaches Him,\nWho to the Spirit's Eye alone reveal'd,\nBy sacrifice of Wisdom's self unseal'd;\nWithout which none who reach the Place could bear\nTo look upon the Glory dwelling there.'\n\nOne Night from out the swarming City Gate\nStept holy Bajazyd, to meditate\nAlone amid the breathing Fields that lay\nIn solitary Silence leagues away,\nBeneath a Moon and Stars as bright as Day.\nAnd the Saint wondering such a Temple were,\nAnd so lit up, and scarce one worshipper,\nA voice from Heav'n amid the stillness said:\n'The Royal Road is not for all to tread,\nNor is the Royal Palace for the Rout,\nWho, even if they reach it, are shut out.\nThe Blaze that from my Harim window breaks\nWith fright the Rabble of the Roadside takes;\nAnd ev'n of those that at my Portal din,\nThousands may knock for one that enters in.'\n\nThus spoke the Tajidar: and the wing'd Crowd,\nThat underneath his Word in Silence bow'd,\nClapp'd Acclamation: and their Hearts and Eyes\nWere kindled by the Firebrand of the Wise.\nThey felt their Degradation: they believed\nThe word that told them how to be retrieved,\nAnd in that glorious Consummation won\nForgot the Cost at which it must be done.\n'They only long'd to follow: they would go\nWhither he led, through Flood, or Fire, or Snow'—\nSo cried the Multitude. But some there were\nWho listen'd with a cold disdainful air,\nContent with what they were, or grudging Cost\nOf Time or Travel that might all be lost;\nThese, one by one, came forward, and preferr'd\nUnwise Objection: which the wiser Word\nShot with direct Reproof, or subtly round\nWith Argument and Allegory wound.\n\nThe Pheasant first would know by what pretence\nThe Tajidar to that pre-eminence\nWas raised—a Bird, but for his lofty Crest\n(And such the Pheasant had) like all the Rest—\nWho answer'd—'By no Virtue of my own\nSulayman chose me, but by His alone:\nNot by the Gold and Silver of my Sighs\nMade mine, but the free Largess of his Eyes.\nBehold the Grace of Allah comes and goes\nAs to Itself is good: and no one knows\nWhich way it turns: in that mysterious Court\nNot he most finds who furthest travels for't.\nFor one may crawl upon his knees Life-long,\nAnd yet may never reach, or all go wrong:\nAnother just arriving at the Place\nHe toil'd for, and—the Door shut in his Face:\nWhereas Another, scarcely gone a Stride,\nAnd suddenly—Behold he is Inside!—\nBut though the Runner win not, he that stands,\nNo Thorn will turn to Roses in his Hands:\nEach one must do his best and all endure,\nAnd all endeavour, hoping but not sure.\nHeav'n its own Umpire is; its Bidding do,\nAnd Thou perchance shalt be Sulayman's too.'\n\nOne day Shah Mahmud, riding with the Wind\nA-hunting, left his Retinue behind,\nAnd coming to a River, whose swift Course\nDoubled back Game and Dog, and Man and Horse,\nBeheld upon the Shore a little Lad\nA-fishing, very poor, and Tatter-clad\nHe was, and weeping as his Heart would break.\nSo the Great Sultan, for good humour's sake\nPull'd in his Horse a moment, and drew nigh,\nAnd after making his Salam, ask'd why\nHe wept—weeping, the Sultan said, so sore\nAs he had never seen one weep before.\nThe Boy look'd up, and 'O Amir,' he said,\n'Sev'n of us are at home, and Father dead,\nAnd Mother left with scarce a Bit of Bread:\nAnd now since Sunrise have I fish'd—and see!\nCaught nothing for our Supper—Woe is Me!'\nThe Sultan lighted from his horse. 'Behold,'\nSaid he, 'Good Fortune will not be controll'd:\nAnd, since Today yours seems to turn from you,\nSuppose we try for once what mine will do,\nAnd we will share alike in all I win.'\nSo the Shah took, and flung his Fortune in,\nThe Net; which, cast by the Great Mahmud's Hand,\nA hundred glittering Fishes brought to Land.\nThe Lad look'd up in Wonder—Mahmud smiled\nAnd vaulted into Saddle. But the Child\nRan after—'Nay, Amir, but half the Haul\nIs yours by Bargain'—'Nay, Today take all,'\nThe Sultan cried, and shook his Bridle free—\n'But mind—Tomorrow All belongs to Me—'\nAnd so rode off. Next morning at Divan\nThe Sultan's Mind upon his Bargain ran,\nAnd being somewhat in a mind for sport\nSent for the Lad: who, carried up to Court,\nAnd marching into Royalty's full Blaze\nWith such a Catch of Fish as yesterday's,\nThe Sultan call'd and set him by his side,\nAnd asking him, 'What Luck?' The Boy replied,\n'This is the Luck that follows every Cast,\nSince o'er my Net the Sultan's Shadow pass'd.'\n\nThen came The Nightingale, from such a Draught\nOf Ecstasy that from the Rose he quaff'd\nReeling as drunk, and ever did distil\nIn exquisite divisions from his Bill\nTo inflame the Hearts of Men—and thus sang He—\n'To me alone, alone, is giv'n the Key\nOf Love; of whose whole Mystery possesst,\nWhen I reveal a little to the Rest,\nForthwith Creation listening forsakes\nThe Reins of Reason, and my Frenzy takes:\nYea, whosoever once has quaint this wine\nHe leaves unlisten'd David's Song for mine.\nIn vain do Men for my Divisions strive,\nAnd die themselves making dead Lutes alive:\nI hang the Stars with Meshes for Men's Souls:\nThe Garden underneath my Music rolls.\nThe long, long Morns that mourn the Rose away\nI sit in silence, and on Anguish prey:\nBut the first Air which the New Year shall breathe\nUp to my Boughs of Message from beneath\nThat in her green Harim my Bride unveils,\nMy Throat bursts silence and her Advent hails,\nWho in her crimson Volume registers\nThe Notes of Him whose Life is lost in hers.\nThe Rose I love and worship now is here;\nIf dying, yet reviving, Year by Year;\nBut that you tell of, all my Life why waste\nIn vainly searching; or, if found, not taste?'\n\nSo with Division infinite and Trill\nOn would the Nightingale have warbled still,\nAnd all the World have listen'd; but a Note\nOf sterner Import check'd the lovesick Throat.\n\n'O watering with thy melodious Tears\nLove's Garden, and who dost indeed the Ears\nOf men with thy melodious Fingers mould\nAs David's Finger Iron did of old:\nWhy not, like David, dedicate thy Dower\nOf Song to something better than a Flower?\nEmpress indeed of Beauty, so they say,\nBut one whose Empire hardly lasts a Day,\nBy Insurrection of the Morning's Breath\nThat made her hurried to Decay and Death:\nAnd while she lasts contented to be seen,\nAnd worshipt, for the Garden's only Queen,\nLeaving thee singing on thy Bough forlorn,\nOr if she smile on Thee, perhaps in Scorn.'\n\nLike that fond Dervish waiting in the throng\nWhen some World-famous Beauty went along,\nWho smiling on the Antic as she pass'd—\nForthwith Staff, Bead and Scrip away he cast,\nAnd grovelling in the Kennel, took to whine\nBefore her Door among the Dogs and Swine.\nWhich when she often went unheeding by,\nBut one day quite as heedless ask'd him—'Why?'—\nHe told of that one Smile, which, all the Rest\nPassing, had kindled Hope within his Breast—\nAgain she smiled and said, 'O self-beguiled\nPoor Wretch, at whom and not on whom I smiled.'\n\nThen came the subtle Parrot in a coat\nGreener than Greensward, and about his Throat\nA Collar ran of sub-sulphureous Gold;\nAnd in his Beak a Sugar-plum he troll'd,\nThat all his Words with luscious Lisping ran,\nAnd to this Tune—'O cruel Cage, and Man\nMore iron still who did confine me there,\nWho else with him whose Livery I wear\nEre this to his Eternal Fount had been,\nAnd drunk what should have kept me ever-green.