! aV 'S^ <*^ -^^^^ * • ct^^V^vv*.*^.. O ^^*i°<^ -o^/^-^^V ..s^ v'V 7' ^0 <#» '^oV^ • r^5A^v»<»'.. O K<^°^ *^^* * .'j • • S V ' .•^v.-..^^ s* A ^oV" * ^-^-^ :t-' A < ^-^^0^ I ^"^U. :, -^d^ io Ao^ -^ vmd: o-j-'Cx-CK. V ^' V->\ DlueJKylrexf ^ Chicago, Of this book there have been six hundred and twenty-five copies printed : twenty-five on Imperial Japan vellum ; one hundred on Shan- don paper for illumination ; and five hundred on Shandon paper, not illumined. This being number , Library of Congrovs Two Copies Received IAN 22 1901 Copyright Miry «o. SECO«0 COPY '.^'S* Copyright, 1900, by Langworthy & Stevens JAIL! TRUE BELIEVER. Herein is set forth certain verse inspired by the Tent- Maker whose tongue was of gold, and him who found and re-cast that forgotten ' tongue for us. The task of selection has not been easy; everyone with a voice has sung his like or dislike of our Omar ; every edition has something of the sort. I do not possess a collection of even the American editions — I gave it up long ago. Mr. Mosher of Portland is suspected of trying to keep pace with them. 'Tis told he wrote the Philosopher Ellis for a Rubaiyat. Mr. Ellis replied that the Philosopher Press, had not printed a Rubaiyat; and as this was unique he had thoughts of advertising the fatft. Mr. Mosher lists in his latest bibliography XXXV items in American reprints alone and one of these items covers twenty-six editions. So if you have written anything that might be here, you may believe it is because I have not seen it. Some of you will not like the satirical verse and parodies which have been included. For your sakes they have been set by themselves, that you may avoid them. But does not the kinship of Omar to modern thought lie in that he was possessed of moods — his worship of wisdom, his pursuit of that trio of pleasures which some would name sin, his repentances — and a sense of humor. "But, through the shift of mood and mood, "Mine ancient humour saves him whole — "The cynic devil in his blood "That bids him mock his hurrying soul." Did some one say he didn't hurry ? — Did he not hurry his soul from mood to mood and laugh at his own futility the while? In this spirit, would he not enjoy a quip at himself? "Indeed the idols I have loved so long "Have done my credit in this World much . wrong : "Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup, "And sold my Reputation for a song. "Indeed, indeed. Repentance oft before "I swore — but was I sober when I swore ? "And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand "My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore." Give ye thanks to all whose flowers of speech are gathered here ; thanks give I to all who aided and abetted the gathering, and es- pecially to Nathan Haskell Dole, who blazed a path. E. M. M. THE GRAVE OF OMAR KHAYYAM NAMED Nizami, child of Samarcand, The holy place whose towers aspire to heaven, Whose domes are blue as heaven's inverted cup, The consecrated shrine, the head of Islam, Whose heart is at Meccah, the happy spot Where bloom the gardens of the Heart's delight; Where, in the house upon the Shepherd's Hill, Wise men pursue the pathway of the stars — I, even Nizami, write this record down In God's name, merciful, compassionate, A proof of his compassion. When my youth Burned in my body like a new-fed flame. When wisdom seemed an easy flower to pluck. And knowledge fruit that ripens in a day — Ah me ! that merry When so long ago — I was a pupil of that man of men, Omar, the Tent-Maker of Naishapur, That is Khorassan's crown, Omar the wise. Whose wisdom read the golden laws of life. And made them ours forever in his songs, Omar the star-gazer. One day by chance, I taxing all my student's store of wit With thought of is and is not, good and bad, And fondly dreaming that my fingers soon Would close upon the key of heaven and earth, I met my master in a garden walk. Musing as was his wont, I knew not what. Perhaps some better mode of marshalling Those daily soldiers of the conquering years, Perchance some subtler science which the stars Ciphered in fire upon the vaulted sky For him alone, perchance on some rare rhymes Pregnant with mighty thoughts, or on some girl, Star-eyed and cypress-slender, tulip-cheeked And jasmine-bosomed, for he loved such well, And deemed it wisdom. Omar saw me not, And would have passed me curtained in his thoughts ; But I, perked up with youthful consequence At mine own wisdom, plucked him by the sleeve. And with grave salutation, as befits The pupil to his master, stayed his course And craved his patience. Omar gazed at me With the grave sweetness which his servants loved, And gave me leave to speak, which I, on fire To tell the thing I thought, made haste to do. And poured my babble in the master's ear Of solving human doubt. When I had done. And, panting, looked into my master's eyes To read therein approval of my plan. He turned his head, and for a little while Waited in silence, while my petulant mind Galloped again the course of argument And found no flaw, all perfedt. Still he stood Silent, and I, the riddle-reader, vexed At long-delayed approval, touched again His sleeve, and with impatient reverence Said, "Master, speak, that I may garner up In scented manuscript the thoughts of price That fall from Omar's lips." He smiled again In sweet forgiveness of my turbulent mood. And with a kindly laughter in his eyes He said, "I have been thinking, when I die. That I should like to slumber where the wind May heap my tomb with roses." So he spoke. And then with thoughtful face and quiet tread He passed and left me staring, most amazed At such a pearl from such a sea of thought. And marveling that great philosophers Can sometimes pay so little heed to truth When truth is thrust before them. God be praised ! lO I am wiser now, and grasp no golden key. Years came and went, and Omar passed away, First from those garden walks of Samarcand Where he and I so often watched