Spoil of the north wind

A collection of verses to Omar Khayyam. Edition of six hundred and twenty-five copies by Blue Sky Press. Rare Books copy is no. 291. Drawing from the great number of Chicago artists and writers of the time, three ambitious young men - Fred Langworthy, Thomas Stevens, and Alden Nobel - all students at the new Armour Institute, produced almost fifty books and a monthly magazine, under the name of The Blue Sky Press between 1899 and 1907. The publications, part of the international renaissance of bookmaking led by William Morris, represent a successful press producing handmade limited editions and a significant chapter in the history of American fine press in the early twentieth century.

W (NDIA The ea ta’ TTS Of this book there have been six hundred and twenty-five copies printed : twenty-five on Imperial Japan vellum; one hundred on Shandon paper for illumination ; and five hundred on Shandon paper, not illumined. This being number 2 9 J a? Copyright, 1900, by Langworthy é9 Stevens Herein is set forth certain verse inspired by the TentMaker whose tongue was of @— gold, and him who found and re-cast that forgotten ‘(ee Lees) 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 fact. Mr. Mosher lists in his latest bibliography XX XV items in American reprints alone and one of these items covers twenty-six editions. So if you have written anything that might be 3 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 “Fave done my credit in this World much wrong : “Have drown’d my Glory ina shallow Cup, “And sold my Reputation for a song. “Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before “T 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. THE GRAVE OF OMAR KHAYYAM NAMED Nizam, child of Samarcand, “/ The holy place whose towers acs WY mE ; 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, 7 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 er 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 on with mighty thoughts, or on some girl, Star-eyed and cypress-slender, tulip-cheeked 8 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, ve 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 9 s50W INDIA And found no flaw, all perfec. 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.” 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, 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 And Then And And When truth is thrust before them . praised ! And every wind that whispered through the Can sometimes pay so little heed to truth God be the musk-scented preface of my youth. to myself I said, “Nizam, rise seek the tomb of Omar.” So I sought, after seeking found, and, lo! it lay Beyond a garden full of roses, full As the third heaven is full of happy eyes; trees Il 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, F LL b 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 Iram on an English stock. “INSCRIPTION” se Aa 2.) E.1GN here, triumphant rose from Omar’s grave, Borne by a fakir o’er the Persian wave ; Grant Allen Reign with fresh pride, since here a heart is sleeping | ) Uhat double glory to your Master g 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 OMAR’S ROSE eae : aim, 2}/ N KOM Naishapur to England, from the tomb Where Omar slumbers to the Narrow Room That shrines FitzGerald’s ashes, Persia sends J Perfume and Pigment of her Rose to bloom. Wedded with Rose of E.ngland, 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 k rom Omar’s mouth and made them audible To the unnumbered sitters at Life’s Feast Who wear their hearts out over Heav en and Hell. Vex not today with wonder which were best The Student, Scholar, Singer of the West _ Or Singer, Scholar, Student of the Fist lhe Soul of Omar burned in Engl and’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 ;” i 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. HEAR US, YE WINDS My tomb shall be ona spot where the North Wind may strow roses upon it. Omar Khayyam. to Kwajah Nizami. Jute Mel. ei PEAR us, ye winds ! ee 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 ‘To meadows blows ancestral Rose where a braver North Wind O’er greener grass, o’er hedge-rose, may, and broom, And all that make perfume East England’s Dearer than any fragrance field- Persia knows :— 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. Theodore Watts | Verse read at meetings Khayyam of the Omar Club of London. OMAR KHAYYAM 3 a a ZoNU } re a’\\ % = fm y, } (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. ee | on 9 | >, / 3) 1) MAES iY 4 in % a ig.) ie ™. Vv, /_—4| : ° ELL, of And all of us, sometimes, must dine ; And Omar Khayyam wrote of Roses, And all of us, no doubt, have noses ; 5 And Omar Khayyam We are but guests unto the tavern brought, Yet is our love so rich that roses white We can heap honors on his head. Many a health to thee, send roses red. And havea flower the paler for that thought ; Shall fall empurpled on thy tomb tonight. Stephen Phillips # Omar Khayyam wrote of Wine, wrote of Love, Which some of us are not above. Also he charms to this extent, We don’t know, always, what he meant. Thy more familiar comrades, who have sped OPT (1897) °° Lastly, the man’s so plainly dead Austin Dobson | OMAR’S BRIDGE FRIENDS AT BURFORD (1895) = NW, AAT <aitey/ 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 alr, 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 ! 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 ROS ROSARUM NE cup in joy before the banquet ends, 2 : i 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 zi (1897) 2 O know the love-song that might best avail, I made petition to the nightingale, Whose melody made anRD) ; swer: “Lo, the rose Hr Cy) 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, 1 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. 