Targum

Excerpt

From the Hebrew.

Reign’d the Universe’s Master ere were earthly things begun;When His mandate all created, Ruler was the name He won,And alone He’ll rule tremendous when all things are past and gone;He no equal has nor consort, He the singular and loneHas no end and no beginning, His the sceptre, might, and throne;He’s my God and living Saviour, rock to which in need I run;He’s my banner and my refuge, fount of weal when call’d upon;In His hand I place my spirit at night-fall and rise of sun,And therewith my body also; God’s my God—I fear no one.

From the Arabic.

O Thou who dost know what the heart fain would hide;Who ever art ready whate’er may betide;In whom the distressed can hope in their woe;Whose ears with the groans of the wretched are plied—Still bid Thy good gifts from Thy treasury flow;All good is assembled where Thou dost abide;To Thee, save my poverty, nought can I show,And of Thee all my poverty’s wants are supplied;What choice have I save to Thy portal to go?If ’tis shut, to what other my steps can I guide?’Fore whom as a suppliant low shall I bow,If Thy bounty to me, Thy poor slave, is denied?But oh: though rebellious full often I growThy bounty and kindness are not the less wide.

From the Arabic.

Grim Death in his shroud swatheth mortals each hour,Yet little we reck of what’s hanging us o’er;O would on the world that ye laid not such stress,That its baubles ye lov’d not, so gaudy and poor;O where are the friends we were wont to caress,And where are the lov’d ones who dwelt on our floor?They have drank of the goblet of death’s bitterness,And have gone to the deep, to return never more;Their mansions bewail them in tears and distress;Yet has paradise lovelier mansions in store;Of the worth of the plume the dove strips from its dressWere their views, save in memory heaven they bore.

From the Arabic.

In the fount fell my tears, like rain,And straight defil’d became its flood;How should it undefil’d remain,All purpled o’er with human blood?

How wretched roams the weary wight,Who rage of keen pursuers fears;The whole earth’s surface in his sightA hunter’s treacherous net appears.

From the Persian.

Boy, hand my friends the cup, ’tis time of roses now;Midst roses let us break each penitential vow;With shout and antic bound we’ll in the garden stray;When nightingales are heard, we’ll rove where roses blow;Here in this open spot fill, fill, and quaff away;Midst roses here we stand a troop with hearts that glow;The rose our long-miss’d friend retains in full array;No fairer pearls than friends and cups the roses know;Poor Hafiz loves the rose, and down his soul would lay,With joy, to win the dust its guardian’s foot below.

If shedding lovers’ blood thou deem’st a matter slight,No goodness I can plead to scare thee and affright,O Thou, in whose black locks night’s Genius stands confest,Whose maiden cheek displays the morning’s Master bright....