Tirtha - 1941
The nectar of grace. 'Omar Khayyám's life and works by Swámí Govinda Tírtha. Allahabad, Kitabistan, 1941.
Full text online version
Quatrains from Tirtha's translation (19241) that correspond with the Bodleian Ms.
Thy cheek on heavenly Eagles cast the glow,
Thy face has stowed the idols out of show;
And through Thy glance the King of Babel got
His horse and men and castles all, I trow.
Thy grace at first had nursed me with its flow,
And kept me full of bliss in heavenly glow;
But now Thy apathy has made me sore,
What fault of mine has changed Thy nature so?
Methinks this Wheel at which we gape and stare,
Is Chinese lantern - like we buy at fair;
The lamp is Sun, and paper-shade the world,
And we the pictures whirling unaware.
We puppets dance to tunes of Time we know,
We are puppets in fact, and not for show;
Existence is the carpet where we dance,
So one by one where aught is naught we go.
We come and go, but bring in no return,
When thread of life may break we can't discern;
How many saintly hearts have melted here
And turned for us to ashes - who would learn?
Time brought me here: what profit did it gain?
It takes me hence, but conquers no domain;
My Master knows, but none can ever guess
Why Time thus brings and carries me again.
Had I but choice, I had not come at call,
Had I a voice why would I go at all?
I would have lived in peace and never cared
To enter, stay, or quit this filthy stall.
O Time! you ever pamper base and loon
With mills and mansions and your every boon;
But freemen pledge their nightly bread with you,
So that when stale at dawn, you throw it soon.
Desire no gain from world, with bliss you trade;
In good or bad of Times you need not wade;
Remain sedate, so that the whirling Wheel
Would snap itself and blow up days it made.
The good or evil human nature moulds,
And bliss or bane which He in power unfolds,
Are not from stars. The stars in path of love
Are meeker far than man who thinks and scolds.
The Wheel now whispers in my ear "I know
What fate decreed - just ask and I will show.
Could I but check the push which whirls me round,
I should have saved myself from reeling so."
This Wheel of time effaces me and thee,
To slaughter us it chases me and thee;
Sit on the lawn and love, for time arrives
When lawn would hide our traces, me and thee.
Beware! the Time is raising great uproar;
His flourishing sword is sharp besmeared with,gore.
The kissing conifit which a siren gives
Is soaked in poison, eats you in the core.
The first, the second, third they sneak away
These urchin days of life as wind in play.
I heed them not, and strike off from the roll
The day that sneaketh, and the tardy day.
Yon sky is but a dry inverted pan,
Where wise are cooped to die or lie and scan
But like the kiss which binds the cup and jar
In silent bliss His spirit flows in Man.
Now that the world has reached her fortune tide,
The quickened hearts in forests do abide;
And there the leaflets preach them Word of Lord,
And breath of Jesus greets from every side.
The Rose unfolds and smiles to Morning Light,
To Rose the Bulbul sings his heart's delight;
Stay, Dearest One! beneath the rosy shade,
The roses bloom for Thee but soon would blight.
Tis dawn, inhale His light and love in suit,
Our names and marks are wrecked in absolute;
Refrain from trailing after phantom lies,
But hold by skirts and plait celestial lute.
III.27  Now roses bloom, and river softly flows,
With angel faces heart is full of glows;
Now sing His Word, for Singers of the morn
Are safe from hell and staid from heaven's shows!
The rose is smiling, Christmas tears greet;
For lo! in lawn of heart I see His feet;
The tales of past ye sang are jarring slang,
Away with past, this day ye make it sweet.
Thro' dewy veil with Rose revealing yet,
Love me O darling, sun is healing yet;
Avoid that sleep, there's time for reeling yet;
But grant me love, I long, I'm feeling yet.
Marigolds alight from Skies in jubilee,
Methinks to dance with pansies on the lea;
In lily cup I pour Him rosy wine,
For violet clouds are pouring jasmine free.
The Coming Grace reflects in Earth's delight,
Each leaf with Moses-hand will prove His might;
Like Jesus dust of feet enlivens souls,
And water drops reveal eternal light.
Today, of heat or cold we feel no trace,
The clouds have washed the dust from garden's face;
The songster tells the yellow weary rose:
"O give us love that we may live in grace."
Wise man who plies to reach His high domain
Will often guide his mind, and thus explain:
"Rejoice for once with friends, for thou art not
That herb which after lopping grows again."
