The nineteenth century, however, was much more productive. Numerous (and very varied) versions of Ḥāfiẓ appeared in both English and German. The English translators approached the poetry of Ḥāfiẓ from many different angles and in terms of many different conceptions of his work. Many translations were made in India and served primarily as cribs for the use of students of Persian in the Indian Civil Service. The first complete translation of The Dīvān... (1891) of Ḥāfiẓ, by Lieut. Col. H. Clarke, treats Ḥāfiẓ as a Sufi mystic, but unfortunately the language is particularly graceless. The literal translation is heavily interpolated with notes, which makes his text hard to read and incapable of giving any hint of the quality of Ḥāfiẓ’s lyricism. A number of translators chose to present Ḥāfiẓ in prose. The most notable of these was E.B. Cowell,2 who argued that to translate Ḥāfiẓ in verse would be to impose formal concepts on his work which were alien to Persian poetical forms, an idea forcefully repeated by Peter Avery and John Heath-Stubbs3 in the following century. Amongst the nineteenth-century translators who preferred to employ (in the words of Jones) ‘modulated but unaffected prose’,4 seeking to unite readability and euphony, Samuel Robinson and Justin Huntly McCarthy5 deserve mention. The majority of translators, however, preferred to use English poetical forms to present Ḥāfiẓ to the English reader. Unfortunately, they often tried to judge and understand Ḥāfiẓ according to their own classical training and ideas. As a result, they found disunity in Ḥāfiẓ’s poetry and felt obliged to improve the original by taking excessive liberties in their treatment of Ḥāfiẓ’s imagery and language. Such are the translations made by Herman Bicknell and Alexander Rogers,6 but the most vociferous voice in this respect is that of Richard Le Gallienne. Since he did not know any Persian himself, Le Gallienne relied on the translations by Clarke and Payne. He confidently explained that ‘the difficulty of inconsequence I have endeavoured to overcome, partly by choosing those poems that were least inconsequent, partly supplying links of my own, and partly by selecting and developing the most important motives which one frequently finds in the same ode’.7 Le Gallienne’s versions are in stanzaic form in imitation of Jones’ ‘A Persian Song’, where each bayt (verse-unit) is translated into a six-line stanza. Jones drastically changed the imagery of the original, thus not only trivializing but also muddying the clarity of Ḥāfiẓ’s language. Most translators who have chosen to present Ḥāfiẓ in English verse forms have unfortunately chosen this path, with the exception of Gertrude Lowthian Margaret Bell, whose Poems from the Divan of Hafiz (London 1897) still remains the best both in accuracy and eloquence.
Another group of translators, such as A.J. Arberry and Colonel Frank Montague Randall,8 have chosen successfully to use the quatrain form, which gives an idea of the Persian bayt. Rundall imitates the mono-rhyme of the original. Among the free verse translations, that of Peter Avery and John Heath-Stubbs’ Hafiz of Shiraz (London 1952) is probably the best. Earlier versions in free verse fail to give any notion of Ḥāfiẓ’s greatness. The versions by Walter Leaf, John Payne and Paul Smith, on the other hand, imitate the strict metre and rhyme scheme of the original. Such translations have (very reasonably) been described as ‘literary acrobatics’ by Massud Farzaad.9 Only Walter Leaf can be said to have just managed to escape falling and breaking his neck.10