\nBut now I know the Place, and I am free\nTo go, and all the Wise will follow Me.\nSome'—and upon the Nightingale one Eye\nHe leer'd—'for nothing but the Blossom sigh:\nBut I am for the luscious Pulp that grows\nWhere, and for which the Blossom only blows:\nAnd which so long as the Green Tree provides\nWhat better grows along Kaf's dreary Sides?\nAnd what more needful Prophet there than He\nWho gives me Life to nip it from the Tree?'\n\nTo whom the Tajidar—'O thou whose Best\nIn the green leaf of Paradise is drest,\nBut whose Neck kindles with a lower Fire—\nO slip the collar off of base Desire,\nAnd stand apparell'd in Heav'n's Woof entire!\nThis Life that hangs so sweet about your Lips\nBut, spite of all your Khizar, slips and slips,\nWhat is it but itself the coarser Rind\nOf the True Life withinside and behind,\nWhich he shall never never reach unto\nTill the gross Shell of Carcase he break through?'\n\nFor what said He, that dying Hermit, whom\nYour Prophet came to, trailing through the Gloom\nHis Emerald Vest, and tempted—'Come with Me,\nAnd Live.' The Hermit answered—'Not with Thee.\nTwo Worlds there are, and This was thy Design,\nAnd thou hast got it; but The Next is mine;\nWhose Fount is this life's Death, and to whose Side\nEv'n now I find my Way without a Guide.'\n\nThen like a Sultan glittering in all Rays\nOf Jewelry, and deckt with his own Blaze,\nThe glorious Peacock swept into the Ring:\nAnd, turning slowly that the glorious Thing\nMight fill all Eyes with wonder, thus said He.\n'Behold, the Secret Artist, making me,\nWith no one Colour of the skies bedeckt,\nBut from its Angel's Feathers did select\nTo make up mine withal, the Gabriel\nOf all the Birds: though from my Place I fell\nIn Eden, when Acquaintance I did make\nIn those blest days with that Sev'n-headed Snake,\nAnd thence with him, my perfect Beauty marr'd\nWith these ill Feet, was thrust out and debarr'd.\nLittle I care for Worldly Fruit or Flower,\nWould you restore me to lost Eden's Bower,\nBut first my Beauty making all complete\nWith reparation of these ugly Feet.'\n\n'Were it,' 'twas answer'd, 'only to return\nTo that lost Eden, better far to burn\nIn Self-abasement up thy pluméd Pride,\nAnd ev'n with lamer feet to creep inside—\nBut all mistaken you and all like you\nThat long for that lost Eden as the true;\nFair as it was, still nothing but the shade\nAnd Out-court of the Majesty that made.\nThat which I point you tow'rd, and which the King\nI tell you of broods over with his Wing,\nWith no deciduous leaf, but with the Rose\nOf Spiritual Beauty, smells and glows:\nNo plot of Earthly Pleasance, but the whole\nTrue Garden of the Universal Soul.'\n\nFor so Creation's Master-Jewel fell\nFrom that same Eden: loving which too well,\nThe Work before the Artist did prefer,\nAnd in the Garden lost the Gardener.\nWherefore one Day about the Garden went\nA voice that found him in his false Content,\nAnd like a bitter Sarsar of the North\nShrivell'd the Garden up, and drove him forth\nInto the Wilderness: and so the Eye\nOf Eden closed on him till by and by.\n\nThen from a Ruin where conceal'd he lay\nWatching his buried Gold, and hating Day,\nHooted The Owl.—'I tell you, my Delight\nIs in the Ruin and the Dead of Night\nWhere I was born, and where I love to wone\nAll my Life long, sitting on some cold stone\nAway from all your roystering Companies,\nIn some dark Corner where a Treasure lies;\nThat, buried by some Miser in the Dark,\nSpeaks up to me at Midnight like a Spark;\nAnd o'er it like a Talisman I brood,\nCompanion of the Serpent and the Toad.\nWhat need of other Sovereign, having found,\nAnd keeping as in Prison underground,\nOne before whom all other Kings bow down,\nAnd with his glittering Heel their Foreheads crown?'\n\n'He that a Miser lives and Miser dies,\nAt the Last Day what Figure shall he rise?'\n\nA Fellow all his life lived hoarding Gold,\nAnd, dying, hoarded left it. And behold,\nOne Night his Son saw peering through the House\nA Man, with yet the semblance of a Mouse,\nWatching a crevice in the Wall—and cried\n'My Father?'—'Yes,' the Musulman replied,\n'Thy Father!'—'But why watching thus?'—'For fear\nLest any smell my Treasure buried here.'\n'But wherefore, Sir, so metamousified?'\n'Because, my Son, such is the true outside\nOf the inner Soul by which I lived and died.'\n\n'Aye,' said The Partridge, with his Foot and Bill\nCrimson with raking Rubies from the Hill,\nAnd clattering his Spurs—'Wherewith the Ground\nI stab,' said he, 'for Rubies, that, when found\nI swallow; which, as soon as swallow'd, turn\nTo Sparks which though my beak and eyes do burn.\nGold, as you say, is but dull Metal dead,\nAnd hanging on the Hoarder's Soul like Lead:\nBut Rubies that have Blood within, and grown\nAnd nourisht in the Mountain Heart of Stone,\nBurn with an inward Light, which they inspire,\nAnd make their Owners Lords of their Desire.'\n\nTo whom the Tajidar—'As idly sold\nTo the quick Pebble as the drowsy Gold,\nAs dead when sleeping in their mountain mine\nAs dangerous to Him who makes them shine:\nSlavish indeed to do their Lord's Commands,\nAnd slave-like aptest to escape his Hands,\nAnd serve a second Master like the first,\nAnd working all their wonders for the worst.'\n\nNever was Jewel after or before\nLike that Sulayman for a Signet wore:\nWhereby one Ruby, weighing scarce a grain\nDid Sea and Land and all therein constrain,\nYea, ev'n the Winds of Heav'n—made the fierce East\nBear his League-wide Pavilion like a Beast,\nWhither he would: yea, the Good Angel held\nHis subject, and the lower Fiend compell'd.\nTill, looking round about him in his pride,\nHe overtax'd the Fountain that supplied,\nPraying that after him no Son of Clay\nShould ever touch his Glory. And one Day\nAlmighty God his Jewel stole away,\nAnd gave it to the Div, who with the Ring\nWore also the Resemblance of the King,\nAnd so for forty days play'd such a Game\nAs blots Sulayman's forty years with Shame.\n\nThen The Shah-Falcon, tossing up his Head\nBlink-hooded as it was—'Behold,' he said,\n'I am the chosen Comrade of the King,\nAnd perch upon the Fist that wears the Ring;\nBorn, bred, and nourisht, in the Royal Court,\nI take the Royal Name and make the Sport.\nAnd if strict Discipline I undergo\nAnd half my Life am blinded—be it so;\nBecause the Shah's Companion ill may brook\nOn aught save Royal Company to look.\nAnd why am Ito leave my King, and fare\nWith all these Rabble Wings I know not where?'—\n\n'O blind indeed'—the Answer was, 'and dark\nTo any but a vulgar Mortal Mark,\nAnd drunk with Pride of Vassalage to those\nWhose Humour like their Kingdom comes and goes;\nAll Mutability: who one Day please\nTo give: and next Day what they gave not seize:\nLike to the Fire: a dangerous Friend at best,\nWhich who keeps farthest from does wiseliest.\n\nA certain Shah there was in Days foregone\nWho had a lovely Slave he doted on,\nAnd cherish'd as the Apple of his Eye,\nClad gloriously, fed sumptuously, set high,\nAnd never was at Ease were He not by,\nWho yet, for all this Sunshine, Day by Day\nWas seen to wither like a Flower away.