Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series
Page 131
The cloud was rifted by a purer gleam
Than glances from the sun of our Islâm.
And thou rememberest what a fury shook
Those pillars of a moulder’d faith, when he,
That other, prophet of their fall, proclaimed
His Master as “the Sun of Righteousness,”
Yea, Alla here on earth, who caught and held
His people by the bridle-rein of Truth.
What art thou saying? “And was not Alla call’d
In old Irân the Sun of Love? and Love
The net of truth?”
A voice from old Irân!
Nay, but I know it — his, the hoary Sheik,
On whom the women shrieking “Atheist” flung
Filth from the roof, the mystic melodist
Who all but lost himself in Alla, him
Abû Saîd —
— a sun but dimly seen
Here, till the mortal morning mists of earth
Fade in the noon of heaven, when creed and race
Shall bear false witness, each of each, no more,
But find their limits by that larger light,
And overstep them, moving easily
Thro’ after-ages in the love of Truth,
The truth of Love.
The sun, the sun! they rail
At me the Zoroastrian. Let the Sun,
Who heats our earth to yield us grain and fruit,
And laughs upon thy field as well as mine,
And warms the blood of Shiah and Sunnee,
Symbol the Eternal! Yea and may not kings
Express Him also by their warmth of love
For all they rule — by equal law for all?
By deeds a light to men?
But no such light
Glanced from our Presence on the face of one,
Who breaking in upon us yestermorn,
With all the Hells a-glare in either eye,
Yell’d “hast thou brought us down a new Korân
From heaven? art thou the Prophet? canst thou work
Miracles?” and the wild horse, anger, plunged
To fling me, and fail’d. Miracles! no, not I
Nor he, nor any. I can but lift the torch
Of Reason in the dusky cave of Life,
And gaze on this great miracle, the World,
Adoring That who made, and makes, and is,
And is not, what I gaze on — all else Form,
Ritual, varying with the tribes of men.
Ay but, my friend, thou knowest I hold that forms
Are needful: only let the hand that rules,
With politic care, with utter gentleness,
Mould them for all his people.
And what are forms?
Fair garments, plain or rich, and fitting close
Or flying looselier, warm’d but by the heart
Within them, moved but by the living limb,
And cast aside, when old, for newer, — Forms!
The Spiritual in Nature’s market-place —
The silent Alphabet-of-heaven-in-man
Made vocal — banners blazoning a Power
That is not seen and rules from far away —
A silken cord let down from Paradise,
When fine Philosophies would fail, to draw
The crowd from wallowing in the mire of earth,
And all the more, when these behold their Lord,
Who shaped the forms, obey them, and himself
Here on this bank in some way live the life
Beyond the bridge, and serve that Infinite
Within us, as without, that All-in-all,
And over all, the never-changing One
And ever-changing Many, in praise of Whom
The Christian bell, the cry from off the mosque,
And vaguer voices of Polytheism
Make but one music, harmonising, “Pray.”
There westward — under yon slow-falling star,
The Christians own a Spiritual Head;
And following thy true counsel, by thine aid,
Myself am such in our Islam, for no
Mirage of glory, but for power to fuse
My myriads into union under one;
To hunt the tiger of oppression out
From office; and to spread the Divine Faith
Like calming oil on all their stormy creeds,
And fill the hollows between wave and wave;
To nurse my children on the milk of Truth,
And alchemise old hates into the gold
Of Love, and make it current; and beat back
The menacing poison of intolerant priests,
Those cobras ever setting up their hoods —
One Alla! one Kalifa!
Still — at times
A doubt, a fear, — and yester afternoon
I dream’d, — thou knowest how deep a well of love
My heart is for my son, Saleem, mine heir, —
And yet so wild and wayward that my dream —
He glares askance at thee as one of those
Who mix the wines of heresy in the cup
Of counsel — so — I pray thee —
Well, I dream’d
That stone by stone I rear’d a sacred fane,
A temple, neither Pagod, Mosque, nor Church,
But loftier, simpler, always open-door’d
To every breath from heaven, and Truth and Peace
And Love and Justice came and dwelt therein;
But while we stood rejoicing, I and thou,
I heard a mocking laugh “the new Korân!”