the moon Silver the bosoms of the cypresses. And so from out the circle of my life, And in due season out of life itself ; And his great name became a memory That clung about me like the scent of flowers Beloved in boyhood, and the wheeling years Ground pleasure into dust beneath my feet ; And so the world wagged till there came a day When I that had been young and was not young, I found myself at Naishapur, and there Bethought me of my master dead and gone. And the musk-scented preface of my youth. Then to myself I said, "Nizami, rise And seek the tomb of Omar." So I sought. And after seeking found, and, lo ! it lay Beyond a garden full of roses, full As the third heaven is full of happy eyes ; And every wind that whispered through the trees II Scattered a heap of roses on his grave ; Yea, roses leaned, and from their odorous hearts Rained petals on his marble monument, Crimson as lips of angels. Straight my mind. Sweeping the desert of departed yeers. Leaped to that garden speech in Samarcand, The cypress grove, my fretful questioning. And the mild beauty of my master's face. Then I knelt down and glorified Allah, Who is compassionate and merciful. That of his boundless mercy he forgave That singing sinner ; for I surely knew That all the leaves of every rose that dripped Its tribute on the tomb where Omar sleeps. Were tears and kisses that should smooth away His record of offence ; for Omar sinned. Since Omar was a man. He wished to sleep Beneath a veil of roses ; Heaven heard. Forgave, and granted, and the perfumed pall Hides the shrine's whiteness. Glory to Allah ! Justin Huntly McCarthy (From **The Quatrains of Omar Khayyam," Copyright 1898, by Brentano's.) Upon the planting of a rose from Naishapur over FitzGerald's grave. Here on FitzGerald's grave from Omar's tomb To lay fit tribute pilgrim singers flock ; Long with a double fragrance let it bloom. The Rose of I ram on an English stock. Grant Allen 14 "INSCRIPTION" EIGN here, triumphant rose from Omar's grave. Borne by a fakir o'er the Persian wave ; Reign with fresh pride, since here a heart is sleeping That double glory to your Master gave. Hither let many a pilgrim step be bent To greet the rose re-risen in banishment ; Here richer crimsons may its cup be keeping Than brimmed it ere from Naishapur it went. Edmund Gosse 15 OMAR'S ROSE ROM Naishapur to England, from the tomb Where Omar slumbers to the Narrow Room That shrines FitzGerald's ashes, Persia sends Perfume and Pigment of her Rose to bloom. Wedded with Rose of Eng- land, for a sign That English lips, transmitting the divine High piping music of the song that ends. As it began, with Wine and Wine and Wine, Across the ages caught the words that fell From Omar's mouth and made them audible To the unnumbered sitters at Life's Feast Who wear their hearts out over Heaven and Hell. Vex not today with wonder which were best. The Student, Scholar, Singer of the West, Or Singer, Scholar, Student of the East — The Soul of Omar burned in England's breast. And howsoever Autumn's breezes blow About the Rose, and Winter's fingers throw, In mockery of Oriental noons. Upon this grass the monumental snow ; Still in our dreams the Eastern Rose survives Lending diviner fragrance to our lives : The world is old, cold, warned by waning moons. But Omar's creed in English verse revives. The fountain in the tulip-tinted dale. The manuscript of some melodious tale Babbling of love and lovers passion-pale. Of Rose, of Cypress, and of Nightingale ; The cup that Saki proffers to our lips. The cup from which the Rose-Red Mercy drips, Bidding forget how, like a sinking sail. Day after day into the darkness slips ; The wisdom that the Watcher of the Skies Won from the wandering stars that soothed his eyes, The legend writ below, around, above — "One thing at least is certain, this Life flies ;" 17 These were the gifts of Omar — these he gave Full-handed : his Disciple sought to save Some portion for his people, and their love Plants Omar's Rose upon an English Grave. J. H. McC. i8 HEAR US, YE WINDS My tomb shall be on a spot where the North Wind may strow roses upon it. Omar Khayyam to Kwajah Nizami. 'EAR us, ye winds ! From where the North Wind strows Blossoms that crown the "King of Wisdom's" tomb, The trees here planted bring remembered bloom Dreaming in seed of Love's ancestral Rose To meadows where a braver North Wind blows O'er greener grass, o'er hedge-rose, may, and broom. And all that make East England's field- perfume Dearer than any fragrance Persia knows : — 19 Hear us, ye winds, North, East, and West, and South ! This granite covers him whose golden mouth Made wise ev'n the word of Wisdom's King ; Blow softly o'er the grave of Omar's herald Till roses rich of Omar's dust shall spring From richer dust of Suffolk's rare FitzGerald. 1'heodore Watts 1Q Verse read at meetings of the Omar Khayyam Club of London. OMAR KHAYYAM (1898) MAR, when it was time for thee to die, Thou saidst to those around thee, Let me lie Where the North Wind may scatter on my grave Roses ; and now thou hast what thou didst crave, Since from the northern shore the northern blast Roses each year upon thy tomb hath cast. Thy more familiar comrades, who have sped Many a health to thee, send roses red. We are but guests unto the tavern brought. And have a flower the paler for that thought ; Yet is our love so rich that roses white Shall fall empurpled on thy tomb tonight. Stephen Phillips 12 (i897) ELL, Omar Khayyam wrote of Wine, And all of us, sometimes, must dine ; And Omar Khayyam wrote of Roses, And all of us, no doubt, have noses ; And Omar Khayyam wrote of Love, Which some of us are not above. Also he charms to this extent. We don't know, always, what he meant. Lastly, the man's so plainly dead We can heap honors on his head. Austin Dobson 53 OMAR'S FRIENDS AT BURFORD BRIDGE (1895) OT mid the London dust and glare, The wheels that rattle, the lamps that flare. But down in the deep green Surrey dingle, You drink to Omar in fragrant air. Here, he said, was a tale to tell Of Burford Bridge in the lonely dell, A tale of the friends of the leal White Roses, But he told it not, who had told it well. Drink to him then, ere the night be sped ! Drink to his name while the wine is red ! To Tearlach drink, and Tusitala, To the king that is gone, and the friend that's dead ! 