\nWhich, when observing, one without the Veil\nOf Favour ask'd the Favourite—'Why so pale\nAnd sad?' thus sadly answer'd the poor Thing—\n'No Sun that rises sets until the King,\nWhose Archery is famous among Men,\nAims at an Apple on my Head. and when\nThe stricken Apple splits. and those who stand\nAround cry \"Lo! the Shah's unerring Hand!\"\nThen He too laughing asks me \"Why so pale\nAnd sorrow-some? as could the Sultan fail,\nWho such a master of the Bow confest,\nAnd aiming by the Head that he loves best.\"'\n\nThen on a sudden swoop'd The Phoenix down\nAs though he wore as well as gave The Crown:\nAnd cried—'I care not, I, to wait on Kings,\nWhose crowns are but the Shadow of my Wings!'\n\n'Aye,' was the Answer—'And, pray, how has sped,\nOn which it lighted, many a mortal Head?'\n\nA certain Sultan dying, his Vizier\nIn Dream beheld him, and in mortal Fear\nBegan—'O mighty Shah of Shahs! Thrice-blest'—\nBut loud the Vision shriek'd and struck its Breast,\nAnd 'Stab me not with empty Title!' cried—\n'One only Shah there is, and none beside,\nWho from his Throne above for certain Ends\nAwhile some Spangle of his Glory lends\nTo Men on Earth; but calling in again\nExacts a strict account of every Grain.\nSultan I lived, and held the World in scorn:\nO better had I glean'd the Field of Corn!\nO better had I been a Beggar born,\nAnd for my Throne and Crown, down in the Dust\nMy living Head had laid where Dead I must!\nO wither'd, wither'd, wither'd, be the Wing\nWhose overcasting Shadow made me King!'\n\nThen from a Pond, where all day long he kept,\nWaddled the dapper Duck demure, adept\nAt infinite Ablution, and precise\nIn keeping of his Raiment clean and nice.\nAnd 'Sure of all the Race of Birds,' said He,\n'None for Religious Purity like Me,\nBeyond what strictest Rituals prescribe—\nMethinks I am the Saint of all our Tribe,\nTo whom, by Miracle, the Water, that\nI wash in, also makes my Praying-Mat.'\n\nTo whom, more angrily than all, replied\nThe Leader, lashing that religious Pride,\nThat under ritual Obedience\nTo outer Law with inner might dispense:\nFor, fair as all the Feather to be seen,\nCould one see through, the Maw was not so clean:\nBut He that made both Maw and Feather too\nWould take account of, seeing through and through.\n\nA Shah returning to his Capital,\nHis subjects drest it forth in Festival,\nThronging with Acclamation Square and Street,\nAnd kneeling flung before his Horse's feet\nJewel and Gold. All which with scarce an Eye\nThe Sultan superciliously rode by:\nTill coming to the public Prison, They\nWho dwelt within those grisly Walls, by way\nOf Welcome, having neither Pearl nor Gold,\nOver the wall chopt Head and Carcase roll'd,\nSome almost parcht to Mummy with the Sun,\nSome wet with Execution that day done.\nAt which grim Compliment at last the Shah\nDrew Bridle: and amid a wild Hurrah\nOf savage Recognition, smiling threw\nSilver and Gold among the wretched Crew,\nAnd so rode forward. Whereat of his Train\nOne wondering that, while others sued in vain\nWith costly gifts, which carelessly he pass'd,\nBut smiled at ghastly Welcome like the last;\nThe Shah made answer—'All that Pearl and Gold\nOf ostentatious Welcome only told:\nA little with great Clamour from the Store\nOf hypocrites who kept at home much more.\nBut when those sever'd Heads and Trunks I saw—\nSave by strict Execution of my Law\nThey had not parted company; not one\nBut told my Will not talk'd about, but done.'\n\nThen from a Wood was heard unseen to coo\nThe Ring-dove—'Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yú-'\n(For thus her sorrow broke her Note in twain,\nAnd, just where broken, took it up again)\n'-suf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf! Yúsuf!'—But one Note,\nWhich still repeating, she made hoarse her throat:\n\nTill checkt—'O You, who with your idle Sighs\nBlock up the Road of better Enterprise;\nSham Sorrow all, or bad as sham if true,\nWhen once the better thing is come to do;\nBeware lest wailing thus you meet his Doom\nWho all too long his Darling wept, from whom\nYou draw the very Name you hold so dear,\nAnd which the World is somewhat tired to hear.'\n\nWhen Yusuf from his Father's Home was torn,\nThe Patriarch's Heart was utterly forlorn,\nAnd, like a Pipe with but one stop, his Tongue\nWith nothing but the name of 'Yusuf' rung.\nThen down from Heaven's Branches flew the Bird\nOf Heav'n and said 'God wearies of that word:\nHast thou not else to do and else to say?'\nSo Jacob's lips were sealéd from that Day.\nBut one Night in a Vision, far away\nHis darling in some alien Field he saw\nBinding the Sheaf; and what between the Awe\nOf God's Displeasure and the bitter Pass\nOf passionate Affection, sigh'd 'Alas—'\nAnd stopp'd—But with the morning Sword of Flame\nThat oped his Eyes the sterner Angel's came\n'For the forbidden Word not utter'd by\nThy Lips was yet sequester'd in that Sigh.'\nAnd the right Passion whose Excess was wrong\nBlinded the aged Eyes that wept too long.\n\nAnd after these came others—arguing,\nEnquiring and excusing—some one Thing,\nAnd some another—endless to repeat,\nBut, in the Main, Sloth, Folly, or Deceit.\nTheir Souls were to the vulgar Figure cast\nOf earthly Victual not of Heavenly Fast.\nAt last one smaller Bird, of a rare kind,\nOf modest Plume and unpresumptuous Mind,\nWhisper'd 'O Tajidar, we know indeed\nHow Thou both knowest, and would'st help our Need;\nFor thou art wise and holy, and hast been\nBehind the Veil, and there The Presence seen.\nBut we are weak and vain, with little care\nBeyond our yearly Nests and daily Fare—\nHow should we reach the Mountain? and if there\nHow get so great a Prince to hear our Prayer?\nFor there, you say, dwells The Symurgh alone\nIn Glory, like Sulayman on his Throne,\nAnd we but Pismires at his feet: can He\nSuch puny Creatures stoop to hear, or see;\nOr hearing, seeing, own us—unakin\nAs He to Folly, Woe, and Death, and Sin?'—\n\nTo whom the Tajidar, whose Voice for those\nBewilder'd ones to full Compassion rose\n'O lost so long in exile, you disclaim\nThe very Fount of Being whence you came,\nCannot be parted from, and, will or no,\nWhether for Good or Evil must re-flow!\nFor look—the Shadows into which the Light\nOf his pure Essence down by infinite\nGradation dwindles, which at random play\nThrough Space in Shape indefinite—one Ray\nOf his Creative Will into defined\nCreation quickens: We that swim the Wind,\nAnd they the Flood below, and Man and Beast\nThat walk between, from Lion to the least\nPismire that creeps along Sulayman's Wall—\nYea, that in which they swim, fly, walk, and crawl—\nHowever near the Fountain Light, or far\nRemoved, yet His authentic Shadows are;\nDead Matter's Self but the dark Residue\nExterminating Glory dwindles to.\nA Mystery too fearful in the Crowd\nTo utter—scarcely to Thyself aloud—\nBut when in solitary Watch and Prayer\nConsider'd: and religiously beware\nLest Thou the Copy with the Type confound;\nAnd Deity, with Deity indrown'd,—\nFor as pure Water into purer Wine\nIncorporating shall itself reline\nWhile the dull Drug lies half-resolved below,\nWith Him and with his Shadows is it so:\nThe baser Forms, to whatsoever Change\nSubject, still vary through their lower Range:\nTo which the higher even shall decay,\nThat, letting ooze their better Part away\nFor Things of Sense and Matter, in the End\nShall merge into the Clay to which they tend.