Notable among the English versions of Ḥāfiẓ are the very good ‘imitations’ or ‘creative translations’ made by such outstanding poets as Elisabeth Bridges and Basil Bunting, who succeed in communicating much more of the spirit of Ḥāfiẓ than the more literal translations generally do.11 The twentieth century has seen a reemergence of interest in the Persian Sufi tradition, and as part of this tradition Ḥāfiẓ’s poetry has undergone a revival in English translation, particularly in America. The results, unfortunately, have not always been satisfactory. Such poets as Thomas Crow, Michael Boylan and Daniel Landinsky,12 who have heavily relied on earlier translations, have produced versions which are more reminiscent of twentieth-century American spiritual idioms than the ecstatic language of the great fourteenth-century Persian poet. Landinsky stands at the extreme of this spectrum. The excessive liberties taken with the language and imagery are such that it is often hard to recognize (or imagine) any Persian original in Ḥāfiẓ. There are, however, exceptions amongst these translators; the translations of Elisabeth Gray Jr, for example, a Persianist who worked with Robert Lowell at Harvard, contain accurate versions in simple, readable language which give some sense of Ḥāfiẓ’s mystical sensibility, if not his poetic achievement.13 And, more recently, the collaboration between a Sufi scholar, Leonard Lewisohn, and an American poet, Robert Bly, has given us 30 of the more esoteric poems of Ḥāfiẓ in contemporary American poetic idiom, with a particularly informative chapter as well as notes on the complicated Sufi symbols and traditions employed in Persian poetry, and particularly in the poetry of Ḥāfiẓ.14
Whether to interpret Ḥāfiẓ’s poems as profane love lyrics, or as the expressions of mystical longing for the Divine Beloved, has been a perennial question underlying the interpretation and translation of Ḥāfiẓ. Some modern critics, such as Bashiri,15 interpret Ḥāfiẓ as a poet heavily imbedded in Sufi philosophy; others such as Rehder16 (like Gertrude Bell) think Ḥāfiẓ is only a secular love poet. To register the multi-facetedness of Ḥāfiẓ has proved beyond the scope of almost all translators of Ḥāfiẓ, so that most versions are seriously flawed. With a few exceptions, the English translations of Ḥāfiẓ have rarely managed to convey any of the vigour of his language or convincingly re-inscribe the true merits of a great poet.17
Translations, however poor, have always played an important role in revitalizing and renewing the literature and poetry of other nations and languages. The Romantic period, both in Europe and America, saw a literary revolution in which Orientalism played a significant role, but ‘it is important to recognize that interest in the oriental did not necessarily conflict with admiration for western classical literature. Most often, it went along with that; which ... reveals something of the complexity of taste in the Romantic period.’18 When von Hammer-Purgstall published his translation of Ḥāfiẓ in German,19 it immediately attracted the attention of Goethe, who recognized an affinity in the mysticism of Ḥāfiẓ. As a result, he composed his West-östlicher Divan (1819), based on Ḥāfiẓ’s poetical works. The German translations of von Hammer-Purgstall and Goethe’s book were, in their turn, very influential across the Atlantic on such Transcendentalist poets as Emerson, as well as on later English poets such as Alfred Lord Tennyson, the Poet Laureate. Ḥāfiẓ’s poetry was received and understood in many different ways. Sir William Jones initially introduced him as a profane love poet and compared him to Anacreon. In fact, Jones’ ‘Persian Song’ became so well known that Byron, writing in 1811 to Charles Dallas, alludes to it casually to emphasize and clarify his point:
My dear sir – As Gifford has been ever my ‘Magnus Apollo’, any approbation such as you mention, would, of course, be more welcome than ‘all Bokhara’s vaunted gold, than all the Gems of Samarkand’.20
Byron also wrote a parody of Jones’ ‘A Persian Song’, which I have discussed elsewhere.21 Here, however, with particular reference to the subject of the present book, I shall concentrate on the sublime rather than the exotic.