And on the sudden, and with a cry “Saleem”
Thou, thou — I saw thee fall before me, and then
Me too the black-wing’d Azrael overcame,
But Death had ears and eyes; I watch’d my son,
And those that follow’d, loosen, stone from stone,
All my fair work; and from the ruin arose
The shriek and curse of trampled millions, even
As in the time before; but while I groan’d,
From out the sunset pour’d an alien race,
Who fitted stone to stone again, and Truth,
Peace, Love and Justice came and dwelt therein,
Nor in the field without were seen or heard
Fires of Súttee, nor wail of baby-wife,
Or Indian widow; and in sleep I said
“All praise to Alla by whatever hands
My mission be accomplish’d!” but we hear
Music: our palace is awake,and morn
Has lifted the dark eyelash of the Night
From off the rosy cheek of waking Day.
Our hymn to the sun. They sing it. Let us go.’
HYMN
I.
Once again thou flamest heavenward, once again we see thee rise.
Every morning is thy birthday gladdening human hearts and eyes.
Every morning here we greet it, bowing lowly down before thee,
Thee the God1ike, thee the changeless in thine ever-changing skies.
II.
Shadow-maker, shadow-slayer, arrowing light from clime to clime,
Hear thy myriad laureates hail thee monarch in their woodland rhyme.
Warble bird, and open flower, and, men below the dome of azure
Kneel adoring Him the Timeless in the flame that measures Time!
Notes to Akbar’s Dream
THE GREAT Mogul Emperor Akbar was born October 14, 1542, and died 1605. At 13 he succeeded his father Humayun; at 18 he himself assumed the sole charge of government. He subdued and ruled over fifteen large provinces; his empire included all India north of the Vindhya Mountains — in the south of India he was not so successful. His tolerance of religions and his abhorrence of religious persecution put our Tudors to shame. He invented a new eclectic religion by which he hoped to unite all creeds, castes and peoples: and his legislation was remarkable for vigour, justice and humanity.
‘Thy glory baffles
wisdom.’ The Emperor quotes from a hymn to the Deity by Faizi, brother of Abul Fazl, Akbar’s chief friend and minister, who wrote the Ain i Akbari (Annals of Akbar). His influence on his age was immense. It may be that he and his brother Faizi led Akbar’s mind away from Islam and the Prophet — this charge is brought against him by every Muhammadan writer; but Abul Fazl also led his sovereign to a true appreciation of his duties, and from the moment that he entered Court, the problem of successfully ruling over mixed races, which Islam in few other countries had to solve, was carefully considered, and the policy of toleration was the result (Blochmann xxix.)
Abul Fazl thus gives an account of himself. ‘The advice of my Father with difficulty kept me back from acts of folly; my mind had no rest and my heart felt itself drawn to the sages of Mongolia or to the hermits on Lebanon. I longed for interviews with the Llamas of Tibet or with the padres of Portugal, and I would gladly sit with the priests of the Parsis and the learned of the Zendavesta. I was sick of the learned of my own land.’
He became the intimate friend and adviser of Akbar, and helped him in his tolerant system of government. Professor Blochmann writes ‘Impressed with a favourable idea of the value of his Hindu subjects, he (Akbar) had resolved when pensively sitting in the evenings on the solitary stone at Futehpur-Sikri to rule with an even hand all men in his dominions; but as the extreme views of the learned and the lawyers continually urged him to persecute instead of to heal, he instituted discussions, because, believing himself to be in error, he thought it his duty as ruler to inquire.’ ‘These discussions took place every Thursday night in the Ibadat-khana a building at Futehpur-Sikri, erected for the purpose’ (Malleson).