\nUnlike to him, who straining through the Bond\nOf outward Being for a Life beyond,\nWhile the gross Worldling to his Centre clings,\nThat draws him deeper in, exulting springs\nTo merge him in the central Soul of Things.\nAnd shall not he pass home with other Zest\nWho, with full Knowledge, yearns for such a Rest,\nThan he, who with his better self at strife,\nDrags on the weary Exile call'd This Life?—\nOne, like a child with outstretcht Arms and Face\nUpturn'd, anticipates his Sire's Embrace;\nThe other crouching like a guilty Slave\nTill flogg'd to Punishment across the Grave.\nAnd, knowing that His glory ill can bear\nThe unpurged Eye; do thou Thy Breast prepare:\nAnd the mysterious Mirror He set there,\nTo temper his reflected Image in,\nClear of Distortion, Doubleness, and Sin:\nAnd in thy Conscience understanding this,\nThe Double only seems, but The One is,\nThyself to Self-annihilation give\nThat this false Two in that true One may live.\nFor this I say: if, looking in thy Heart,\nThou for Self-whole mistake thy Shadow-part,\nThat Shadow-part indeed into The Sun\nShall melt, but senseless of its Union:\nBut in that Mirror if with purged eyes\nThy Shadow Thou for Shadow recognise,\nThen shalt Thou back into thy Centre fall\nA conscious Ray of that eternal All.'\n\nHe ceased, and for awhile Amazement quell'd\nThe Host, and in the Chain of Silence held:\nA Mystery so awful who would dare—\nSo glorious who would not wish—to share?\nSo Silence brooded on the feather'd Folk,\nTill here and there a timid Murmur broke\nFrom some too poor in honest Confidence,\nAnd then from others of too much Pretence;\nWhom both, as each unduly hoped or fear'd,\nThe Tajidar in answer check'd or cheer'd.\n\nSome said their Hearts were good indeed to go\nThe Way he pointed out: but they were slow\nOf Comprehension, and scarce understood\nTheir present Evil or the promised Good:\nAnd so, tho' willing to do all they could,\nMust not they fall short, or go wholly wrong,\nOn such mysterious Errand, and so long?\nWhom the wise Leader bid but Do their Best\nIn Hope and Faith, and leave to Him the rest,\nFor He who fix'd the Race, and knew its Length\nAnd Danger, also knew the Runner's Strength.\n\nShah Mahmud, absent on an Enterprise,\nAyas, the very Darling of his eyes,\nAt home under an Evil Eye fell sick,\nThen cried the Sultan to a soldier 'Quick!\nTo Horse! to Horse! without a Moment's Stay,—\nThe shortest Road with all the Speed you may,—\nOr, by the Lord, your Head shall pay for it!'—\nOff went the Soldier, plying Spur and Bit—\nOver the sandy Desert, over green\nValley, and Mountain, and the Stream between,\nWithout a Moment's Stop for rest or bait,\nUp to the City—to the Palace Gate—\nUp to the Presence-Chamber at a Stride—\nAnd Lo! The Sultan at his Darling's side!—\nThen thought the Soldier—'I have done my Best,\nAnd yet shall die for it.' The Sultan guess'd\nHis Thought and smiled. 'Indeed your Best you did,\nThe nearest Road you knew, and well you rid:\nAnd if I knew a shorter, my Excess\nOf Knowledge does but justify thy Less.'\n\nAnd then, with drooping Crest and Feather, came\nOthers, bow'd down with Penitence and Shame.\nThey long'd indeed to go; 'but how begin,\nMesh'd and entangled as they were in Sin\nWhich often-times Repentance of past Wrong\nAs often broken had but knit more strong?'\nWhom the wise Leader bid be of good cheer,\nAnd, conscious of the Fault, dismiss the Fear,\nNor at the very Entrance of the Fray\nTheir Weapon, ev'n if broken, fling away:\nSince Mercy on the broken Branch anew\nWould blossom were but each Repentance true.\n\nFor did not God his Prophet take to Task?\n'Sev'n-times of Thee did Karun Pardon ask;\nWhich, hadst thou been like Me his Maker—yea,\nBut present at the Kneading of his Clay\nWith those twain Elements of Hell and Heav'n,—\nOne prayer had won what Thou deny'st to Sev'n.'\n\nFor like a Child sent with a fluttering Light\nTo feel his way along a gusty Night\nMan walks the World: again and yet again\nThe Lamp shall be by Fits of Passion slain:\nBut shall not He who sent him from the Door\nRelight the Lamp once more, and yet once more?\n\nWhen the rebellious Host from Death shall wake\nBlack with Despair of Judgment, God shall take\nAges of holy Merit from the Count\nOf Angels to make up Man's short Amount,\nAnd bid the murmuring Angel gladly spare\nOf that which, undiminishing his Share,\nOf Bliss, shall rescue Thousands from the Cost\nOf Bankruptcy within the Prison lost.\n\nAnother Story told how in the Scale\nGood Will beyond mere Knowledge would prevail.\n\nIn Paradise the Angel Gabriel heard\nThe Lips of Allah trembling with the Word\nOf perfect Acceptation: and he thought\n'Some perfect Faith such perfect Answer wrought,\nBut whose?'—And therewith slipping from the Crypt\nOf Sidra, through the Angel-ranks he slipt\nWatching what Lip yet trembled with the Shot\nThat so had hit the Mark—but found it not.\nThen, in a Glance to Earth, he threaded through\nMosque, Palace, Cell and Cottage of the True\nBelief—in vain; so back to Heaven went\nAnd—Allah's Lips still trembling with assent!\nThen the tenacious Angel once again\nThreaded the Ranks of Heav'n and Earth—in vain—\nTill, once again return'd to Paradise,\nThere, looking into God's, the Angel's Eyes\nBeheld the Prayer that brought that Benison\nRising like Incense from the Lips of one\nWho to an Idol bowed—as best he knew\nUnder that False God worshipping the True.\n\nAnd then came others whom the summons found\nNot wholly sick indeed, but far from sound:\nWhose light inconstant Soul alternate flew\nFrom Saint to Sinner, and to both untrue;\nWho like a niggard Tailor, tried to match\nTruth's single Garment with a worldly Patch.\nA dangerous Game; for, striving to adjust\nThe hesitating Scale of either Lust,\nThat which had least within it upward flew,\nAnd still the weightier to the Earth down drew,\nAnd, while suspended between Rise and Fall,\nApt with a shaking Hand to forfeit all.\n\nThere was a Queen of Egypt like the Bride\nOf Night, Full-moon-faced and Canopus-eyed,\nWhom one among the meanest of her Crowd\nLoved—and she knew it (for he loved aloud),\nAnd sent for him, and said 'Thou lov'st thy Queen:\nNow therefore Thou hast this to choose between:\nFly for thy Life: or for this one night Wed\nThy Queen, and with the Sunrise lose thy Head.'\nHe paused—he turn'd to fly—she struck him dead.\n'For had he truly loved his Queen,' said She,\n'He would at once have giv'n his Life for me,\nAnd Life and Wife had carried: but he lied;\nAnd loving only Life, has justly died.'\n\nAnd then came one who having clear'd his Throat\nWith sanctimonious Sweetness in his Note\nThus lisp'd—'Behold I languish from the first\nWith passionate and unrequited Thirst\nOf Love for more than any mortal Bird.\nTherefore have I withdrawn me from the Herd\nTo pine in Solitude. But Thou at last\nHast drawn a line across the dreary Past,\nAnd sure I am by Foretaste that the Wine\nI long'd for, and Thou tell'st of, shall be mine.'\n\nBut he was sternly checkt. 'I tell thee this:\nSuch Boast is no Assurance of such Bliss:\nThou canst not even fill the sail of Prayer\nUnless from Him breathe that authentic Air\nThat shall lift up the Curtain that divides\nHis Lover from the Harim where He hides—\nAnd the Fulfilment of thy Vows must be,\nNot from thy Love for Him, but His for Thee.'