Ascend the skies, fling the dust on earth, 'tis base,
Yea seek His love, and linger on His face.
Thy rites and prayers will not profit there,
The path you once have plied you can't retrace.
Tomorrow's hours are not in our store!
Tomorrow's cares would make us only sore.
Why waste a single breath if you be sane?
For balance of this life you cannot score.
When still so young, and time has left some scope,
I take to wine and thus attain my hope.
Why call it bitter? I relish it so;
I like my bitter life and do not mope!
Partake His word that is Eternal Soul,
When youth by nature brings His love in role;
Now buds are blooming, friends with rapture filled,
Be tranquil for some time, and see thy Soul.
Time's torrents flood the ruins where we stay,
And strange that on its tides we mark our day!—
Be careful—See that Time, the smiling thief
In pilfering thy pots and pans away.
Since in this miry marsh of brine and fleas,
Man either pines or dies his pangs to cease;
Happy is he who quickly quits the world,
Who never comes in world would stay in peace.
We know that body once can earn His grace,
We should not wear it hence in wasteful ways;
Such graceful form, and slender hands and face,
He cherished so, should we in hate efface?
This jar was once a gallant Tsar, I swear,
Who laid so eclipsed by his lady's hair;
Ah! even now the handle at his neck
Is ever curling round to clasp—the air!
This jungle tulip rushing out in fray
Is blood which raised a Kaiser of his day;
And violet petals peeping from the earth
Are moles which decked the cheeks of maiden's gay.
As here in Potter's factories I stand,
I find them moulding clay to wonder-land;
I see what purblind eyes would fail to see,
My father's clay in every potter's hand.
I saw a potter working in the mart,
He kicked a clod of earth which made it smart;
I heard the clay beseach him: "Master! please!
Like thee I once have been, be kind at heart."
My lip to lip of Jar I close in glee,
In hopes that life eternal I would see;
Then quoth the Jar: Like thee I once have been
For ages, hence a minute breathe with me."
In frolic once on stone I dashed a pot,
Alas! such wanton freaks come from a sot;
The pot then told me as if in a trance:
"Like thee I was, like me now find thy lot."
I looked at night in Potter's shop, methought
That pots conferred and some solution sought;
And each enquired of me: "Tell who on earth
Is pot, or potter, who that sold, or bought?"
Why plan the days and months for work or game?
A day or hundred years in world are same;
Fill in our pans in full before we find
The pans as empty pots which rustics frame.
If one but knows the changes world displays,
No joys or grief will ever cross his ways;
As weal will pass, and so the woes will pass,
No wound remains for long, no balm allays.
O mind! the world is but a mocking sight,
You fancy some delights, and fret in fright;
Resign yourself to Him, and pine for Him,
You cannot alter what is black on white.
The Fate will not correct what once she writes,
And more than what is doled no grain alights;
Beware of bleeding heart with sordid cares,
For cares will cast thy heart in wretched plights.
His tablet bears the future but concealed,
His pen is calm if good or bad we yield.
The powers gave us proper share at first,
With grief or strife no less nor more we wield.
IN SLEEP I was—A sage then told me so:
"In darkness fruit of bliss will never grow,
Arise and fight with Death, avoid his blow;
Ere long you sleep within The Pit below."
The man who has in him a grain of wit,
With folded hands is never wont to sit;
He either plies to gain the grace of God,
Or keeps his heart in bliss, and thus is quit.
From faithless man, and fool, conceal your thought;
The faithless twists—the fool, he knoweth naught.
See what thy eyes have wrought on other hearts,–
Conceal Thy glance from men,– if even sought.
The tulip smiled at first, now sits in cold;
The violet drooping stays, will not uphold:
Ah! first they laughed, but now are sad and droop,
The buds are best which all their grace enfold.
A friend in world! O never would I choose,
Adieu ye weathercocks! from far adieus!
My mind, a bosom-friend I so cherished,
I find it now a viper in my shoes.
Don't fret in vain but live in peace and glee,
Be ever just though folk unjust would be;
This world at last, you know, will vanish, hence
Shake off thy body, live for ever free.
This whirling dome ye see an evil gnome,
The friends have passed and world's an empty home;
Be sole with soul for a while, forget the past,
And future too. In Ever-Present roam.
Cheer up! your pot is ready cooked— in past;
None cares for you, as they have looked— in past;
And you may rest in bliss, for ere you asked
Your future fare is ready booked— in past.
As life will pass, what boots this bliss or bane?
When end is near, what care I France or Spain?