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? OMAR 7 Sir Frederick Pollock EX? Gay) REAT Omar, here tonight we drain a bowl Unto thy long-since transmigrated Soul, Ours all unworthy in thy place to sit, | Ours still to read in life’s enchanted scroll. 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.” KHAYYAM 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: *y Love, wine and verse, and just a bread — little 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 bower ! thee to this bright 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 Che sacred wine is spilt for you and me, I'o 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 7 y ~4 i>. Ye “{D™ i po . . 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 Tm 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 TO OMAR KHAYYAM (Letters to Dead Authors) heard on earth Bo more. A ieee Tennyson \ eas 2 ie D i 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. 33 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 agen 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 ! Te) eet cas So still were we, before the Months That rounded us and shaped us into So still we shall be, surely, at the Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or began Man. last, of Ban ! Ah, strange it seems that this thy common thought— How all things have been, aye, and shall be s nought— Was ancient Wisdom ineek: thine ancient East, In those old Days when fought, Senlac fight was 34 Which gave our England for a captive Land To pious Chiefs ofa 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 tel] r— Or chanting for some girl that pleased thee well, Or satst at wine in Naishapur, when The twilight veiled the field where fell ! dun Harold 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! a5 And dear to him, as Roses were to thee, Rings long the Roar of Onset of the Sea! The Swan’s Path of his Fathers ; in his Nay, we can never be as wise as thou, O idle singer ’neath the blossomed bough ! grave , His sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be. We cannot shirk the questions “Where ?” and “How?” Fis 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 Ah, not from learned Peace and gay Content The Saint who blessed ! banned thee or the Saint who Ages of Progress! years These eight hundred Hath Europe shuddered with her hopes or fears, ma And now !—She listens in the wilderness l'o thee, and half believeth what she hears ! Hadst thou THE sEcRET? tell ? Ah, and who may “An hour we have,” thou saidst : waste it well!” Ay. An hour we have and yet Eternity Looms o’er us, and the thought of Heav en or Hell! 36 Nay, and we cannot be content to die; Shall we of England go the way he went— The Singer of the Red Wine and the Rose— Nay, otherwise than Ais our Day is spent! Serene he dwelt in fragrant Naishapur, But we must wander while the Stars No He knew THE SECRET: that knows, Man so sure as Omar endure, we have none once was sure ! Andrew Lang A GLOSE UPON THE TWELFTH RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM Dedicated to Y. N. by P. G. the sixteenth night of ‘fune. “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 !” F'T have the footsteps of my iT meetune 9M %% i soul been led By thee, sweet OMAR, far from hum of Toil Towhere the Chenar trees their plumage spread And tangly wild grapevines 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. 62 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 SHIRAZ and wine That lifts the Net of Care from off the Brow. These Words, that tongue the Spirit of the Vine, key Speak from the Veil, and lo! the voice 1s ; 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, ss Clime, Thy song can waft me to that carele , Strife of ies Memor nor in enter Where Gulf of Nor Ghosts of Woe from out the 7 Time. would I There, by thy side, great OMAR, stray, the Press. And drink the juice that has forgot ,— (A Pot, the Potter shaped but yesterday Tomorrow will it be but broken clay to?) bless, With only Thee, the toilsome Road ! 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 ofa Life more blessed. Then from thy NAISHAPUR in KHORASSAN, I seem to wander, though I 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 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, {> vis Garnett Than all of the world beside, I would rather one day with you, sweet, On the brink of a summer tide, With a song we could sing to- gether, DUNN ANIA | And acrystal of ruddy Than a century’s summer weather And another love than thine. wine I would rather be crowned with you, sweet, Than to king with the fairest queen. I would rather be poor with you, sweet, "Neath 65 the shadowy beeches green, 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 OVER THE ROSE-LEAVES, UNDER THE ROSE (The Chap-Book) “(ne thing is certain and the rest is lies ; “The flower that has once blown forever dies.’ ) SS, / ms WES f, (@N MN m a AY . ~<a Ss) BA ee CS )| 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 not ie say Beneath (Copyright 1895, by H. S. Stone & Co.) 2 Suppose we ; had met this Provence Suppose we had not loved at all ! Suppose, dear heart, suppose ? Suppose beside some There bloomed a As this one crimsons Within the garden common road common rose, all the air 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, You would not? Suppose IN OMAR a AA ej Al yp Lp Hy Well, suppose ! Ny 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 your sense ree aeTy 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, | wy) Or make it bloom again ? Fohn Bennett (Copyright 1898, by H. S. Stone & Co.) > 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 Spectral Thron vs 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. V y 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. 