In these discussions Abul Fazl became a great power, and he induced the chief of the disputants to draw up a document defining the ‘divine Faith’ as it was called, and assigning to Akbar the rank of a Mujahid, or supreme khalifah, the vicegerent of the one true God.
Abul Fazl was finally murdered at the instigation of Akbar’s son Salim, who in his Memoirs declares that it was Abul Fazl who had perverted his father’s mind so that he denied the divine mission of Mahomet, and turned away his love from his son.
Faizi. When Akbar conquered the North-West Provinces of India, Faizi, then 20, began his life as a poet, and earned his living as a physician. He is reported to have been very generous and to have treated the poor for nothing. His fame reached Akbar’s ears who commanded him to come to the camp at Chitor. Akbar was delighted with his varied knowledge and scholarship and made the poet teacher to his sons. Faizi at 33 was appointed Chief Poet (1588). He collected a fine library of 4300 MSS. and died at the age of 40 (1595) when Akbar incorporated his collection of rare books in the Imperial Library.
The Warring World of Hindostan. Akbar’s rapid conquests and the good government of his fifteen provinces with their complete military, civil and political systems make him conspicuous among the great kings of history.
The Goan Padre. Abul Fazl relates that ‘one night the Ibadat-khana was heightened by the presence of Padre Rodolpho, who for intelligence and wisdom was unrivalled among Christian doctors. Several carping and bigoted men attacked him and this afforded an opportunity for the display of the calm judgment and justice of the assembly. These men brought forward the old received assertions, and did not attempt to arrive at truth by reasoning. Their statements were torn to pieces, and they were nearly put to shame, when they began to attack the contradictions of the Gospel, but they could not prove their assertions. With perfect calmness, and earnest conviction of the truth, he replied to their arguments.’
Abû Sa’îd. ‘Love is the net of Truth, Love is the noose of God’ is a quotation from the great Sufee poet Abû Sa’îd — born A.D. 968, died at the age of 83. He is a mystical poet, and some of his expressions have been compared to our George Herbert. Of Shaikh Abû Sa’îd it is recorded that he said, ‘when my affairs had reacht a certain pitch I buried under the dust my books and opened a shop on my own account (i.e. began to teach with authority), and verily men represented me as that which I was not, until it came to this, that they went to the Qadhi and testified against me of unbelieverhood; and women got upon the roofs and cast unclean things upon me.’ (Vide reprint from article in National Review, March, 1891, by C. J. Pickering.)
Aziz. I am not aware that there is any record of such intrusion upon the king’s privacy, but the expressions in the text occur in a letter sent by Akbar’s foster-brother Aziz, who refused to come to court when summoned and threw up his government, and ‘after writing an insolent and reproachful letter to Akbar in which he asked him if he had received a book from heaven, or if he could work miracles like Mahomet that he presumed to introduce a new religion, warned him that he was on the way to eternal perdition, and concluded with a prayer to God to bring him back into the path of salvation’ (Elphinstone).
‘The Koran, the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David are called books by way of excellence, and their followers “people of the Book”’ (Elphinstone).
Akbar according to Abdel Kadir had his son Murad instructed in the Gospel, and used to make him begin his lessons ‘In the name of Christ’ instead of in the usual way ‘In the name of God.’
To drive
A people from their ancient fold of Truth, etc.
Malleson says ‘This must have happened because Akbar states it, but of the forced conversions I have found no record. This must have taken place whilst he was still a minor, and whilst the chief authority was wielded by Bairam.’
‘I reap no revenue from the field of unbelief.’ The Hindus are fond of pilgrimages, and Akbar removed a remunerative tax raised by his predecessors on pilgrimages. He also abolished the jezza or capitation tax on those who differed from the Mahomedan faith. He discouraged all excessive prayers, fasts and pilgrimages.
Suttee. Akbar decreed that every widow who showed the least desire not to be burnt on her husband’s funeral pyre, should be let go free and unharmed.