\n\nThe third night after Bajazyd had died,\nOne saw him, in a dream, at his Bedside,\nAnd said, 'Thou Bajazyd? Tell me O Pyr,\nHow fared it there with Munkar and Nakyr?'\nAnd Bajazyd replied, 'When from the Grave\nThey met me rising, and \"If Allah's slave\"\nAsk'd me, \"or collar'd with the Chain of Hell?\"\nI said \"Not I but God alone can tell:\nMy Passion for his service were but fond\nAmbition had not He approved the Bond:\nHad He not round my neck the Collar thrown\nAnd told me in the Number of his own;\nAnd that He only knew. What signifies\nA hundred Years of Prayer if none replies?\"'\n\n'But,' said Another, 'then shall none the Seal\nOf Acceptation on his Forehead feel\nEre the Grave yield them on the other Side\nWhere all is settled?'\n\n                      But the Chief replied—\n'Enough for us to know that who is meet\nShall enter, and with unreprovéd Feet,\n(Ev'n as he might upon the Waters walk)\nThe Presence-room, and in the Presence talk\nWith such unbridled Licence as shall seem\nTo the Uninitiated to blaspheme.'\n\nJust as another Holy Spirit fled,\nThe Skies above him burst into a Bed\nOf Angels looking down and singing clear\n'Nightingale! Nightingale! thy Rose is here!'\nAnd yet, the Door wide open to that Bliss,\nAs some hot Lover slights a scanty Kiss,\nThe Saint cried 'All I sigh'd for come to this?\nI who lifelong have struggled, Lord, to be\nNot of thy Angels one, but one with Thee!'\n\nOthers were sure that all he said was true:\nThey were extremely wicked, that they knew:\nAnd much they long'd to go at once—but some,\nThey said, so unexpectedly had come\nLeaving their Nests half-built—in bad Repair—\nWith Children in—Themselves about to pair—\n'Might he not choose a better Season—nay,\nBetter perhaps a Year or Two's Delay,\nTill all was settled, and themselves more stout\nAnd strong to carry their Repentance out—\nAnd then'—\n\n               'And then, the same or like Excuse,\nWith harden'd Heart and Resolution loose\nWith dallying: and old Age itself engaged\nStill to shirk that which shirking we have aged:\nAnd so with Self-delusion, till, too late,\nDeath upon all Repentance shuts the Gate;\nOr some fierce blow compels the Way to choose,\nAnd forced Repentance half its Virtue lose.'\n\nAs of an aged Indian King they tell\nWho, when his Empire with his Army fell\nUnder young Mahmud's Sword of Wrath, was sent\nAt sunset to the Conqueror in his Tent;\nBut, ere the old King's silver head could reach\nThe Ground, was lifted up—with kindly Speech,\nAnd with so holy Mercy reassured,\nThat, after due Persuasion, he abjured\nHis idols, sate upon Mahmud's Divan,\nAnd took the Name and Faith of Musulman.\nBut when the Night fell, in his Tent alone\nThe poor old King was heard to weep and groan\nAnd smite his Bosom; which, when Mahmud knew,\nHe went to him and said 'Lo, if Thou rue\nThy lost Dominion, Thou shalt wear the Ring\nOf thrice as large a Realm.' But the dark King\nStill wept, and Ashes on his Forehead threw\nAnd cried 'Not for my Kingdom lost I rue:\nBut thinking how at the Last Day, will stand\nThe Prophet with The Volume in his Hand,\nAnd ask of me \"How was't that, in thy Day\nOf Glory, Thou didst turn from Me and slay\nMy People; but soon as thy Infidel\nBefore my True Believers' Army fell\nLike Corn before the Reaper—thou didst own\nHis Sword who scoutedst Me.\" Of seed so sown\nWhat profitable Harvest should be grown?'\n\nThen after cheering others who delay'd,\nNot of the Road but of Themselves afraid,\nThe Tajidar the Troop of those address'd,\nWhose uncomplying Attitude confess'd\nTheir Souls entangled in the old Deceit,\nAnd hankering still after forbidden Meat—\n    'O ye who so long feeding on the Husk\nForgo the Fruit, and doting on the Dusk\nOf the false Dawn, are blinded to the True:\nThat in the Maidan of this World pursue\nThe Golden Ball which, driven to the Goal,\nWins the World's Game but loses your own Soul:\nOr like to Children after Bubbles run\nThat still elude your Fingers; or, if won,\nBurst in Derision at your Touch; all thin\nGlitter without, and empty Wind within.\nSo as a prosperous Worldling on the Bed\nOf Death—\"Behold, I am as one,\" he said,\n\"Who all my Life long have been measuring Wind,\nAnd, dying, now leave even that behind\"—\nThis World's a Nest in which the Cockatrice\nIs warm'd and hatcht of Vanity and Vice:\nA false Bazaar whose Wares are all a lie,\nOr never worth the Price at which you buy:\nA many-headed Monster that, supplied\nThe faster, faster is unsatisfied;\nSo as one, hearing a rich Fool one day\nTo God for yet one other Blessing pray,\nBid him no longer bounteous Heaven tire\nFor Life to feed, but Death to quench, the Fire.\nAnd what are all the Vanities and Wiles\nIn which the false World decks herself and smiles\nTo draw Men down into her harlot Lap?\nLusts of the Flesh that Soul and Body sap,\nAnd, melting Soul down into carnal Lust,\nEv'n that for which 'tis sacrificed disgust:\nOr Lust of worldly Glory—hollow more\nThan the Drum beaten at the Sultan's Door,\nAnd fluctuating with the Breath of Man\nAs the Vain Banner flapping in the Van.\nAnd Lust of Gold—perhaps of Lusts the worst;\nThe mis-created Idol most accurst\nThat between Man and Him who made him stands:\nThe Felon that with suicidal hands\nHe sweats to dig and rescue from his Grave,\nAnd sets at large to make Himself its Slave.\n\n'For lo, to what worse than oblivion gone\nAre some the cozening World most doted on.\nPharaoh tried Glory: and his Chariots drown'd:\nKarun with all his Gold went underground:\nDown toppled Nembroth with his airy Stair:\nSchedad among his Roses lived—but where?\n\n'And as the World upon her victims feeds\nSo She herself goes down the Way she leads.\nFor all her false allurements are the Threads\nThe Spider from her Entrail spins, and spreads\nFor Home and hunting-ground: And by and by\nDarts at due Signal on the tangled Fly,\nSeizes, dis-wings, and drains the Life, and leaves\nThe swinging Carcase, and forthwith re-weaves\nHer Web: each Victim adding to the store\nOf poison'd Entrail to entangle more.\nAnd so She bloats in Glory: till one Day\nThe Master of the House, passing that way,\nPerceives, and with one flourish of his Broom\nOf Web and Fly and Spider clears the Room.\n\n'Behold, dropt through the Gate of Mortal Birth,\nThe Knightly Soul alights from Heav'n on Earth;\nBegins his Race, but scarce the Saddle feels,\nWhen a foul Imp up from the distance steals,\nAnd, double as he will, about his Heels\nCloser and ever closer circling creeps,\nThen, half-invited, on the Saddle leaps,\nClings round the Rider, and, once there, in vain\nThe strongest strives to thrust him off again.\nIn Childhood just peeps up the Blade of Ill,\nThat Youth to Lust rears, Fury, and Self-will:\nAnd, as Man cools to sensual Desire,\nAmbition catches with as fierce a Fire;\nUntil Old Age sends him with one last Lust\nOf Gold, to keep it where he found—in Dust.\nLife at both ends so feeble and constrain'd\nHow should that Imp of Sin be slain or chain'd?\n\n'And woe to him who feeds the hateful Beast\nThat of his Feeder makes an after-feast!\nWe know the Wolf: by Strategem and Force\nCan hunt the Tiger down: but what Resource\nAgainst the Plague we heedless hatch within,\nThen, growing, pamper into full-blown Sin\nWith the Soul's self: ev'n, as the wise man said,\nFeeding the very Devil with God's own Bread;\nUntil the Lord his Largess misapplied\nResent, and drive us wholly from his Side?