C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Apologues Freely Translated from the ‘Mantik-ut-Tair,’ or ‘The Bird Parliament,’ of Faríd-uddín Attar

By Edward Fitzgerald (1809–1883)

[Mohammed Ibn Ibrahim Faríd u’d Dín (Faríd-uddín)—called “Attar,” the Druggist or Perfumer—was born at Kerken, a village of Khorassan near Naishapur, in the year 1216, and died at the age of one hundred and fifteen in the city of Shad’ach, where he lived for over eighty-five years. His industry was equal to his longevity: he was an indefatigable collector of biographical details, which he employed in his wonderful series of lives of the Moslem Saints—the Teskeret-al-Oulia (or ‘Ewha’). He wrote in prose many ascetical and mystical works. Aside from his rhymed couplets he composed over forty thousand distichs, including twelve thousand four-line strophes. His best-known work is the ‘Mantik-ut-Tair’ (Conversations of the Birds, or Bird-Parliament), an enormously long work which Edward Fitzgerald condensed into a few pages; particularly selecting the Apologues or little stories with obvious morals, such as are cited below.]

ONE day Shah Mahmúd, riding with the Wind

A-hunting, left his Retinue behind,

And coming to a River, whose swift Course

Doubled back Game and Dog, and Man and Horse,

Beheld upon the Shore a little Lad

A-fishing, very poor, and Tatter-clad

He was, and weeping as his Heart would break.

So the Great Sultan, for good-humour’s sake,

Pull’d in his Horse a moment, and drew nigh,

And after making his Salám, ask’d why

He wept—weeping, the Sultan said, so sore

As he had never seen one weep before.

The Boy look’d up, and “O Amír,” he said,

“Sev’n of us are at home, and Father dead,

And Mother left with scarce a Bit of Bread:

And now since Sunrise have I fish’d—and see!

Caught nothing for our Supper—Woe is Me!”

The Sultan lighted from his Horse. “Behold,”

Said he, “Good Fortune will not be controll’d:

And, since To-day yours seems to turn from you,

Suppose we try for once what mine will do,

And we will share alike in all I win.”

So the Shah took, and flung his Fortune in,

The Net; which, cast by the Great Mahmúd’s Hand,

A hundred glittering Fishes brought to Land.

The Lad look’d up in Wonder—Mahmúd smiled

And vaulted into Saddle. But the Child

Ran after—“Nay, Amír, but half the Haul

Is yours by Bargain”—“Nay, To-day take all,”

The Sultan cried, and shook his Bridle free—

“But mind—To-morrow All belongs to Me—”

And so rode off. Next morning at Divan

The Sultan’s Mind upon his Bargain ran,

And being somewhat in a mind for sport

Sent for the Lad: who, carried up to Court,

And marching into Royalty’s full Blaze

With such a Catch of Fish as yesterday’s,

The Sultan call’d and set him by his side,

And asking him, “What Luck?” The Boy replied,

“This is the Luck that follows every Cast,

Since o’er my Net the Sultan’s Shadow pass’d.”

A FELLOW all his life lived hoarding Gold,

And, dying, hoarded left it. And behold,

One Night his Son saw peering through the House

A Man, with yet the semblance of a Mouse,

Watching a crevice in the Wall—and cried—

“My Father?”—“Yes,” the Musulman replied,

“Thy Father!”—“But why watching thus?”—“For fear

Lest any smell my Treasure buried here.”—

“But wherefore, Sir, so metamousified?”—

“Because, my Son, such is the true outside

Of the inner Soul by which I lived and died.”

A CERTAIN Shah there was in Days foregone

Who had a lovely Slave he doated on,

And cherish’d as the Apple of his Eye,

Clad gloriously, fed sumptuously, set high,

And never was at Ease were He not by,

Who yet, for all this Sunshine, Day by Day

Was seen to wither like a Flower away.