Sir William Jones’ writings were read by many of the Romantics; both Byron and Shelley possessed his complete Works. Jones, in his numerous essays on Persian literature, repeatedly refers to the poems of Ḥāfiẓ for illustration. Jones opens his essay On The Mystical Poetry of The Persians And Hindus with the statement:
A FIGURATIVE mode of expressing the fervour of devotion, or the ardent love of created spirits towards their beneficent Creator, has prevailed from time immemorial in Asia; particularly among the Persian theists, both ancient ... and modern Súfis, ... and their doctrines are also believed to be the source of that sublime, but poetical, theology, which glows and sparkles in the writings of old
Academicks.22
A page later, Jones quotes two passages from two renowned Western scholars: one from Isaac Barrow (1630–77), the mathematician, Greek and classical scholar at Cambridge and a significant theologian; the other from M. Jacques Necker (1732–1804), Swiss financier and educationalist whose works were greatly admired during the French Revolution. Referring to Barrow, Jones writes that he
describes Love as ‘an affection or inclination of the soul toward an object, proceeding from an apprehension and esteem of some excellence or convenience in it, as its beauty, worth, or utility, and producing, if it be absent, a proportionable desire, and consequently an endeavour, to obtain such an approximation to it, or union with it, ...’.23
Jones further explains that Barrow’s description
was designed to comprise the tender love of the Creator towards created spirits. The great philosopher bursts forth in another place ... The following panegyric on the pious love of human souls toward the Author of their happiness: ‘Love is the sweetest and most delectable of all passions; and, when by the conduct of wisdom it is directed in a rational way toward a worthy, congruous, and attainable object, it cannot otherwise than fill the heart with ravishing delight: such, in all respects superlatively such, is God ... our souls, from its original instinct, vergeth toward him as its centre, and can have no rest, till it be fixed on him: he alone can satisfy the vast capacity of our minds, and fill our boundless desires.’24
Jones further explains that ‘this passage ... differs only from the mystical theology of the Súfis and Yógis, as the flowers and fruits of Europe differ in scent and flavour from those of Asia, or as European differs from Asiatick eloquence: the same strain, in poetical measure, would rise up to the odes of SPENCER on Divine Love and Beauty, and in a higher key with richer embellishments, to songs of HAFIZ and JAYADÉVA, the raptures of Masnavì, and the mysteries of Bhágavat.’ To emphasize the affinity between the Eastern and Western ideals of mysticism Jones further quotes a long passage from Necker. For the sake of brevity, only a short extract is given. Writing about ‘men’, Necker, as quoted by Jones, writes of how they may consider ‘themselves as an emanation from that infinite Being, the source and cause of all things ... who pervades all nature with his divine spirit, as a universal soul’. Necker further illustrates that
when we presume to seek his motive in bestowing existence: benevolence is that virtue, or, to speak more emphatically, that primordial beauty, which preceded all times and all worlds ... It may even be imagined, that love, the brightest ornament of our nature, love, enchanting and sublime, is mysterious pledge for assurance of those hopes; since love, by disengaging us from ourselves, by transporting us beyond the limits of our own being, is the first step in our progress to a joyful immortality.25
Jones then compares these two passages with some of the main doctrines of Eastern mysticism:
If these two passages are translated into Sanscrit and Persian, I am confident, that the Védántis and Súfis would consider them as an epitome of their common system; for they concur in believing, that the souls of men differ infinitely in degree, but not at all in kind, from the divine spirit ... that the spirit of God pervades the universe ... that he alone is perfect benevolence, perfect truth, perfect beauty; that the love of him alone is real and genuine love ... that from eternity without beginning to eternity without end, the supreme benevolence is bestowing happiness or the means of attaining it; that men can only attain it by performing their part of primal covenant between them and the Creator; that nothing has pure absolute existence but mind or spirit ... that we ... must attach ourselves exclusively to God, who truly exists in us, as we in him; that we retain even in this forlorn state of separation from our beloved, the idea of heavenly beauty, and the remembrance of our primeval vows; that the sweet musick, gentle breezes, fragrant flowers, perpetually renew the primary idea, refresh our fading memory ... From these principles flow a thousand metaphors and poetical figures, which abound in the sacred poems of the Persians...26
Jones’ elaboration on the central ideas of Sufism is particularly significant when he writes about the Qur’ānic Primordial Covenant between God and created man. Jones then introduces Ḥāfiẓ as a mystical poet and writes: ‘[a]fter his juvenile passions had subsided, we may suppose that his mind took that religious bent, which appears in most of his compositions; for there can be no doubt that the following distichs, collected from different odes, relate to the mystical theology of the Sufis.’27 In the following pages, Jones translates 22 couplets from Ḥāfiẓ.