\n\n'For should the Greyhound whom a Sultan fed,\nAnd by a jewell'd String a-hunting led,\nTurned by the Way to gnaw some nasty Thing\nAnd snarl at Him who twitch'd the silken String,\nWould not his Lord soon weary of Dispute,\nAnd turn adrift the incorrigible Brute?\n\n'Nay, would one follow, and without a Chain,\nThe only Master truly worth the Pain,\nOne must beware lest, growing over-fond\nOf even Life's more consecrated Bond,\nWe clog our Footsteps to the World beyond.\nLike that old Arab Chieftain, who confess'd\nHis soul by two too Darling Things possess'd—\nThat only Son of his: and that one Colt\nDescended from the Prophet's Thunderbolt.\n\"And I might well bestow the last,\" he said,\n\"On him who brought me Word the Boy was dead.\"\n'And if so vain the glittering Fish we get,\nHow doubly vain to dote upon the Net,\nCall'd Life, that draws them, patching up this thin\nTissue of Breathing out and Breathing in,\nAnd so by husbanding each wretched Thread\nSpin out Death's very terror that we dread—\nFor as the Raindrop from the sphere of God\nDropt for a while into the Mortal Clod\nSo little makes of its allotted Time\nBack to its Heav'n itself to re-sublime,\nThat it but serves to saturate its Clay\nWith Bitterness that will not pass away.'\n\nOne day the Prophet on a River Bank,\nDipping his Lips into the Channel, drank\nA Draught as sweet as Honey. Then there came\nOne who an earthen Pitcher from the same\nDrew up, and drank: and after some short stay\nUnder the Shadow, rose and went his Way.\nLeaving his earthen Bowl. In which, anew\nThirsting, the Prophet from the River drew,\nAnd drank from: but the Water that came up\nSweet from the Stream. drank bitter from the Cup.\nAt which the Prophet in a still Surprise\nFor Answer turning up to Heav'n his Eyes,\nThe Vessel's Earthen Lips with Answer ran—\n'The Clay that I am made of once was Man,\nWho dying, and resolved into the same\nObliterated Earth from which he came\nWas for the Potter dug, and chased in turn\nThrough long Vicissitude of Bowl and Urn:\nBut howsoever moulded, still the Pain\nOf that first mortal Anguish would retain,\nAnd cast, and re-cast, for a Thousand years\nWould turn the sweetest Water into Tears.'\n\nAnd after Death?—that, shirk it as we may,\nWill come, and with it bring its After-Day—\n\nFor ev'n as Yusuf (when his Brotherhood\nCame up from Egypt to buy Corn, and stood\nBefore their Brother in his lofty Place,\nNor knew him, for a Veil before his Face)\nStruck on his Mystic Cup, which straightway then\nRung out their Story to those guilty Ten:—\nNot to them only, but to every one;\nWhatever he have said and thought and done,\nUnburied with the Body shall fly up,\nAnd gather into Heav'n's inverted Cup,\nWhich, stricken by God's Finger, shall tell all\nThe Story whereby we must stand or fall.\nAnd though we walk this World as if behind\nThere were no Judgement, or the Judge half-blind,\nBeware, for He with whom we have to do\nOutsees the Lynx, outlives the Phoenix too—\n\nSo Sultan Mahmud, coming Face to Face\nWith mightier numbrs of the swarthy Race,\nVow'd that if God to him the battle gave,\nGod's Dervish People all the Spoil should have.\nAnd God the Battle gave him; and the Fruit\nOf a great Conquest coming to compute,\nA Murmur through the Sultan's Army stirr'd\nLest, ill committed to one hasty Word,\nThe Shah should squander on an idle Brood\nWhat should be theirs who earn'd it with their Blood,\nOr go to fill the Coffers of the State.\nSo Mahmud's Soul began to hesitate:\nTill looking round in Doubt from side to side\nA raving Zealot in the Press he spied,\nAnd call'd and had him brought before his Face,\nAnd, telling, bid him arbitrate the case.\nWho, having listen'd, said—'The Thing is plain:\nIf Thou and God should never have again\nTo deal together, rob him of his share:\nBut if perchance you should—why then Beware!'\n\nSo spake the Tajidar: but Fear and Doubt\nAmong the Birds in Whispers went about:\nGreat was their Need: and Succour to be sought\nAt any Risk: at any Ransom bought:\nBut such a Monarch—greater than Mahmud\nThe Great Himself! Why how should he be woo'd\nTo listen to them? they too have come\nO So suddenly, and unprepared from home\nWith any Gold, or Jewel, or rich Thing\nTo carry with them to so great a King—\nPoor Creatures! with the old and carnal Blind,\nSpite of all said, so thick upon the Mind,\nDevising how they might ingratiate\nAccess, as to some earthly Potentate.\n\n'Let him that with this Monarch would engage\nBring the Gold Dust of a long Pilgrimage:\nThe Ruby of a bleeding Heart, whose Sighs\nBreathe more than Amber-incense as it dies;\nAnd while in naked Beggary he stands\nHope for the Robe of Honour from his Hands.'\nAnd, as no gift this Sovereign receives\nSave the mere Soul and Self of him who gives,\nSo let that Soul for other none Reward\nLook than the Presence of its Sovereign Lord.'\nAnd as his Hearers seem'd to estimate\nTheir Scale of Glory from Mahmud the Great,\nA simple Story of the Sultan told\nHow best a subject with his Shah made bold—\n\nOne night Shah Mahmud who had been of late\nSomewhat distemper'd with Affairs of State\nStroll'd through the Streets disguised, as wont to do—\nAnd, coming to the Baths, there on the Flue\nSaw the poor Fellow who the Furnace fed\nSitting beside his Water-jug and Bread.\nMahmud stept in—sat down—unask'd took up\nAnd tasted of the untasted Loaf and Cup,\nSaying within himself, 'Grudge but a bit,\nAnd, by the Lord, your Head shall pay for it!'\nSo having rested, warm'd and satisfied\nHimself without a Word on either side,\nAt last the wayward Sultan rose to go.\nAnd then at last his Host broke silence—'So?—\nArt satisfied? Well, Brother, any Day\nOr Night, remember, when you come this Way\nAnd want a bit of Provender—why, you\nAre welcome, and if not—why, welcome too.'—\nThe Sultan was so tickled with the whim\nOf this quaint Entertainment and of him\nWho offer'd it, that many a Night again\nStoker and Shah forgather'd in that Vein—\nTill, the poor Fellow having stood the Test\nOf true Good-fellowship, Mahmud confess'd\nOne Night the Sultan that had been his Guest:\nAnd in requital of the scanty Dole\nThe Poor Man offer'd with so large a soul,\nBid him ask any Largess that he would\nA Throne—if he would have it, so he should.\nThe Poor Man kiss'd the Dust, and 'All,' said he,\n'I ask is what and where I am to be;\nIf but the Shah from time to time will come\nAs now and see me in the lowly Home\nHis presence makes a palace, and my own\nPoor Flue more royal than another's Throne.'\n\nSo said the cheery Tale: and, as they heard,\nAgain the Heart beneath the Feather stirr'd:\nAgain forgot the Danger and the Woes\nOf the long Travel in its glorious Close:—\n'Here truly all was Poverty, Despair\nAnd miserable Banishment—but there\nThat more than Mahmud, for no more than Prayer\nWho would restore them to their ancient Place,\nAnd round their Shoulders fling his Robe of Grace.'\nThey clapp'd their Wings, on Fire to be assay'd\nAnd prove of what true Metal they were made,\nAlthough defaced, and wanting the true Ring\nAnd Superscription of their rightful King.