Yea taste His word, for after we have lain,
The moon may wax and wane, and wax again.
A word I speak, and take it if ye care:
"That garb of pious show ye cease to wear;
The Lord's Eternal, world's a passing breath,
Sell not Eternal for a puff of air!"
The world's a kitchen, blinds your eyes with smoke,
Its cinders burn you when you try to poke;
These worldly cares are greatest bane to faith;
Shun bane, and gain your bliss in single stroke.
Be brave and tear asunder kin and clan
Aloof from wife and sons, you stand a man!
For all these bonds would hinder you in march,
First break your bonds, and then you march in van.
Tho' wine ye eschew, mystics ye malign,
Repent for judging, pray for grace divine;
For pride of abstinence in you begets
A thousand vipers fouler far than wine.
Be smooth—that of thy manners none complain.
And for thy anger none should burn in vain;
And if thou long to share eternal bliss,
Then pine at heart, to others cause no pain.
O monk! divest yourself of clothes of form,
So that your frame of thought may not deform;
Go—Wear the rag of meekness on your head,
And all thereunder you should take by storm.
Avoid the sloth, by duties thou peruse,
I wield that world, so love alone I choose;
Don't slander, and to injure lay no ruse;
Bestow on poor thy morsel, don't refuse.
The Time's in ambush, lo! will soon assault,
Before that, find thy bliss, and do not halt;
O fool! thou art no gold—once laid in earth
Who cares to dig thy ashes from the vault?
If one could find a loaf of grinded wheat,
And with a gourd of wine and chop of meat
Retires to ruined haunts with Beloved One,
What king can hope to find such joyous treat?
The germs which in this mansion do abide
Have cast the wise men thinking far and wide;
Beware! you do not lose your clue of wit,
Foe doctors go on reeling every side.
Behind the secret curtain none can go,
How life is decked and painted none can know;
But then we have to wait in dusty pits—
Alas this endless tale! and weary show!
Shake off, O heart! this mildew with a sweep,
And soar above the stars in single leap;
You hail from Highest High, and what a shame
You long to dwell upon this filthy heap!
My heart desired to know the mystic lore,
It bade me teach it, as if I knew more;
I said: "Alif" cries heart: "Stop further speech,
If there be wit the Word will eat the core."
In churches, temples, schools thus some would speak:
"O shun ye Hell, and road to Heaven seek"
But he knows the Keeper's secrets here,
Will seal Him in his heart, and leave no leak.
As lads, we read our books by night and day,
As teachers then feruled the lads at play;
Thus ends the tale of our scholastic life:–
We came from dust, in gale we past away.
In world the fruit of truth will never grow,
Because they know not where and what to sow;
They dangle each as bats on fruitless bows,
They are the fools they were, and will be so.
My mind the very first day thought and thought
For slate and pen and hell and heaven sought;
Said Master: "Thou art Word, by thee alone
The slate and pen, a hell and heaven, are wrought."
Eternal time's a twinkle of my age,
And world, from book I read, a single page;
A cinder of my fruitless rage is Hell,
My tranquil breath is Bliss which none can gauge.
Some pine for world, such loons you ever shun,
Corrupt are worse, from them for miles you run;
But guard the doors of meek and saintly souls,
Perchance you please the Master's chosen one.
Serve only mystics if and when you find,
Let fast and prayer blast, you need not mind;
But heed my friend what Omar Khayyam says:
Love Him, and ply your way, be ever kind.
I SPEAK to Thee in Tavern, what I feel,
In shrines without Thee Lord! I would not kneel;
Thou art the First Creator, Thou the Last,
Aye! Burn me please, or aye! Thy Grace reveal.
The heart which maddens not with Master's spell
And pineth not for him, is bloody fell
The day you neither think of Lord nor Word
A worser day you may not find in Hell.
Inspire me with Thy love, why sport in speech?
Today Thy silence may some secret teach;
Yea give me love alike Thy beaming face,
Alike thy locks I'm curling out of reach.
Thy Word, O Guide! up-lifts my heart in cheers,
A constant friend to all the mystic seers;
I prize one Word as more than azure crown
Which decks the head of One who made the spheres.
Pour out Thy Love in heart—my crystal bowl,
Which is the friend of free-men, mate of soul;
For soon a gale will blow this dusty world,
Fill me, O Guide! with Thee, and then control.
These days are icy cold. Fill in your pan
With Him who warmed the Sun when world began.