Which, when observing, one without the Veil

Of Favour ask’d the Favourite—“Why so pale

And sad?” Thus sadly answer’d the poor Thing—

“No Sun that rises sets until the King,

Whose Archery is famous among Men,

Aims at an Apple on my Head; and when

The stricken Apple splits, and those who stand

Around cry ‘Lo! the Shah’s unerring Hand!’

Then He too laughing asks me ‘Why so pale

And sorrow-some? as could the Sultan fail,

Who such a master of the Bow confest,

And aiming by the Head that he loves best.’”

A SHAH returning to his Capital,

His subjects drest it forth in Festival,

Thronging with Acclamation Square and Street,

And kneeling flung before his Horse’s feet

Jewel and Gold. All which with scarce an Eye

The Sultan superciliously rode by:

Till coming to the public Prison, They

Who dwelt within those grisly Walls, by way

Of Welcome, having neither Pearl nor Gold,

Over the wall chopt Head and Carcase roll’d,

Some almost parcht to Mummy with the Sun,

Some wet with Execution that day done.

At which grim Compliment at last the Shah

Drew Bridle: and amid a wild Hurrah

Of savage Recognition, smiling threw

Silver and Gold among the wretched Crew,

And so rode forward. Whereat of his Train

One wondering that, while others sued in vain

With costly gifts, which carelessly he passed,

But smiled at ghastly Welcome like the last;

The Shah made answer—“All that Pearl and Gold

Of ostentatious Welcome only told:

A little with great Clamour from the Store

Of Hypocrites who kept at home much more.

But when those sever’d Heads and Trunks I saw—

Save by strict Execution of my Law

They had not parted company; not one

But told my Will not talk’d about, but done.”

JUST as another Holy Spirit fled,

The Skies above him burst into a Bed

Of Angels looking down and singing clear,

“Nightingale! Nightingale! thy Rose is here!”

And yet, the Door wide open to that Bliss,

As some hot Lover slights a scanty Kiss,

The Saint cried “All I sigh’d for come to this?

I who life-long have struggled, Lord, to be

Not of thy Angels one, but one with Thee!”

Others were sure that all he said was true:

They were extremely wicked, that they knew:

And much they long’d to go at once—but some,

They said, so unexpectedly had come

Leaving their Nests half-built—in bad Repair—

With Children in—Themselves about to pair—

“Might he not choose a better Season—nay,

Better perhaps a Year or Two’s Delay,

Till all was settled, and themselves more stout

And strong to carry their Repentance out—

And then”—

“And then, the same or like Excuse,

With harden’d Heart and Resolution loose

With dallying: and old Age itself engaged

Still to shirk that which shirking we have aged;

And so with Self-delusion, till, too late,

Death upon all Repentance shuts the Gate;

Or some fierce blow compels the Way to choose,

And forced Repentance half its Virtue lose.”

As of an aged Indian King they tell

Who, when his Empire with his Army fell

Under young Mahmúd’s Sword of Wrath, was sent

At sunset to the Conqueror in his Tent;

But, ere the old King’s silver head could reach

The Ground, was lifted up—with kindly Speech,

And with so holy Mercy re-assured,

That, after due Persuasion, he abjured

His Idols, sate upon Mahmúd’s Divan,

And took the Name and Faith of Musulman.

But when the Night fell, in his Tent alone

The poor old King was heard to weep and groan

And smite his Bosom; which when Mahmúd knew,

He went to him and said “Lo, if Thou rue

Thy lost Dominion, Thou shalt wear the Ring

Of thrice as large a Realm.” But the dark King

Still wept, and Ashes on his Forehead threw,

And cried, “Not for my Kingdom lost I rue;

But thinking how at the Last Day, will stand

The Prophet with The Volume in his Hand,

And ask of me ‘How was’t that, in thy Day

Of Glory, Thou didst turn from Me and slay

My People; but soon as thy Infidel

Before my True Believers’ Army fell

Like Corn before the Reaper—thou didst own

His Sword who scoutedst Me?’ Of seed so sown

What profitable Harvest should be grown?”

