I do not love thee !-yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me : And often in my solitude I sigh

'That those I do love are not more like thee!

5

I do not love thee !-yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone 11 Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee !-yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, 15 Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.

CAROLINE E. S. NORTON.

319

RUBÁIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM OF
NAISHÁPUR

1

20

Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

2

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,

Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.'

3

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted-' Open then the Door!

You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more.'

6

10

4

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,

Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the ground suspires. 16

5

Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,

And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows ;

But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water blows.

6

20

And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High-piping Péĥleví, with Wine! Wine Wine!
Red Wine!'-the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring 25 The Winter Garment of Repentance fling :

The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

8

30

And look-a thousand Blossoms with the Day
Woke and a thousand scatter'd into Clay :
And this first Summer Month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.

9

But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot :

Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hátim Tai cry Supper-heed them not.

10

With me along some Strip of Herbage strown,
That just divides the desert from the sown,

35

Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known,

And pity Sultán Máhmúd on his Throne.

40

11

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse-and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness-
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

12

How sweet is mortal Sovranty! '—think some : Others' How blest the Paradise to come!

!'

44

Ah, take the Cash in hand and waive the Rest; Oh, the brave Music of a distant Drum !

6

13

Look to the Rose that blows about us- .' Lo,
Laughing,' she says, 'into the World I blow :
'At once the silken Tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.'

14

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes-or it prospers; and anon,

Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two-is gone.

15

And those who husbanded the Golden Grain, And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,

Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

16

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai

Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day, How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp Abode his Hour or two, and went his way.

17

51

55

60

65

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep :
And Bahrám, that great Hunter-the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, and he lies fast asleep.

18

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;

That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely Head.

19

And this delightful Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River's Lip on which we lean-

Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

20

Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears—
To-morrow ?—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.

21

Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best
That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to Rest.

22

And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom,

70

75

81

85

Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth Descend, ourselves to make a Couch-for whom?

23

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;

90

Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End !

24

Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those that after a TO-MORROW stare,

.

A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries, 95

Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!'

25

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust

98

Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scatter'd and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

26

Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the Wise To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies;

One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies ; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

27

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.

28

With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow :
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd—
'I came like Water, and like Wind I go."

29

Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
Nor whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing:

And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not whither, willy-nilly blowing.

30

What, without asking, hither hurried whence?
And, without asking, whither hurried hence!
Another and another Cup to drown
The Memory of this Impertinence !

31

105

110

115

120

Up from Earth's Centre, through the Seventh Gate I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,

And many Knots unravel'd by the Road ; But not the Knot of Human Death and Fate.