The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 6, April, 1858 eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 247 pages of information about The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 6, April, 1858.

His ingenuity never sleeps:—­

  “Ah, could I hide me in my song,
  To kiss thy lips from which it flows!”—­

and plays in a thousand pretty courtesies:—­

  “Fair fall thy soft heart! 
    A good work wilt thou do? 
  Oh, pray for the dead
    Whom thine eyelashes slew!”

And what a nest has he found for his bonny bird to take up her abode in!—­

  “They strew in the path of kings and czars
    Jewels and gems of price;
  But for thy head I will pluck down stars,
    And pave thy way with eyes.

  “I have sought for thee a costlier dome
    Than Mahmoud’s palace high,
  And thou, returning, find thy home
    In the apple of Love’s eye.”

Nor shall Death snatch her from his pursuit:—­

  “If my darling should depart
    And search the skies for prouder friends,
  God forbid my angry heart
    In other love should seek amends!

  “When the blue horizon’s hoop
    Me a little pinches here,
  On the instant I will die
    And go find thee in the sphere.”

Then we have all degrees of passionate abandonment:—­

  “I know this perilous love-lane
    No whither the traveller leads,
  Yet my fancy the sweet scent of
    Thy tangled tresses feeds.

  “In the midnight of thy locks,
    I renounce the day;
  In the ring of thy rose-lips,
    My heart forgets to pray.”

And sometimes his love rises to a religious sentiment:—­

  “Plunge in yon angry waves,
    Renouncing doubt and care;
  The flowing of the seven broad seas
    Shall never wet thy hair.

  “Is Allah’s face on thee
    Bending with love benign,
  And thou not less on Allah’s eye
    O fairest! turnest thine.”

We add to these fragments of Hafiz a few specimens from other poets.

CHODSCHU KERMANI.

THE EXILE.

  “In Farsistan the violet spreads
    Its leaves to the rival sky,—­
  I ask, How far is the Tigris flood,
    And the vine that grows thereby?

  “Except the amber morning wind,
    Not one saluted me here;
  There is no man in all Bagdad
    To offer the exile cheer.

  “I know that thou, O morning wind,
    O’er Kerman’s meadow blowest,
  And thou, heart-warming nightingale,
    My father’s orchard knowest.

  “Oh, why did partial Fortune
    From that bright land banish me? 
  So long as I wait in Bagdad,
    The Tigris is all I see.

  “The merchant hath stuffs of price,
    And gems from the sea-washed strand,
  And princes offer me grace
    To stay in the Syrian land: 

  “But what is gold for but for gifts? 
    And dark without love is the day;
  And all that I see in Bagdad
    Is the Tigris to float me away.”

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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 6, April, 1858 from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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