“BEHOLD, dropt through the Gate of Mortal Birth,

The Knightly Soul alights from Heav’n on Earth;

Begins his Race, but scarce the Saddle feels,

When a foul Imp up from the distance steals,

And, double as he will, about his Heels

Closer and ever closer circling creeps,

Then, half-invited, on the Saddle leaps,

Clings round the Rider, and, once there, in vain

The strongest strives to thrust him off again.

In Childhood just peeps up the Blade of Ill,

That youth to Lust rears, Fury, and Self-will:

And, as Man cools to sensual Desire,

Ambition catches with as fierce a Fire;

Until Old Age sends him with one last Lust

Of Gold, to keep it where he found—in Dust.

Life at both Ends so feeble and constrain’d,

How should that Imp of Sin be slain or chain’d?…

“For should the Greyhound whom a Sultan fed,

And by a jewell’d String a-hunting led,

Turn by the Way to gnaw some nasty Thing

And snarl at Him who twitch’d the silken String,

Would not his Lord soon weary of Dispute,

And turn adrift the incorrigible Brute?

“Nay, would one follow, and without a Chain,

The only Master truly worth the Pain,

One must beware lest, growing over-fond

Of even Life’s more consecrated Bond,

We clog our Footsteps to the World beyond.”

ONE day the Prophet on a River Bank,

Dipping his Lips into the Channel, drank

A Draught as sweet as Honey. Then there came

One who an earthen Pitcher from the same

Drew up, and drank: and after some short stay

Under the Shadow, rose and went his Way,

Leaving his earthen Bowl. In which, anew

Thirsting, the Prophet from the River drew,

And drank from: but the Water that came up

Sweet from the Stream, drank bitter from the Cup.

At which the Prophet in a still Surprise

For Answer turning up to Heav’n his Eyes,

The Vessel’s Earthen Lips with Answer ran—

“The Clay that I am made of once was Man,

Who dying, and resolved into the same

Obliterated Earth from which he came

Was for the Potter dug, and chased in turn

Through long Vicissitude of Bowl and Urn:

But howsoever moulded, still the Pain

Of that first mortal Anguish would retain,

And cast, and re-cast, for a Thousand years

Would turn the sweetest Water into Tears.”

ONE night Shah Mahmúd, who had been of late

Somewhat distempered with Affairs of State,

Stroll’d through the Streets disguised, as wont to do—

And coming to the Baths, there on the Flue

Saw the poor Fellow who the Furnace fed

Sitting beside his Water-jug and Bread.

Mahmúd stept in—sat down—unask’d took up

And tasted of the untasted Loaf and Cup,

Saying within himself, “Grudge but a bit,

And, by the Lord, your Head shall pay for it!”

So having rested, warm’d and satisfied

Himself without a Word on either side,

At last the wayward Sultan rose to go.

And then at last his Host broke silence—“So?—

Art satisfied? Well, Brother, any Day

Or Night, remember, when you come this Way

And want a bit of Provender—why, you

Are welcome, and if not—why, welcome too.”—

The Sultan was so tickled with the whim

Of this quaint Entertainment and of him

Who offer’d it, that many a Night again

Stoker and Shah forgather’d in that vein—

Till, the poor Fellow having stood the Test

Of true Good-fellowship, Mahmúd confess’d

One Night the Sultan that had been his Guest:

And in requital of the scanty Dole

The Poor Man offer’d with so large a soul,

Bid him ask any Largess that he would—

A Throne—if he would have it, so he should.

The Poor Man kiss’d the Dust, and “All,” said he,

“I ask is what and where I am to be;

If but the Shah from time to time will come

As now, and see me in the lowly Home

His presence makes a Palace, and my own

Poor Flue more royal than another’s Throne.”

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