One log, your body, should be played as lute,
The other, mind, should blaze for Lord and man.
What matters if I feast, or have to fast?
What if my days in joy or grief are cast?
Fill me with Thee, O Guide! I cannot ken
If breath I draw returns or fails at last.
Since here I came unwilling and perforce,
To go unplanning is my proper course;
Arise O Guide! and girdle up thy waist,
And with Thy Word absolve me from remorse.
I clean my slate of life, and then I flee,
So when He stabs me, I would die with glee;
Effulge O moon my Guide! I would rejoice,
My heart would melt, for dust I have to be.
From Thee, O Master! those who turn away,
They fall, of course, to dreaming pride, a prey;
Inspire me with Thy love and hear this truth:
"Just empty air is every word they say."
When heart with Thy resplendent love, O Guide!
Is filled, this throttled jug may lie aside;
For now I find the only friend I have
Is crystal heart where Thou mayest abide.
Days, months, and years, the host is marching past—
Just snatch a blissful breath before thy last;
Why think and grieve what foes may next attack?
Fill heart with love, the night is speeding fast.
For every gulp which Master spits on earth,
Men see that earth revives, attains some worth;
O Praise to God! that spittle which you call,
It healed the blind and sick, the dead had birth.
With Essence known as harmless bliss and pure,
Which acts to wounded hearts as certain cure,
Fill heart with love, and tune a merry lay,
Why call it baneful wine? 'Tis nectar sure.
I vow at night, at dawn I break the same,
No fame I want, to "Self" I make no claim;
Why find ye fault if I have misbehaved?
For in His love I lost my sense of shame.
In hoary age Thy love has snared me so,
I sing Thy name—and hence in search I go;
The bonds of wit are broken for Thy sake,
The veil which patience patched, to day I throw.
Arise and bring Thy balm for choking heart,
Thy lucid Word its fragrance can impart;
The patent cure for sorrow as we know
Is glorious love which tunes of lute impart.
O thirsty lover! lift thy pot and go,
Through lawns to fount where crystal waters flow;
These lovely faces—wheel is turning so—
A hundred times as pots and pans will show.
The Word suffices and a book of songs,
A crumb will fill this what to earth belongs;
In solitude when I would pore on Tee,
I care no kingdoms, neither thrones nor throngs.
Khayyam! adore thy wine, remain sedate,
Or sit with faces fine, remain sedate;
As in the end the world will shrink to nought,
So nought is being Thine remain sedate.
This cell hath none, but Him I hear and see,
For Word I flung my life and vests with glee;
And clear of hope or hate, of bliss or bane,
From earth or wind, from fire or water free.
In Master's shrine I lave with only Word,
I'm known as crow—I can't be humming bird;
In peace I rest, my veil of fame is rent
To pieces. Now to patch it—how absurd!
"The scriptures are divine" thus we declare,
We read them seldom, kiss them oft and swear;
But in this cup of life, lo! shines the Word!—
The Truth unchained by bounds of when and where.
To be and not to be, are at my call,
I know when Time intends a rise or fall;
In spite of this, I loath my learned lore,
For He transcends the mystic trances all.
I rise up now—and have His purest Word,
With beaming face I'll be a humming bird;
This meddling wit which winds in fantasies,
Has dropped in sleep no sooner Word it heard.
His Word of old is more than new domains,
'Tis meet that man from world aloof remains;
A loving heart is more than hundred crowns,
And dust of Master's feet than thousand reigns.
Now love alloyed with lust is selling cheap,
Not flaming fire, but ashes all in heap!
Thro' days and months and years, a lover true
Has neither rest not calm, nor food, nor sleep.
Since Moon and Venus first adorned the sky,
No precious Gem like love could one descry;
I wonder why men seek to barter love,
They part with it, but what of worth they buy?
A loving heart is more than men of zeal,
His Name is more than crown of world I feel;
And naught is sweeter than His acrid love,
For love, with thousand lives and deaths I deal.
With love in heart ye find that life is pure,
In crystal hearts ye find Him flowing sure;
I cannot bear to be with any cares,
I crave for loving hearts!—but can't procure.
Is love the lotus—is its juice the heart?
Or pearl—its rays through crystal casing dart?
Perhaps the emerald swimming in its rays?
Or sun embracing moon, his counterpart?
'Tis meet ye fly from pious show and lore,
And draw your Beloved closer core to core;
Before the Time would bathe you in your gore
The Master's Sacrament in soul ye store.