24 Out of the silence if men may hear, Into the silence faint and clear, The voice may pierce of loving kindness, And leal remembrance may yet be dear. Andrew Lang %S (i895) NE cup in joy before the banquet ends, One thought for vanished, for transfigured friends, Stars on the living cope of heaven embossed. The heaven of Love that o'er us beams and bends ! Roses and bay for many a phantom head ! Death is but what we make it — for the dead ; Held hard in memory, those we loved and lost , Shall live while blood is warm and wine is red. Edmund Gosse 16 ROSROSARUM (1897) O know the love-song that might best avail, I made petition to the nightingale. Whose melody made an- swer : "Lo, the rose Hath all my secret and may tell the tale. "When to the rose I pour my song for wine, Thereof let wisdom what it can divine ; I know this only, that I sing myself Unto myself, and stay not to define." Then, eager to fulfil such fair behest, I wandered forth upon the rose's quest. But all in vain, since I might not discern The rose-queen of all roses from the rest. 27 Should she give aid, who glows with empire's red. Or she, whose white doth heaven's own court bespread ? Or she, that scatters bloom at Naishapur, Tell me, perchance, what Omar left unsaid ? At last the lapwing piped to me : "My son, Thy fill of doing gets thee nothing done ; We flit in this brief show from flow'r to flow'r Of many roses, but the rose is one." Sir Frederick Pollock 28 OMAR KHAYYAM REAT Omar, here tonight we drain a bowl Unto thy long-since trans- migrated Soul, Ours all unworthy in thy place to sit. Ours still to read in life's enchanted scroll. For us like thee a little hour to stay, For us like thee a little hour to play, A little hour for wine and love and song, And we too turn the glass and take our way. So many years your tomb the roses strew, Yet not one penny wiser we than you. The doubts that wearied you are with us still. And, Heaven be thanked ! your wine is with us too. For have the years a better message brought To match the simple wisdom that you taught ; 29 Love, wine and verse, and just a little bread — For these to live and count the rest as nought? Therefore, Great Omar, here our homage deep We drain to thee, though all too fast asleep In Death's intoxication art thou sunk To know the solemn revels that we keep. Oh, had we, best-beloved poet, but the power From our own lives to pluck one golden hour. And give it unto thee in thy great need. How would we welcome thee to this bright bower ! O life that is so warm, 'twas Omar's too ; O wine that is so red, he drank of you : Yet life and wine must all be put away. And we go sleep with Omar — yea, tis true. And when in some great city yet to be The sacred wine is spilt for you and me, To those great fames that we have yet to build. We'll know as little of it all as he. Richard LeGalliene 30 Other verse TO E. FITZGERALD sf: * * \ UT none can say That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought, Who reads your Golden Eastern lay. Than which I know no version done In English more divinely well ; A planet equal to the sun Which cast it, that large infidel Your Omar ; and your Omar drew Full-handed plaudits from our best In modern letters, and from two. Old friends outvaluing all the rest. Two voices heard on earth no more. ***** Alfred Tennyson 32 TO OMAR KHAYYAM {Letters to Dead Authors) ISE Omar, do the Southern Breezes fling Above your grave,at ending of the Spring, The Snowdrift of the pet- als of the Rose, The wild white Roses you were wont to sing ? Far in the South I know a Land divine. And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine, And over all the shrines the Blossom blows Of Roses that were dear to you as wine. You were a Saint of unbelieving days. Liking your life, and happy in men's Praise ; Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough, Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways. 2Z Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or Hell, Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell, Content to know not all thou knowest now. What's Death ? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well? The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill, Shall he torment them if they chance to spill ? Nay, like the broken potsherds are we cast Forth and forgotten — and what will be will ! So still were we, before the Months began That rounded us and shaped us into Man. So still we shall be, surely, at the last. Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban ! Ah, strange it seems that this thy common thought — How all things have been, aye, and shall be nought — Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East, In those old Days when Senlac fight was fought, 34 Which gave our England for a captive Land To pious Chiefs of a believing Band, A gift to the Believer from the Priest, Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave Through helm and brain of him who could not save His England, even of Harold Godwin's son ; The high tide murmurs by the Hero's grave ! And thou wert wreathing Roses — who can tell ?