\n\n'The Road! The Road!' in countless voices cried\nThe Host—'The Road! and who shall be our Guide?'\nAnd they themselves 'The Tajidar!' replied:\nYet to make doubly certain that the Voice\nOf Heav'n according with the People's Choice,\nLots should be drawn; and He on whom should light\nHeav'n's Hand—they swore to follow him outright.\nThis settled, and once more the Hubbub quell'd,\nOnce more Suspense the Host in Silence held,\nWhile, Tribe by Tribe, the Birds their fortune drew;\nAnd Lo! upon the Tajidar it flew.\nThen rising up again in wide and high\nCircumference of wings that mesh'd the sky\n'The Tajidar! The Tajidar!' they cry—\n'The Tajidar! The Tajidar!' with Him\nWas Heav'n, and They would follow Life and Limb!\nThen, once more fluttering to their Places down,\nUpon his Head they set the Royal Crown\nAs Khalif of their Khalif so long lost,\nAnd Captain of his now repentant Host;\nAnd setting him on high, and Silence call'd,\nThe Tajidar, in Pulpit-throne install'd,\nHis Voice into a Trumpet-tongue so clear\nAs all the winged Multitude should hear\nRaised, to proclaim the Order and Array\nOf March; which, many as it frighten'd—yea,\nThe Heart of Multitudes at outset broke,\nYet for due Preparation must be spoke.\n\n—A Road indeed that never Wing before\nFlew, nor Foot trod, nor Heart imagined—o'er\nWaterless Deserts—Waters where no Shore—\nValleys comprising cloud-high Mountains: these\nAgain their Valleys deeper than the Seas:\nWhose Dust all Adders, and whose vapour Fire:\nWhere all once hostile Elements conspire\nTo set the Soul against herself, and tear\nCourage to Terror—Hope into Despair,\nAnd Madness; Terrors, Trials, to make stray\nOr Stop where Death to wander or delay:\nWhere when half dead with Famine, Toil, and Heat,\n'Twas Death indeed to rest, or drink, or eat.\nA Road still waxing in Self-sacrifice\nAs it went on: still ringing with the Cries\nAnd Groans of Those who had not yet prevail'd,\nAnd bleaching with the Bones of those who fail'd:\nWhere, almost all withstood, perhaps to earn\nNothing: and, earning, never to return.—\nAnd first the VALE OF SEARCH: an endless Maze,\nBranching into innumerable Ways\nAll courting Entrance: but one right: and this\nBeset with Pitfall, Gulf, and Precipice,\nWhere Dust is Embers, Air a fiery Sleet,\nThrough which with blinded Eyes and bleeding Feet\nThe Pilgrim stumbles, with Hyena's Howl\nAround, and hissing Snake, and deadly Ghoul,\nWhose Prey he falls if tempted but to droop,\nOr if to wander famish'd from the Troop\nFor fruit that falls to ashes in the Hand,\nWater that reacht recedes into the Sand.\nThe only word is 'Forward!' Guide in sight,\nAfter him, swerving neither left nor right,\nThyself for thine own Victual by Day,\nAt night thine own Self's Caravanserai.\nTill suddenly, perhaps when most subdued\nAnd desperate, the Heart shall be renew'd\nWhen deep in utter Darkness, by one Gleam\nOf Glory from the far remote Harim,\nThat, with a scarcely conscious Shock of Change,\nShall light the Pilgrim toward the Mountain Range\nOf KNOWLEDGE: where, if stronger and more pure\nThe Light and Air, yet harder to endure;\nAnd if, perhaps, the Footing more secure,\nHarder to keep up with a nimble Guide,\nLess from lost Road than insufficient Stride—\nYet tempted still by false Shows from the Track,\nAnd by false Voices call'd aside or back,\nWhich echo from the Bosom, as if won\nThe Journey's End when only just begun,\nAnd not a Mountain Peak with Toil attain'd\nBut shows a top yet higher to be gain'd.\nWherefore still Forward, Forward! Love that fired\nThee first to search, by Search so re-inspired\nAs that the Spirit shall the carnal Load\nBurn up, and double wing Thee on the Road;\nThat wert thou knocking at the very Door\nOf Heav'n, thou still would'st cry for More, More, More!\n\nTill loom in sight Kaf's Mountain Peak ashroud\nIn Mist—uncertain yet Mountain or Cloud,\nBut where the Pilgrim 'gins to hear the Tide\nOf that one Sea in which the Sev'n subside;\nAnd not the Sev'n Seas only: but the sev'n\nAnd self-enfolded Spheres of Earth and Heav'n—\nYea, the Two Worlds, that now as Pictures sleep\nUpon its Surface—but when once the Deep\nFrom its long Slumber 'gins to heave and sway—\nUnder the Tempest shall be swept away\nWith all their Phases and Phenomena:\nNot senseless Matter only, but combined\nWith Life in all Varieties of Kind;\nYea, ev'n the abstract Forms that Space and Time\nMen call, and Weal and Woe, Virtue and Crime,\nAnd all the several Creeds like those who fell\nBefore them, Musulman and Infidel\nShall from the Face of Being melt away,\nCancell'd and swept as Dreams before the Day.\nSo hast thou seen the Astrologer prepare\nHis mystic Table smooth of sand, and there\nInscribe his mystic figures, Square, and Trine,\nCircle and Pentagram, and heavenly Sign\nOf Star and Planet: from whose Set and Rise,\nMeeting and Difference, he prophesies;\nAnd, having done it, with his Finger clean\nObliterates as never they had been.\n\nSuch is when reacht the Table Land of One\nAnd Wonder: blazing with so fierce a Sun\nOf Unity that blinds while it reveals\nThe Universe that to a Point congeals,\nSo, stunn'd with utter Revelation, reels\nThe Pilgrim, when that Double-seeming House,\nAgainst whose Beams he long had chafed his Brows,\nCrumbles and cracks before that Sea, whose near\nAnd nearer Voice now overwhelms his Ear.\nTill blinded, deafen'd, madden'd, drunk with doubt\nOf all within Himself as all without,\nNay, whether a Without there be, or not,\nOr a Within that doubts: and if, then what?—\nEv'n so shall the bewilder'd Pilgrim seem\nWhen nearest waking deepliest in Dream,\nAnd darkest next to Dawn; and lost what had\nWhen All is found: and just when sane quite Mad—\nAs one that having found the Key once more\nReturns, and Lo! he cannot find the Door\nHe stumbles over—So the Pilgrim stands\nA moment on the Threshold—with raised Hands\nCalls to the eternal Saki for one Draught\nOf Light from the One Essence: which when quaff'd,\nHe plunges headlong in: and all is well\nWith him who never more returns to tell.\nSuch being then the Race and such the Goal,\nJudge if you must not Body both and Soul\nWith Meditation, Watch and Fast prepare.\nFor he that wastes his body to a Hair\nShall seize the Locks of Truth: and He that prays\nGood Angels in their Ministry waylays:\nAnd the Midnightly Watcher in the Folds\nOf his own Darkness God Almighty holds.\nHe that would prosper here must from him strip\nThe World, and take the Dervish Gown and Scrip:\nAnd as he goes must gather from all Sides\nIrrelevant Ambitions, Lusts and Prides,\nGlory and Gold, and sensual Desire,\nWhereof to build the fundamental Pyre\nOf Self-annihilation: and cast in\nAll old Relations and Regards of Kin\nAnd Country: and, the Pile with this perplext\nWorld platform'd, from the Fables of the Next\nRaise it tow'rd Culmination, with the torn\nRags and Integuments of Creeds out-worn;\nAnd top the giddy Summit with the Scroll\nOf Reason that in dingy Smoke shall roll\nOver the true Self-sacrifice of Soul:\n(For such a Prayer was his—'O God, do Thou\nWith all my Wealth in the other World endow\nMy Friends: and with my Wealth in this my Foes,\nTill bankrupt in thy Riches I repose!')