Again I take myself to mystic ways,
Yea, He is great I shout for nights and days;
And where a heart is eager like a cup,
To fill with love, as jar I bow in praise.
As none can drill the morrow left or right,
Thy perplexed heart may once and now delight.
Effulge, O Moon, Thy joyous light, for moon
May wax and glow but never reach our height?
Ye go from soul asunder this ye know,
And that ye creep, behind His curtain low;
Hence sing His Name, ye know not whence ye came,
And live sedate, ye know not where to go.
Partake His word, for long you sleep below
The earth, without a mate or friend or foe;
Beware, and mind your own, and seal your lips,
The rose that fadeth once will never blow.
Just hold Him fast, lest grief would clutch your heart,
Or seeing cruel times you only smart;
And fix yourself on Him with flowing gaze
Ere earth would drag you—as you played your part.
Partake the Word, thy vest in dust subsides,
Thy dust as cup and jar in love abides;
So seal thy mind to thoughts of Heaven or Hell,
Devotees luckless go with all their prides.
Partake the Word, thy heart will soon be freed,
From excess or decrease and feuds of creed;
And do not shun this mead, a drop thereof
Will cure thousand banes. 'Tis what you need!
How long you Zealot! talk of coming day?
I'm sick of common cant and pious play;
Yea love Him, He and Love are not apart:
And every feud His love will wipe away.
Why wear our blissful heart in woeful ways?
And crush with stones of toils our blissful days?
Who knows what crops up from the hidden stores?
Hence we should love Him, sing our happy lays.
To shun what gives no grain of bliss is meet,
His word from gypsies even I would greet;
'Tis meet for love we leave our creeds and forms,
His Word would save, and all the rest would cheat.
One lives to sixty years, but seldom more,
Thy feet should ply to only mystic's door;
And ere they mould thy pan to serve as pot,
Lift up His pitcher, serve Him, scrub the floor.
For unjust world let not thy body blast,
Let not thy soul recall the events past;
On curls of Fairest Fair thy mind should fast,
Waste not without His love thy moments last.
O heart! you cannot know this wordless speech,
Unless some sages come and care to teach;
For here with loving heart a heav'n is made,
To heav'n in books you may or may not reach.
Thy word Is pearl, born in Thy ruby mine,
A cup's Thy eye where love and life combine;
That crystal cup which smiles and overflows?
Contains a tear, a drop from Heart Divine.
With brows the dust of Mystic Shrine I sweep,
And drop this world and that in darkest deep;
If both the worlds come rolling as cycloids
On me, I care a grain, enrapt in sleep.
We can't untie this knot of tangle-land,;
For stripped of Self we cannot step or stand.
From pupils to the masters I survey
And each, since he was born, has naught in hand.
Some boosers pull their pure and sober wine,
Some watch at nights in niches of their shrine;
But both are drowned in undercurrent flows,
The One alone awakes, the rest supine.
The men who scan the skies, and earth adorn,
Would come and go, with earth they shall be born.
But higher spiritual planes retain the souls
Of saints who rise with Lord in future Morn.
Entangled in their mind some men have thought,
Their search for "Is" or "Is not" came to nought,
Go! Know that He exists, so take His Word,
For unripe minds are only made to rot.
And those who practice cheating as an art
Maintain that life and body live apart;
These coxcomb fools! I'll stake my jug for head,
If cock's comb on my pate they could impart.
And now to please my heart I have thy Name,
Save Word my friends have left ah! as they came;
I clasp it firm 'tis only joy I have,
Save heart there's naught I have to play my game.
Since know I not how long I hold this place,
So loveless life I feel a great disgrace;
Why talk of old or new?—O worthy sage!
I go, let world have old or new her face.
Two crumbs and corner, this is all I take,
The rest in world I leave for Beloved's sake;
I purchased poverty with heart and soul,
But see, in this, the fortune I make.
The heart can never know the grain from snares,
One turns to songs, one has his temple cares;
Howev'r 'tis meet to roast in Mystic Shrine,
Than go in dark with light which only flares.
The world's a cipher—Here's a cipher mine—
I only think of love and lucid wine.
They say may He evert thee from thy wine,
He wont—and if her would, then I resign.
Away with vanities, or paving sea,
No idols I worship, so I am free;
To-night I stay with graceful lads of Shrine,
In hell or heav'n I see Him, Him I see.
I know not when He made me from his Word,
If bliss on Heav'n or bane on Hell conferred.