— Or chanting for some girl that pleased thee well. Or satst at wine in Naishapur, when dun The twilight veiled the field where H arold fell! The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam ! Along the white Walls of his guarded Home No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o'er the wave The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam! ZS And dear to him, as Roses were to thee, Rings long the Roar of Onset of the Sea ! The Swans Path of his Fathers ; in his grave , His sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be. His was the Age of Faith, when all the West Looked to the Priest for torment or for rest ; And thou wert living then, and didst not heed The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed ! Ages of Progress ! These eight hundred years Hath Europe shuddered with her hopes or fears, And now ! — She listens in the wilderness To thee^ and half believeth what she hears ! Hadst thou THE SECRET? Ah, and who may- tell ? "An hour we have," thou saidst : "Ah, waste it well ! " An hour we have and yet Eternity Looms o'er us, and the thought of Heaven or Hell! Nay, we can never be as wise as thou, O idle singer 'neath the blossomed bough ! Nay, and we cannot be content to die; We cannot shirk the questions "Where ?" and "How?" Ah, not from learned Peace and gay Content Shall we of England go the way he went — The Singer of the Red Wine and the Rose — Nay, otherwise than his our Day is spent ! Serene he dwelt in fragrant Naishapur, But we must wander while the Stars endure. He knew the secret: we have none that knows. No Man so sure as Omar once was sure ! Andrew Lang TO ANDREW LANG (Dedication) EAR singer of the North, for all the hours The happy hours I owe you take at least, These echoes of our singer of the East, Where still the brown bird sings, the tulip flowers. The wine runs red, the flute-girl haunts the bowers Where still the Poet, drinking at life's feast Smiles at the jest of Potter, Prince and Priest, The doom of thrones and Babylonian towers. You who love Omar, you whose verses rest. Like Omar's longed-for roses, on his tomb. Forgive the rashness that would fain con- jure The watcher of the stars, a welcome guest Into your presence from the cypress gloom. And glory of enchanted Naishapur ! Justin Huntly McCarthy TO CECILIA »HE Wine of Life, the Wonder of the Spring, The passionate madness of the Nightingale Whose Litany all lover's lips must wail, "Farewell, farewell, farewell to everything" — These Omar sang, and these myself shall sing In dreams beside some stream where tulips sail. Red Argosies, before the scented gale, While you recline on Caesar's dust and string Your lute through all the languid afternoon To Persian airs of Desert and of Palm, Of green Oasis and of Gardens sweet With roses, where the magic of the moon In silver steeps the consecrated calm And on the enchanted sward our shadows meet. Justin Huntly McCarthy OMAR KHAYYAM MAR, dear Sultan of the Persian song, Familiar friend whom I have loved so long, Whose volume made my pleasant hiding- place From this fantastic world of right and wrong. My youth lies buried in thy verses; lo, I read, and as the haunted numbers flow. My memory turns in anguish to the face That leaned o'er Omar's pages long ago. Alas for me, alas for all who weep And wonder at the silence dark and deep That girdles round this little lamp in space No wiser than when Omar fell asleep. Rest in thy grave beneath the crimson rain Of heart-desired roses. Life is vain, And vain the trembling legends we may trace Upon the open book that shuts again. Justin Huntly McCarthy IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM 'HESE pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred, Each softly lucent as a rounded moon ; The diver Omar plucked them from their bed, FitzGerald strung them on an English thread. Fit rosary for a queen, in shape and hue, When Contemplation tells her pensive beads Of mortal thoughts, forever old and new. Fit for a queen ? Why, surely, then for you ! The moral ? Where doubt's eddies toss and twirl Faith's slender shallop till her footing reel. Plunge : if you find not peace beneath the whirl. Groping, you may, like Omar, grasp a pearl. James Russell Lowell Sultan and slave alike have gone their way With Bahram Gur, but whither none may say, Yet he who charmed the wise at Naisha- pur Seven centuries since, still charms the wise to-day. Thomas Bailey Aldrich ON READING THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM IN A KENTISH ROSE GARDEN ESIDE a dial in the leafy close. Where every bush was burning with the Rose With million roses falling flake by flake Upon the lawn in fading summer snows ; I read the Persian Poet's rhyme of old. Each thought a ruby in a ring of gold — Old thoughts so young, that, after all these years. They're writ on every rose-leaf yet unrolled. You may not know the secret tongue aright The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write ; Only a poet may perchance translate Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light. Mathilde Blind HOUGH still the famous Book of Kings With strange memorial music rings, Firdausi's muse is dead and gone As Kai-kobad and Feridon, And Rustum and his Pahlawan Are cold as pre-historic man. — KHAYYAM still lives; his magic rhyme Is forged of spells that conquer Time, The hopes and doubts, the joys and pains That never end while Man remains ; The sin, the sorrow and the strife Of good and ill in human life ; Such themes can ne'er grow stale and old, — Nor can the verse in which they're told, Reflecting as it does each phase Of human thought and human ways. The world may roll through ages yet. New stars may rise, old stars may set. But like the grass and like the rain Some things forever fresh remain. 44 Some poets whom no rust can touch —KHAYYAM and HORACE are of such. But while we knew the Roman's tongue, KHAYYAM in vain for us had sung, Till One arose on English earth Who to his music gave new birth. Henceforth, so long as English speech Shall through the coming ages reach. The name oi Khayyam will go down With such a glory of renown As ne'er on Eastern poet's brow Has poured its radiance until now. — And who has wrought this spell of might That brings the. hidden gem to Light ? 