\nThen, all the Pile completed of the Pelf\nOf either World—at last throw on Thyself,\nAnd with the torch of Self-negation fire;\nAnd ever as the Flames rise high and higher,\nWith Cries of agonising Glory still\nAll of that Self burn up that burn up will,\nLeaving the Phoenix that no Fire can slay\nTo spring from its own Ashes kindled—nay,\nItself an inextinguishable Spark\nOf Being, now beneath Earth-ashes dark,\nTranscending these, at last Itself transcends\nAnd with the One Eternal Essence blends.\n\nThe Moths had long been exiled from the Flame\nThey worship: so to solemn Council came,\nAnd voted One of them by Lot be sent\nTo find their Idol. One was chosen: went.\nAnd after a long Circuit in sheer Gloom,\nSeeing, he thought, the TAPER in a Room\nFlew back at once to say so. But the chief\nOf Mothistan slighted so slight Belief,\nAnd sent another Messenger, who flew\nUp to the House, in at the window, through\nThe Flame itself; and back the Message brings,\nWith yet no sign of Conflict on his wings.\nThen went a Third, and spurr'd with true Desire,\nPlunging at once into the sacred Fire,\nFolded his Wings within, till he became\nOne Colour and one Substance with the Flame.\nHe only knew the Flame who in it burn'd;\nAnd only He could tell who ne'er to tell return'd.\n\nAfter declaring what of this declared\nMust be, that all who went should be prepared,\nFrom his high Station ceased the Tajidar—\nAnd lo! the Terrors that, when told afar,\nSeem'd but as Shadows of a Noonday Sun,\nNow that the talkt-of Thing was to be done,\nLengthening into those of closing Day\nStrode into utter Darkness: and Dismay\nLike Night on the husht Sea of Feathers lay,\nLate so elate—'So terrible a Track!\nEndless—or, ending, never to come back!—\nNever to Country, Family, or Friend!'—\nIn sooth no easy Bow for Birds to bend!—\nEven while he spoke, how many Wings and Crests\nHad slunk away to distant Woods and Nests;\nOthers again in Preparation spent\nWhat little Strength they had, and never went:\nAnd others, after preparation due—\nWhen up the Veil of that first Valley drew\nFrom whose waste Wilderness of Darkness blew\nA Sarsar, whether edged of Flames or Snows,\nThat through from Root to Tip their Feathers froze—\nUp went a Multitude that overhead\nA moment darken'd, then on all sides fled,\nDwindling the World-assembled Caravan\nTo less than half the Number that began.\nOf those who fled not, some in Dread and Doubt\nSat without stirring: others who set out\nWith frothy Force, or stupidly resign'd,\nBefore a League, flew off or fell behind.\nAnd howsoever the more Brave and Strong\nIn Courage, Wing, or Wisdom push'd along,\nYet League by League the Road was thicklier spread\nBy the fast falling Foliage of the Dead:\nSome spent with Travel over Wave and Ground;\nScorcht, frozen, dead for Drought, or drinking drown'd.\nFamisht, or poison'd with the Food when found:\nBy Weariness, or Hunger, or Affright\nSeduced to stop or stray, become the Bite\nOf Tiger howling round or hissing Snake,\nOr Crocodile that eyed them from the Lake:\nOr raving Mad, or in despair Self-slain:\nOr slaying one another for a Grain:—\n\nTill of the mighty Host that fledged the Dome\nOf Heav'n and Floor of Earth on leaving Home,\nA Handful reach'd and scrambled up the Knees\nOf Kaf whose Feet dip in the Seven Seas;\nAnd of the few that up his Forest-sides\nOf Light and Darkness where The Presence hides,\nBut Thirty—thirty desperate draggled Things,\nHalf-dead, with scarce a Feather on their Wings,\nStunn'd, blinded, deafen'd with the Crash and Craze\nOf Rock and Sea collapsing in a Blaze\nThat struck the Sun to Cinder—fell upon\nThe Threshold of the Everlasting One,\nWith but enough of Life in each to cry,\nOn THAT which all absorb'd—\n                                  And suddenly\nForth flash'd a winged Harbinger of Flame\nAnd Tongue of Fire, and 'Who?' and 'Whence they came?'\nAnd 'Why?' demanded. And the Tajidar\nFor all the Thirty answer'd him—'We are\nThose Fractions of the Sum of Being, far\nDis-spent and foul disfigured, that once more\nStrike for Admission at the Treasury Door.'\nTo whom the Angel answer'd—'Know ye not\nThat He you seek recks little who or what\nOf Quantity and Kind—himself the Fount\nOf Being Universal needs no Count\nOf all the Drops o'erflowing from his Urn,\nIn what Degree they issue or return?'\n\nThen cried the Spokesman, 'Be it even so:\nLet us but see the Fount from which we flow,\n'And, seeing, lose Ourselves therein!' and, Lo!\nBefore the Word was utter'd, or the Tongue\nOf Fire replied, or Portal open flung.\nThey were within—they were before the Throne,\nBefore the Majesty that sat thereon,\nBut wrapt in so insufferable a Blaze\nOf Glory as beat down their baffled Gaze.\nWhich, downward dropping, fell upon a Scroll\nThat, Lightning-like, flash'd back on each the whole\nPast half-forgotten Story of his Soul:\nLike that which Yusuf in his Glory gave\nHis Brethren as some Writing he would have\nInterpreted; and at a Glance, behold\nTheir own Indenture for their Brother sold!\nAnd so with these poor Thirty: who, abasht\nIn Memory all laid bare and Conscience lasht,\nBy full Confession and Self-loathing flung\nThe Rags of carnal Self that round them clung;\nAnd, their old selves self-knowledged and self-loathed,\nAnd in the Soul's Integrity re-clothed,\nOnce more they ventured from the Dust to raise\nTheir Eyes—up to the Throne—into the Blaze,\nAnd in the Centre of the Glory there\nBeheld the Figure of—Themselves—as 'twere\nTransfigured—looking to Themselves, beheld\nThe Figure on the Throne en-miracled,\nUntil their Eyes themselves and That between\nDid hesitate which Sëer was, which Seen;\nThey That, That They: Another, yet the Same:\nDividual, yet One: from whom there came\nA Voice of awful Answer, scarce discern'd\nFrom which to Aspiration whose return'd\nThey scarcely knew; as when some Man apart\nAnswers aloud the Question in his Heart—\n'The Sun of my Perfection is a Glass\nWherein from Seeing into Being pass\nAll who, reflecting as reflected see\nThemselves in Me, and Me in Them: not Me,\nBut all of Me that a contracted Eye\nIs comprehensive of Infinity:\nNor yet Themselves: no Selves, but of The All\nFractions, from which they split and whither fall.\nAs Water lifted from the Deep, again\nFalls back in individual Drops of Rain\nThen melts into the Universal Main.\nAll you have been, and seen, and done, and thought,\nNot You but I, have seen and been and wrought:\nI was the Sin that from Myself rebell'd:\nI the Remorse that tow'rd Myself compell'd:\nI was the Tajidar who led the Track:\nI was the little Briar that pull'd you back:\nSin and Contrition—Retribution owed,\nAnd cancell'd—Pilgrim, Pilgrimage, and Road,\nWas but Myself toward Myself: and Your\nArrival but Myself at my own Door:\nWho in your Fraction of Myself behold\nMyself within the Mirror Myself hold\nTo see Myself in, and each part of Me\nThat sees himself, though drown'd, shall ever see.\nCome you lost Atoms to your Centre draw,\nAnd be the Eternal Mirror that you saw:\nRays that have wander'd into Darkness wide\nReturn, and back into your Sun subside.'—\n\nThis was the Parliament of Birds: and this\nThe Story of the Host who went amiss,\nAnd of the Few that better Upshot found;\nWhich being now recounted, Lo, the Ground\nOf Speech fails underfoot: But this to tell—\nTheir Road is thine—Follow—and Fare thee well.",
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