A cup, His image, lute, and jungle site,
I hold this cash, thy Heav'n is bill deferred.
My loving heart, with Guide, and garden site,
This cash I count, let Heaven go to plight;
Why list the gossip of some Heaven or Hell?
Who goes to Hell, or comes from Heaven's height?
The spring, and angel, brook, and jug of wine,
Your heaven is made when four would here combine;
Were I to gasp for heav'n and drop this bit,
Excuse me please—for worse than dog I whine.
My mind may ever dwell on Grace Divine,
My heart may ever fill with holy wine;
Ye say that Lord may make me once repent—
He won't, of course I won't, for I decline.
Better to drink and dance with rosy fairs,
Than cheat the folk with doubtful pious wares;
Tho' drunkards, so they say, are doomed to hell,
To go to heaven with cheats who ever cares?
Where'er I see I find His holy grace,
This lawn is heaven, His love is filled in space;
His kingdom comes in forest, do not mope,
Stay here in heaven with an angel face.
They say "In hell will all the drunkards land"
Absurd! This cant will not to reason stand;
If love and drink would bring a man to hell,
Then heaven is vacant like an empty hand.
They tell "In Heaven angels come to greet!"
I say "The juice of Vine, in truth, is sweet."
Rely on cash, credits are bad assets,
We bear with drums when further far they beat.
I drink my mead—but folk now intercede,
"Drink not this mead, 'tis foe of faith" they plead;
So wine is foe of faith! By God! I drink,
'Tis right to rid this world of foes of creed.
Tho' wine is forbid, Yea! but who should take?
How much again with whom or for whose sake?
These four essentials when are brought to square,
Who drink? The wise with reason wide awake!
I love Him, so the worthy ones who wot,
With them to love is easier than not;
He knew me first, I loved and I conceived,
Science Divine, unless I love, will rot.
Avaunt the fasts! let only feast remain,
When joy and pleasure we have in the main;
This is the time when all concordant souls,
Bring grace and bliss and happiness in chain.
We come to Church, and in our humble way,
To tell the truth, we come here not to pray;
The hats we wear are those we stole from hence,
They're out of fashion, so we come to-day.
Could you but find a cask of wine somewhere,
Then drink you may at every public fair;
For he who thus behaves would never care
For whiskers which you rear or beard I wear!
I am a soldier brave, at death I scoff,
I die in full than live from Him cut off;
This life's a hat which He had lent me once,
When called by Him with smiling face I doff.
I languish friends! my diet's holy mead,
A ruby glow my face will have indeed;
When I decease you lave me with His Word,
For coffin planks a twig of vine I need.
When I be prostrate under slayer's boot,
And tree of hopeless life is torn from root,
Would that they made a pot of me to hold
His Word, with Word I may to life recruit.
When friends would gather in our Master's shrine,
And each to each as facing mirrors shine,
When Master holds the Magi wine in hand,
Remember this poor wreck for Grace Divine.
And mates! when ye would meet as guest and host,
Remember Him our Friend think of Him most;
At last when drinking health my turn would come,
Then turn your cups to earth and pour the toast.
Khayyam, who patched the tents of learned lore,
Fell once in kiln of love, and burnt to core;
The shear of death cut all his ties in life,
And all was sold for nothing, and no more.
How unawares Thou broke my pot, my Lord?
And barred from every bliss my lot, my Lord!
Thou cast my life's desires in earth's decay—
I bite the dust—who plays a sot, my Lord?
For loving Thee I suffer endless pain,
But breaking vows would cast my life in vain;
If life be loyal, I shall bear Thy Cross,
And bleed in heart until I can rise again.
You lay your snares around our ear and eye,
And warn us not to step in, lest we die';
Thus snares you lay, if therein one but strays,
You catch and kill him saying "Sinner fie!"
My lusts prevail on me, I cannot tame,
I burn in fire, my deeds but fan the flame;
Thy mercy will forgive, but then alas!
Thou saw me sin, can I forget the shame?
I did not wear myself to serve Thy feet,
Nor swept with brows the dust to clean Thy street;
Yet from Thy door I go not in despair,
For what is One a two I never greet.
Count merits, Lord! ignore my sins, and treat
My crimes with Thine own Grace as may be meet;
And do not flame Thy anger for my faults,
Dispense me, Lord! as dust of Prophet's feet!
For sins, O Khayyam! why should you bewail?
This grief can bring no grain in bag or bale;
For mercy will not greet the spotless swell,
It graces sinful paupers.—Do not quail.