The Kasidah E-Book

Ruchard Burton

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The Kasidah

Leseprobe

Ruchard Burton

The Kasidah

New Edition

New Edition

Published by The Big Nest

This Edition

First published in 2021

Copyright © 2021 The Big Nest

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 9781787363359

Contents

TO THE READER

I

II

III.

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

NOTE I

NOTE II

CONCLUSION

TO THE READER

THE Translator has ventured to entitle a “Lay of the Higher Law” the following composition, which aims at being in advance of its time; and he has not feared the danger of collision with such unpleasant forms as the “Higher Culture.” The principles which justify the name are as follows:—

The Author asserts that Happiness and Misery are equally divided and distributed in the world.

He makes Self-cultivation, with due regard to others, the sole and sufficient object of human life.

He suggests that the affections, the sympathies, and the “divine gift of Pity” are man’s highest enjoyments.

He advocates suspension of judgment, with a proper suspicion of “Facts, the idlest of superstitions.”

Finally, although destructive to appearance, he is essentially reconstructive.

For other details concerning the Poem and the Poet, the curious reader is referred to the end of the volume.

I

THE hour is nigh; the waning Queen

walks forth to rule the later night;

Crown’d with the sparkle of a Star,

and throned on orb of ashen light:

The Wolf-tail[1] sweeps the paling East

to leave a deeper gloom behind,

And Dawn uprears her shining head,

sighing with semblance of a wind:

The highlands catch yon Orient gleam,

while purpling still the lowlands lie;

And pearly mists, the morning-pride,

soar incense-like to greet the sky.

The horses neigh, the camels groan,

the torches gleam, the cressets flare;

The town of canvas falls, and man

with din and dint invadeth air:

[1. The False Dawn.]

The Golden Gates swing right and left;

up springs the Sun with flamy brow;

The dew-cloud melts in gush of light;

brown Earth is bathed in morning-glow.

Slowly they wind athwart the wild,

and while young Day his anthem swells,

Sad falls upon my yearning ear

The tinkling of the camel-bells:

O’er fiery wastes and frozen wold,

o’er horrid hill and gloomy glen,

The home of grisly beast and Ghoul[1],

the haunts of wilder, grislier men;—

With the brief gladness of the Palms,

that tower and sway o’er seething plain,

Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade,

and welling spring, and rushing rain;

With the short solace of the ridge,

by gentle zephyrs played upon,

Whose breezy head and bosky side

front seas of cooly celadon;—

[1. The Demon of the Desert.]

‘Tis theirs to pass with joy and hope,

whose souls shall ever thrill and fill

Dreams of the Birthplace and the Tomb,

visions of Allah’s Holy Hill.[1]

But we? Another shift of scene,

another pang to rack the heart;

Why meet we on the bridge of Time

to ‘change one greeting and to part?

We meet to part; yet asks my sprite,

Part we to meet? Ah! is it so?

Man’s fancy-made Omniscience knows,

who made Omniscience nought can know.

Why must we meet, why must we part,

why must we bear this yoke of MUST,

Without our leave or askt or given,

by tyrant Fate on victim thrust?

That Eve so gay, so bright, so glad,

this Morn so dim, and sad, and grey;

Strange that life’s Registrar should write

this day a day, that day a day

[1. Arafât, near Mecca.]

Mine eyes, my brain., my heart, are sad,

sad is the very core of me;

All wearies, changes, passes, ends;

alas! the Birthday’s injury!

Friends of my youth, a last adieu!

haply some day we meet again;

Yet ne’er the self-same men shall meet;

the years shall make us other men:

The light of morn has grown to noon,

has paled with eve, and now farewell!

Go, vanish from my Life as dies

the tinkling of the camel’s bell.

II

IN these drear wastes of sea-born land,

these wilds where none may dwell but He,

What visionary Pasts revive,

what process of the Years we see:

Gazing beyond the thin blue line

that rims the far horizon-ring,

Our sadden’d sight why haunt these ghosts,

whence do these spectral shadows spring?

What endless questions vex the thought,

of Whence and Whither, When and How?

What fond and foolish strife to read

the Scripture writ on human brow

As stand we percht on point of Time,

betwixt the two Eternities,

Whose awful secrets gathering round

with black profound oppress our eyes.

“This gloomy night, these grisly waves,

these winds and whirlpools loud and dread:

What reck they of our wretched plight

who Safety’s shore so lightly tread?

Thus quoth the Bard of Love and Wine,[1]

whose dream of Heaven ne’er could rise

Beyond the brimming Kausar-cup