'Twas One who touched his harp, unseen. Who never wished to lift the screen That hid him from the outer throng, Bpt blameless lived and sang his song In modest tones, not over-loud, To shun the plaudits of the crowd. Now that we know him — now, at last. When o'er the threshold he hath passed — We'll love with love that knows no change The Hermit-bard of Little Grange. Michael Kerney OMAR KHEYYAM thou, the Orient morn- ing's nightingale. That, from the darkness of the Long Ago, Thy note of unpropitiable woe Cast'st out upon the Time-traversing gale, — Its burden still Life's lamentable tale. Too late come hither and too soon to go. Whence brought and whither bounden none doth know Nor why thrust forth into this world of wail, We, thy sad brethren of the western lands, SONS OF THE SECRET of this latter day. We, who have sailed with thee the BLOOD-DEVOURING WAY, We, thy soul's mates, with thee join hearts and hands Across the abysses of eight hundred years. John Payne OMAR KHAYYAM (To A. L.) AYER of Sooth, and Searcher of dim skies ! Lover of Song, and Sun, and Summertide, For whom so many roses bloomed and died ; Tender Interpreter, most sadly wise. Of earth's dumb inarticu- lated cries ! Time's self cannot estrange us, nor divide ; Thy hand still beckons from the garden-side. Through green vine-garlands, when the Win- ter dies. Thy calm lips smile on us, thine eyes are wet; The Nightingale's full song sobs all through thine. And thine in hers, — part human, part divine! Among the deathless gods thy place is set, All-wise, but drowsy with Life's mingled Wine, Laughter and Learning, Passion and Regret. Rosamund Marriott Watson TOAST TO OMAR KHAYYAM Chorus N this red wine, where Mem- ory's eyes seem glowing Of days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam, And Norfolk's foaming nectar glittered, showing What beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing. We drink to thee whose law is nature's knowing. Omar Khayyam ! I Star-gazer, who canst read, when night is strewing Her scriptured orbs on time's frail oriflamme. Nature's proud blazon: "Who shall bless or damn ? Life, Death, and Doom are all of my bestow- ing!" Chorus: Omar Khayyam ! 48 II Master whose stream of balm and music, flowing Through Persian gardens, widened till it swam — A fragrant tide no bank of time shall dam — Through Suffolk meads where gorse and may were blowing. Chorus: Omar Khayyam ! Ill Who blent thy song with sound of cattle low- ing. And caw of rooks that perch on ewe and ram. And hymn of lark and bleat of orphan lamb And swish of scythe in Bredfield's dewy mowing ? Chorus: Omar Khayyam ! 49 IV *Twas Fitz, "Old Fitz," whose knowledge, farther going Than lore of Omar, "Wisdom's starry cham," Made richer still thine opulent epigram; Sowed seed from seed of thine immortal sowing. Chorus: Omar Khayyam ! In this red wine, where Memory's eyes seem glowing Of days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam, And Norfolk's foaming ne6tar glittered, showing What beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing. We drink to thee whose lore is nature's knowing, Omar Khayyam. Theodore Watts TO THE TENT MAKER HY fateful mystery still mocks the eye, Ah, hast thou told us truth or dost thou lie ? Awful is thy philosophy — or sweet, And doubting must we bide until we die. Yet if we live beneath thy teachings, say. What if we find thou knewest not the way. And dead and strayed and lost and damned we burn. Shall we not curse the counsels of thy clay ? We know that thou art potent in our hearts. And long to take the word thy song imparts. But know not, hesitate, and seek again — Our seeking answerless to thee departs. 51 Gay is thy voice, thou singst the Song of Wine, That all men's cares yield to the gladsome vine ; But is thy joy less sad than all our woe. And art thou dust, Oh Mocker, as thy Shrine ? Thomas Wood Stevens RUBAIYAT TO OMAR KHAYYAM Persian OMAR ! would thou wert alive again ! Then might we surely see thee strive again To gather from the bit- ter flowers of Fate Sweet honey for our human hive again. The stars still shine as once they brightly shone, When, as they watched thy terrace, nightly shone The answering flashes of thy love and hate, And red gleams of the wine-cup lightly shone ! The blood-red petals from the roses fall, as then they did, Death for us moderns likewise closes all, as then it did; We know not more than thou didst know of life-to-be ; The ruthless Wheel of Heaven disposes all, as then it did. 53 But thy example makes us brave to face our Fate : There may be love beyond the grave to grace our Fate, And we, meanwhile, will keep alive the glow of life, to be Worth saving if great Allah deign to save, to grace our Fate. And so accept this volume as a meed of praise, Altho' thy Fame, so stablished, hath no need of praise, And thou thyself art very far away from us — So far, thou'd'st not take heed of blame or heed of praise. A score of zealous poets have translated thee In tongues unheard of when the Mollahs hated thee. And now accept their tribute, and this lay from us. For whom thy living words have recreated thee ! Nathan Haskell Dole OMAR KHAYYAM EADING in Omar till the thouo^hts that burned Upon his pages seemed to be inurned Within me in a silent fire, my pen By instin<5l to his flowing metre turned. Vine-crowned free-thinker of thy Persian clime — Brave bard, whose daring thought and mys- tic rhyme Through English filter trickles down to us Out of the lost springs of an olden time — Baffled by life's enigmas, like the crowd Who strove before and since to see the cloud Lift from the mountain pinnacle of faith — We honor still the doubts thou hast avowed ; And fain would round the half-truth of thy dream ; And fain let in, if so we might, a beam 55 Of purer light through windows of the soul, Dividing things that are from things that seem. True, true, brave poet, in thy cloud involved. The riddle of the world stood all unsolved ; And we who boast our broader views still grope Too oft like thee, though centuries have revolved. Yet this we