7O Out of its petals he has The inspiration Omar Who from the stars his A Persian Rose that The caught knew, wisdom brought, drank the dew. Fakir now in dust lies low With Omar of the Orient; FitzGerald,— shall we call him? Twas Omar in the Occident! No: Frank Dempster Sherman OMAR RE-SUNG McCarthy, 4173 McCarthy, 367 “8 << Tranquility, O friend, 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 laughter; There is no sense in pain, Here nor in hereafter. McCarthy, 227 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 72 hence a loving kiss. 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, 370 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, 1 lvrics at our feet? Sneeeeae Charles G. Blanden A REMINISCENCE OF KHAYYAM. sometimes wonder the rose OMAR when IN NAISHAPUR. Sy) I see Rest on Her bosom, where my head has lain, Whether, when She is dust, that rose’s seed Will find its nursery bloom again. there and I sometimes wonder if the jessamine, 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 he not fail to make my heaven more air. George Somes Layard : 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, <C> 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 In Naishapur. throw Robert Loveman THE RUBAIYAT. {MAR _ Khayyam, you’re a jolly old Aryan, Half sybaritic, and semi- barbarian, Not a bit mystic, but utilitarian, es a hs Fond of a posy and fond of a dram. Symbolist, poet, and © clear--eyed philosopher. ee a wife I am sure you were boss er, of Yet you’d be ruled by the coquettish toss of her Garland crowned yam. For their vanity, head In your humanity, Else your urbanity, Were but a flam. And the severity Of your austerity at you, Omar Khay- Proves your sincerity, Omar Khayyam. Well I remember when alded, first you were her- Persian-born poesy, ably FitzGeralded; Impulse said buy you —and I to my peril did: Now a meek slave to your genius | 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 tranquility V7 Thoughts you produce, knowing futility, well their 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 Wells Here be words from those without the gates. TO OMAR Oe KHAYYAM a= YOATE from thy face the veil of darkness clears; Thy name now rings forever 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 And plough ; 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 trembling hand? Couldst thou unpricked a rosy wreath entwine? 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 rhyme Will know that themes rare. of are getting somewhat 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. 81 And so these win a name. Wise Omar, say, Old man, hadst thou a secret that would So well as this? West, The world is for the pay And Eastern secrets now have had their day. 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 OH! to gasp and fade; but my weary bones are heavy yet ! Wake! And bears a hod on high, builds the world. the sky son of kings that The red sun mounts 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 “Fat! from Cry a his trough sets up the Persian’s Drink! more !” 83 Tomorrow we shall be no Eat, drink and sleep! who can ! Aye, eat and sleep 1 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 rose? are mine of Hafiz’ wine-red And when I drag my leaden feet toward No home sensuous bulbul note woos to repose. [ 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 et (LV) : Ce AWA } Ee) i MEASURE But I: “For every thirsty soul that drains This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains — AKE! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept, And wailed the nightingale with “Jug, Jug, Jug! Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose wept. Enter with me where yonder yond door hangs Its Red Triangle to a world of Nhe out 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 Free-will the Caz, Necessity the Must: Pour off the Must, and, see, the Can remains. “Then, pot or glass, why label it ‘W2th 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!” Weare the Sum of things, who jot our score With Cesar’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 RECENT RUBAIYAT (By Omar’s Ghost.) 0 he 2= wine, And has the clay more license now than then? Life isa draught, good sir; its brevity Gives you and me our measures, and thereby Has docked your virtue toa tankard’s span, And left of my criterion — A Cri’! Q. There 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, comes eneth, no moon the Dusk that light- And here the Nightingale hath Naught say, And ed the Rose hath lost her scented Breath ! to 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 89 and Me! About the old Mahogany they sit, Our Friends, and dream themselves the Mouth of Wit. Doth one remember us and spill the Bowl For us beneath the Daisies? Out on it! Alas! A kind were We alive, and They were dead, Libation to their Dust I’d shed ; We are the white, that were the purple Their Rose, Burgundy Suppose might lend us of its red. I sent them up a Telegram, Much would they care for Omar, called Khayyam? Nay You, that might be more polite, you doze, As I were boring you — perchance I am? When once one gets the Hang of it, I think That rhyming is as easy as to drink. Alas! give Me the Cup, and spare the Pen; Alas! give me the Wine, and take the Ink! go Translating and translating me they go, Philologists and Women, even so, Fitzgerald, Thou alone of later Men, Who try the Trick, the Trick didst really know ! 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 Langworthy & Stevens at the Brur Sxy Press, which is Upstairs at Woodlawn Avenue and Fifty-fifth street in Chicago. MCMI.