Baby-wife. He forbade marriage before the age of puberty.
Indian widow. Akbar ordained that remarriage was lawful.
Music. ‘About a watch before daybreak,’ says Abul Fazl, the musicians played to the king in the palace. ‘His Majesty had such a knowledge of the science of music as trained musicians do not possess.’
‘The Divine Faith.’ The Divine Faith slowly passed away under the immediate successors of Akbar. An idea of what the Divine Faith was may be gathered from the inscription at the head of the poem. The document referred to, Abul Fazl says, ‘brought about excellent results: (1) the Court became a gathering place of the sages and learned of all creeds; the good doctrines of all religious systems were recognized, and their defects were not allowed to obscure their good features; (2) perfect toleration or peace with all was established; and (3) the perverse and evil-minded were covered with shame on seeing the disinterested motives of His Majesty, and these stood in the pillory of disgrace.’ Dated September 1579 — Ragab 987 (Blochmann xiv.)
The Bandit’s Death
To SIR WALTER SCOTT
O GREAT AND GALLANT SCOTT,
TRUE GENTLEMAN, HEART, BLOOD AND BONE,
I WOULD IT HAD BEEN MY LOT
TO HAVE SEEN THEE, AND HEARD THEE, AND KNOWN.
SIR, do you see this dagger? nay, why do you start aside?
I was not going to stab you, tho’ I am the Bandit’s bride.
You have set a price on his head: I may claim it without a lie.
What have I here in the cloth? I will show it you by-and-by.
Sir, I was once a wife. I had one brief summer of bliss.
But the Bandit had woo’d me in vain, and he stabb’d my Piero with this.
And he dragg’d me up there to his cave in the mountain, and there one day
He had left his dagger behind him. I found it. I hid it away.
For he reek’d with the blood of Piero; his kisses were red with his crime,
And I cried to the Saints to avenge me. They he
ard, they bided their time.
In a while I bore him a son, and he loved to dandle the child,
And that was a link between us; but I — to be reconciled? —
No, by the Mother of God, tho’ I think I hated him less,
And — well, if I sinn’d last night, I will find the Priest and confess.
Listen! we three were alone in the dell at the close of the clay.
I was lilting a song to the babe, and it laugh’d like a dawn in May.
Then on a sudden we saw your soldiers crossing the ridge,
And he caught my little one from me: we dipt down under the bridge
By the great dead pine — you know it — and heard as we crouch’d below,
The clatter of arms, and voices, and men passing to and fro.
Black was the night when we crept away — not a star in the sky —
Hush’d as the heart of the grave, till the little one utter’d a cry.
I whisper’d ‘give it to me,’ but he would not answer me — then
He gript it so hard by the throat that the boy never cried again.
We return’d to his cave — the link was broken — he sobb’d and he wept,
And cursed himself; then he yawn’d, for the wretch could sleep, and he slept
Ay, till dawn stole into the cave, and a ray red as blood
Glanced on the strangled face — I could make Sleep Death, if I would —
Glared on at the murder’d son, and the murderous father at rest, . . .
I drove the blade that had slain my husband thrice thro’ his breast.
He was loved at least by his dog: it was chain’d, but its horrible yell
‘She has kill’d him, has kill’d him, has kill’d him’ rang out all down thro’ the dell,
Till I felt I could end myself too with the dagger — so deafen’d and dazed —
Take it, and save me from it ! I fled. I was all but crazed
With the grief that gnaw’d at my heart, and the weight that dragg’d at my hand;
But thanks to the Blessed Saints that I came on none of his band;
And the band will be scatter’d now their gallant captain is dead,
For I with this dagger of his — do you doubt me? Here is his head !
The Church-Warden and the Curate
This is written in the dialect which was current in my youth at Spilsby and in the country about it.
I.
EH? good daäy! good daäy! thaw it beän’t not mooch of a daäy,