know. Thy symbol of the jar Suits not our Western manhood, left to mar Or make, in part, the clay 'tis moulded of; And the soul's freedom is its fateful star. Not like thy ball thrown from the player's hand. Inert and passive on a yielding strand ; Or, if a ball, the rock whence it rebounds Proves that the ball some license may com- mand. But though thy mind, which measured Jove and Mars, Lay fettered from the Unseen by bolts and bars 56 Of circumstance, one truth thy spirit saw — The mystery spanning life and earth and stars. Dervish and threatening dogma were thy foes. The question though unanswered still arose, And through the revel and the wine-cups still The honest thought : "Who knows, but One — who knows ?" As I read again each fervent line That smiles through sighs, and drips with fragrant wine — And Vedder's thoughtful muse has graced the verse With added jewels from the Artist's mine — I read a larger meaning in the sage — A modern comment on a far-off age ; And take the truth, and leave the error out That casts its light stain on the Asian page. Christopher P, Cranch ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A COPY OF OMAR EEM not this book a Creed ; 'tis but the cry Of one who fears not Death, yet would not die ; Who at the table feigns, with sorry jest, To love the wine the Mas- ter's hand has pressed — The while he loves the absent Master best — The bitter cry of love for love's reply. Arthur Sherburne Hardy TO OMAR KHAYYAM Thy book defies thy creed, for there doth sing The undying self from baser uses shriven. Thou hast snatched a feather from an angel's wing To write, — There is no heaven ! Anna Poole Beardsley THE RUBAIYAT WELL here three sad, sweet spirits ; perfume born Of fading rose-leaves, vision of the thorn, Behind each flower of joy in Life's Bouquet, And one long sigh we make too oft to scorn. ^'A hair perhaps divides the false and true ;" Or false or true thy verses, we this due Of meed bestow on one most bitter-sweet : We read and dream, then dream and read anew. Charles P. Nettleton AFTER OMAR E strive for fame — pray tell me what is fame ? A little clapping of the hands — a name Upon the tongues of men — a fitful fire. And then a wind that . quenches fire and flame. We are all weak and made of common dust, The god within us linked with vulgar lust, The spirit ever warring with the flesh, Till back within the earth our bones are thrust. William Reed Dunroy A CLOSE UPON THE TWELFTH RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM Dedicated to T. N. by P. G. the sixteenth night of June. "A book of verses underneath the bough, "A jug of wine, a loaf of bread — and thou "Beside me singing in the wilderness — "Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow !" FT have the footsteps of my soul been led By thee, sweet OMAR, far from hum of Toil To where the Chenar trees their plumage spread And tangly wild grape- vines the thickest coil; Where distant fields, scarce glimpsed in Noon content Are lush with verdure quick upon the plough. Where trills the Nightingale beneath the Tent Of Heaven, uttering her soft lament ; There have I sat with Thee and conned ere now A book of Verses underneath the bough. 61 When from the City's raucous din new-freed, I quaff thy Wisdom from the clearing Cup Of Rubaiyat, then, even as I read, I seem with Thee in Persian groves to sup On Bread of YEZDAKHAST and SHIRAZ wine That lifts the Net of Care from off the Brow. These Words, that tongue the Spirit of the Vine, Speak from the Veil, and lo ! the voice is Thine : Then is my Wish — would Fate that Wish allow — A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou. Although I tread the Wilderness of Life, Thy song can waft me to that careless Clime, Where enter in nor Memories of Strife, Nor Ghosts of Woe from out the Gulf of Time. There, by thy side, great OMAR, would I stray, And drink the juice that has forgot the Press. (A Pot, the Potter shaped but yesterday, — Tomorrow will it be but broken clay ?) With only Thee, the toilsome Road to bless, Beside me singing in the wilderness ! 63 When thou dost scorn the Waste and mourn the Rose, That dies upon the World's too sinful Breast, In thy Disdain a wondrous beauty glows. Unfolding Visions of a Life more blessed. Then from thy NAISHAPUR in KHORASSAN, I seem to wander, though 1 know not how. Within the glittering Gates of JENISTAN, Supreme SHADUKIAM I wondering scan : Though still I walk the Wilderness, I vow — Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow ! Porter Garnett THE LOVE OF A SUMMER DAY (The Chap-Book) "A book of verses underneath the bough, "A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou "Beside me singing in the wilderness : "Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow !" would rather be loved by you, sweet. Than all of the world beside, 1 would rather one day with you, sweet. On the brink of a summer tide, With a song we could sing to- gether, And a crystal of ruddy wine Than a century's summer weather And another love than thine. I would rather be crowned with you, sweet, Than to king with the fairest queen. I would rather be poor with you, sweet, 'Neath the shadowy beeches green, 65 With your cheek on my own cheek dreaming And your kisses upon my face. Than to lie amid treasures gleaming In another love's embrace. I would rather be near to you, sweet. Than to win an immortal name. I would rather be dear to you, sweet, Than to leave an undying fame In the minds of a mighty throng, sweet. For man's memory fades away. And there's nothing that lasts so long, sweet, As the love of a summer day. John Bennett (Copyright 1895, by H. S. Stone & Co.) OVER THE ROSE-LEAVES, UNDER THE ROSE {The Chap-Book) "One thing is certain and the rest is lies ; "The flower that has once blown forever dies." HY did you say you loved me then, If this must be the end? Can so much more than lover be So far much less than friend? You say "Suppose we had not met" __ Beneath this Provence rose ; Suppose we had not loved at all ! Suppose y dear heart, suppose ? Suppose beside some common road There bloomed a common rose. As this one crimsons all the air Within the garden close, Suppose you plucked it, passing by, And spread its petals wide, Until the sweetness of its heart Filled all the country-side. 67 Suppose you wore it on your breast One careless summer day ; Suppose you kissed it once — or twice — To pass the time away, Then tore it slowly leaf from leaf. As I have torn this rose. Until you bared its very soul, Tou would not ? Well, suppose I Suppose you stripped its very soul Down to life's golden core. Till heart and life and soul were yours. And there was nothing more A rose could give to please y^our sense Or win a passing smile ; Then dropped it in the pathway — thus — No longer worth your while. And then — suppose those scattered leaves Were days we two have shared — You need not say you counted them ; You need not say you cared — Could all the counting, all the care, Or all my foolish pain Put that one rose together, dear. Or make it bloom again ? John Bennett (Copyright 1898, by H. S. Stone & Co.) IN OMAR HY did'st thou say, O King of all the Wise, Maker of Tents, and Searcher of the Skies — Why did'st thou say we dust to dust descend And lie sans Song, sans Singer and sans — End? How can it be, the Echo of that song Thou sang'st in Naishapur, the Spedral Throng All jealous of the Silence of the Tomb Withhold or grimly smother in the gloom ! Is't so, sweet Singer of Immortal Song ! Then powerless to right Eternal Wrong We yet may quaff, in memory of thy soul. What thou did'st brew, nor emptied in this Bowl. Gardner C. 'Teall OMAR KHAYYAM N Naishapur his ashes lie O'ershadowed by the mosque's blue dome ; There folded in his tent of sky The star of Persia sleeps at home. The rose her buried nightingale Remembers, faithful all these years ; Around his grave the winds exhale The fragrant sorrow of her tears. Sultans and Slaves in caravans Since Malik Shah have gone their way, And the ridges of the Kubberstans Are their memorials today. But from the dust in Omar's tomb A Fakir has revived a Rose, — Perchance the old, ancestral bloom Of that one by the mosque which blows. 70 Out of its petals he has caught The inspiration Omar knew, Who from the stars his wisdom brought, A Persian Rose that drank the dew. The Fakir now in dust lies low With Omar of the Orient; FitzGerald, — shall we call him ? No : *Twas Omar in the Occident ! Frank Dempster Sherman OMAR RE-SUNG McCarthy^ jdy AY, who will buy this earth? Two barley corns will take it ; If you have one of worth. Then only one I'll make it. Bring wine ; this life is vain Without the ring of laugh- ter; There is no sense in pain, Here nor in, hereafter. McCarthy J 22y Why frown upon thy fate ? Oh, rather with a smile Go meet her at the gate And laugh with her the while. Let every moment be A little dream of bliss. Which, as it flies from thee. Takes hence a loving kiss. 72 McCarthy, 413 Tranquility, O friend, Should thy good motto be ; Think not upon the end. Nor of eternity. What thou hast done or thought Is but an atom's vaunt — Too small, where stars are wrought. For merit or for taunt. McCarthy, jyo Now nightingales rejoice And roses scent the air, And lo ! the fountain's voice Is laughing everywhere. What time have we to ope The musty Koran, Sweet, When nature, full of hope, Flings lyrics at our feet? Charles G, Blanden A REMINISCENCE OF OMAR KHAYYAM. sometimes wonder when I see the rose Rest on Her bosom, where my head has lain, Whether, when She is dust, that rose's seed Will find its nursery there and bloom again. I sometimes wonder if the jes- samine. Which added fragrance to her fragrant hair. Will with it later make a common cause And bloom again to make another fair. But most I wonder if the flower of love, Which lay upon the soul I could not see. Will find its fellows in Elysian fields And bloom again to bless and welcome me. Ah, yes, methinks the God who loves the rose. And loves the jessamine in my lady's hair, Will love the love that decorates her soul, And will not fail to make my heaven more fair. George Somes Layard IN NAISHAPUR. N Naishapur, when Omar wrote, No nightingale with lusty throat Carolled a clearer, sweeter note In Naishapur. He saw the yellow roses swoon Beneath the kisses of the June, And the star blossoms of the night Opened their petals to his sight. He sang of life, and death, and woe, A thousand years or so ago ; The north winds o'er him rose leaves throw In Naishapur. Robert Loveman THE RUBAIYAT. ■ y^iMAR Khayyam, you're ^ "^ a jolly old Aryan, Half sybaritic, and semi- barbarian. Not a bit mystic, but utilitarian, Fond of a posy and fond of a dram. D Symbolist, poet, and clear— eyed philosopher. Had you a wife I am sure you were boss of her. Yet you'd be ruled by the coquettish toss of her Garland crowned head at you, Omar Khay- yam. For their vanity, In your humanity. Else your urbanity. Were but a flam. And the severity Of your austerity 76 Proves your sincerity, Omar Khayyam. Well I remember when first you were her- alded, Persian-born poesy, ably FitzGeralded ; Impulse said buy you — and I to my peril did: Now a meek slave to your genius I am. Some of your doctrines to us may seem hatable. Though we admit that the themes are debatable ; But your ideas, are they really translatable Into our languages, Omar Khayyam ? In your society All inebriety Seems but propriety Truth but a sham ; And the reality Of your carnality Courts immortality, Omar Khayyam. From the grave depths of your massive tran- quility 77 Thoughts you produce, knowing well their futility, Thoughts that you phrase with a fatal facility, Hurl with the force of a battering ram ! But we care not though your message be cynical, Not very creedal and scarcely rabbinical ; We, your adorers, put you on a pinnacle. For that we love you, old Omar Khayyam. Though