A number of the Romantic poets read very extensively and eagerly in the literature of the East; apart from Jones’ translations, they had access to other early translations, either in books devoted to Ḥāfiẓ or (as was the case with Jones) scattered amongst essays and travel books.28 Lord Byron is the only poet of this period who had first-hand experience of the Sufis in his travels in the Levant.29 He is perhaps the only Romantic poet to make extensive use of these ‘thousand metaphors and poetical figures’. A couple of examples will have to suffice here. The most prominent Ḥāfiẓian allusions employed by Byron are those of that inimitable pair of allegorical lovers: the rose (gul) and the nightingale (bulbul). In The Bride of Abydos, Byron actually uses the Persian name for ‘rose’:
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of Zehyr, oppress’d with perfume,
Wax faint o’er the garden of Gul in her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale is never mute.30
There are other relevant lines in The Bride of Abydos, and the Ḥāfiẓian garden of love, rose and nightingale and breeze are invoked in many other of Byron’s poems, such as Don Juan and The Giaour.31 This last poem also includes a passage which is indicative of Byron’s understanding of the mysticism that is present in Ḥāfiẓ’s poetry:
Her eye’s dark charm ’twere vain to tell,
But gaze on that Gazelle,
It will assist thy fancy well;
As large, as languishingly dark,
But Soul beam’d forth in every spark
That darted from beneath the lid,
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid ...
On her might Muftis gaze, and own
That through her eye the immortal shone;
On her fair cheek’s unfading hue
The young pomegranate’s blossoms strew
Their bloom in blushes ever new;
Her hair in hyacinthine flow,
When left to roll its folds below.32
Byron could have easily found sources for these passages in Jones’ translations. We might, for example, compare the following passages in Jones:
Zéphyr, dis tenrement a ce chvreuil delicat,
c’est toi qui nous fais desirer les collines et les deserts. [...]
Est-ce l’arrogance de ta beauté, O rose, qui ne
te permet pas de demander des nouvelles du rossignol amoureux? [...]
Les belle qualites de l’ame sont les pièges d’un vin
coeur instruit: on ne prend pa un oiseau prudent avec des filets et des lacs.
and again:
J’aime une beauté, comme la rose, est sous
l’ombrage d’un couvert d’hyacinthes; ses joues sont
aussi claires qu’un ruisseau; ses lèvres de rubis
respirent la plus douce haleine.
Quand elle etend sur ces joues le piège de ses beaux cheveux, elle dit au
zephyr: Garde notre secret.
Ses joues sont unies & agréables. O ciel!
Donne-lui une vie éternelle, car ses charmes sont éternelles!33
In Byron’s poem we have the comparison of the Beloved’s eyes to a gazelle’s dark eyes. In Persian mystical poetry the gazelle is ‘shy and fugitive’; it ‘escapes every attempt at capture and yet can easily catch the heart of ... t
he lover’.34 Jām-i Jam (Byron’s ‘jewel of Giamschid’) is commonly known in Persian mystical poetry as ‘a symbol of esoteric knowledge ... and it came to represent the glass of enlightenment’.35 Byron’s employment of Ḥāfiẓ’s allegorical imagery is numerous and varied – all part of his extensive knowledge of Oriental literature. Shelley, on the other hand, was a Platonist like his American counterpart Emerson.
We know that Shelley read Jones’ Works. He ordered them when he was residing in Italy.36 Almost all Shelley critics acknowledge his debt to Sir William Jones.37 John Holloway has suggested that there was Persian influence on the early poems such as ‘The Indian Serenade’ and ‘From the Arabic’.38 Sataya S. Pachori argues that ‘The Indian Serenade’ is an imitation of one of Ḥāfiẓ’s poems which Shelley was familiar with, and that in the poem ‘Shelley ... may have borrowed the idea of the mystical unity in lovers from Ḥāfiẓ and Jones. In order to achieve the divine unity, the Shelleyan serenader has to renounce his phenomenal self and retain the noumenal one.’39 Shelley, like many other Romantic poets, was a Platonist. He translated Plato’s Symposium (and several other dialogues), and was also influenced by the German neo-Platonists and transcendentalists. In his short essay On Love, Shelley writes:
Hafiz and the Religion of Love in Classical Persian Poetry Page 48