you're erroneous. Still you're harmonious. And you're euphonious In epigram. O'er the censorious You are victorious ; We hold you glorious, Omar Khayyam. Carolyn }VeUs Here be words from those without the gates. TO OMAR KHAYYAM |ATE from thy face the veil of darkness clears; Thy name now rings for- ever in our ears ; So that we wonder as we listen, how We've done without thee this eight hundred years. We wonder if thy critics bade thee take Thy rhymes elsewhere, and hint that thou wouldst make A good vine-dresser, or might'st guide the plough; And bid thee sing no more for pity's sake. Thou hadst a secret, so our young men say. World-weary youths who writhe and groan that they Were born to solve the "Where," the "How," but tell Us nought besides of thy strange-titled lay, 80 Hadst thou of that red wine a famous brand, Sinless of aching head or trembUng hand ? Couldst thou unpricked a rosy wreath en- twine ? Lies here the riddle, Omar, thou hadst planned ? What loss if thou hadst laid its answer bare! One theme the less ! one passion less to tear! And he who sips this monthly draught of rhyme Will know that themes are getting somewhat rare. Thou art a storehouse for our rhymester crew, They read thee not — that were too much to do — But cull thy telling bits and quote them free, Till men believe that they are poets too. For folk uncultured know not of thy song, Thou art too high, too deep, perchance too long. But to the spouters of thy sample lines They give high place the bardic ranks among. 8i And so these win a name. Wise Omar, say, Old man, hadst thou a secret that would pay- So well as this ? The world is for the West, And Eastern secrets now have had their day. 82 THE RUBAIYAT OF O'MARA KHAYVAN. Eran (Iran?) year of the Hegira 94 — Via Brooklyn. AKE, for the night that lets poor man forget His daily toil is past, and in Care's net Another day is caught to gasp and fade ; OH ! but my weary bones are heavy yet ! ^ Wake ! son of kings that bears a hod on high, And builds the world. The red sun mounts the sky And circles squares in the cot's every chink And gilds ephemeral motes that whirl and die. Wake ! for the bearded goat devours the door ! And now the family pig forbears to snore. And from his trough sets up the Persian's cry — "Eat ! Drink ! Tomorrow we shall be no more ! 83 Eat, drink and sleep ! Aye, eat and sleep who can ! I work and ache. The beast outstrips the man ; And when oblivion bids the sequence end. Which shall we say has best filled nature's plan ? When on Gowanus' hills the whistle blows What dreams are mine of Hafiz* wine-red rose ? And when I drag my leaden feet toward home No sensuous bulbul note woos to repose. I envy the dull brute my hand shall slay. He lifts no stolid eye above the clay. I, longing, on the cloud-banked verge discern "Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday." What is the Cup to lips that may not drain? Or fleeting joy to lives conceived in pain ? Toil and aspire is still the common lot, Stumbling to rise and rising fall again. 84 And is this all ? Shall skies no longer shine. Or stars lure on the themes that seem divine ? Ah, Maker of the Tents ! is this thy hope — To feed and grovel and to die like swine ? William Mcintosh MEASURE FOR MEASURE By 0..r K....m AKE ! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept, And wailed the night- ingale with "Jug, jug, jug ! " Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose wept. Enter with me where yonder door hangs out Its Red Triangle to a world of drought, Inviting to the Palace of the Djinn, Where Death, Aladdin, waits as Chuckerout. Methought, last night, that one in suit of woe Stood by the Tavern door and whispered," Lo, The Pledge departed, what avails the Cup? Then take the Pledge and let the Wine-cup go-" 86 But I: "For every thirsty soul that drains This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains — Free-will the Can, Necessity the Must : Pour off the Must, and, see, the Can remains. "Then, pot or glass, why label it ^fVith Care ? ' Or why your Sheepskin with my Gourd compare ? Lo ! here the Bar, and the only Judge ; Oh, Dog that bit me, I exact an hair !" We are the Sum of things, who jot our score With Caesar's clay behind the Tavern door ; And Alexander's armies, — where are they. But gone to Pot, — that Pot you push for more ? And this same jug I empty, could it speak, Might whisper that itself had been a Beak, And dealt me Fourteen Days "without the Op." Your Worship, see, my lip is on your cheek. 87 Yourself condemned to three score years and ten, Say, did you judge the ways of other men ? Why, now, sir, you are hourly filled with wine. And has the clay more license now than then ? Life is a draught, good sir ; its brevity Gives you and me our measures, and thereby Has docked your virtue to a tankard's span. And left of my criterion — A Cri* ! LofC. RECENT RUBAIYAT (By Omar's Ghost.) OWN in the Grave the dead men drink no more, Alas ! nor e'er ajar is here a door, And over-baked, my brother, is the Clay, Wherein the amber wine we used to pour! Nay here, among the dusky Groves of Death, There comes no moon the Dusk that light- eneth. And here the Nightingale hath Naught to say. And here the Rose hath lost her scented Breath ! So were the Blossoms blowing on the tree. And now the Dust about the Roots are We, And seldom comes now a kindly Soul To drench the thirsty Lips of Thee and Me ! 89 Here is an end of Spoil of the North Wind being certain fugitive verse gathered together and made into a book by Edward Martin Moore. The cover, title-page and initials were designed for this book by Frank B. Rae, Jr. Printed and published by Lang- worthy & Stevens at the Blue Sky Press, which is Upstairs at Woodlawn Avenue and Fifty-fifth street in Chicago. MCMI. IHl? 89 ^ms- '.w ]?00r| J^N 22 190} * J^ ^C^^'"-'^^^/ 0^ "^ **'^ Pffj^'f^'* "Sing the Bookkeeper proce! ' \r ^^ *°^' A? '^ *• NM^ing agent: Magnesium Oxide V" ^^^}^* <^ . /