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A Grammarian's Funeral

2761

Image the whole, then execute the parts→

Fancy the fabric

Quite, efe you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,
Ere mortar dab brick!

(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place Gaping before us.)

Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace

(Hearten our chorus!)

That before living he'd learn how to live

No end to learning:

Earn the means first-God surely will contrive

Use for our earning.

Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes:

Live now or never!"

He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!

Man has Forever."

Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head:

Calculus racked him:

Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:

Tussis attacked him.

"Now, master, take a little rest!"—not he!

(Caution redoubled,

Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)
Not a whit troubled,

Back to his studies, fresher than at first,

Fierce as a dragon

He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)

Sucked at the flagon.

Oh, if we draw a circle premature,

Heedless of far gain,

Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure

Bad is our bargain!

Was it not great? did not he throw on God,

(He loves the burthen)—

God's task to make the heavenly period

Perfect the earthen?

Did not he magnify the mind, show clear

Just what it all meant?

He would not discount life as fools do here,

Paid by instalment.

He ventured neck or nothing-heaven's success
Found, or earth's failure:

"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes!
Hence with life's pale lure!"

That low man seeks a little thing to do,

Sees it and does it:

This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.

That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred's soon hit:

This high man, aiming at a million,

Misses an unit.

That, has the world here—should he need the next,
Let the world mind him!

This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed
Seeking shall find him.

So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,
Ground he at grammar;

Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife:

While he could stammer

He settled Hoti's business-let it be!

Properly based Oun—

Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,

Dead from the waist down.

Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place:

Hail to your purlieus,

All ye highfliers of the feathered race,

Swallows and curlews!

Here's the top-peak; the multitude below

Live, for they can, there:

This man decided not to Live but Know

Bury this man there?

Here-here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,

Lightnings are loosened,

Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,

Peace let the dew send!

Lofty designs must close in like effects:

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Leave him-still loftier than the world suspects,

Loftily lying,

Living and dying.

Robert Browning [1812-1880]

Rubaiyát of Omar Khayyam 2763

E RUBÁIYAT OF OMAR KHÁYYẨM

For the Sun who scattered into flight

before him from the Field of Night,

Night along with them from Heaven, and strikes n's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

e phantom of False morning died, nt a Voice within the Tavern cried, all the Temple is prepared within, s the drowsy Worshiper outside?"

ne Cock crew, those who stood before ern shouted-"Open then the Door! now how little while we have to stay, e departed, may return no more."

New Year reviving old Desires, ghtful Soul to Solitude retires,

the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough and Jesus from the ground suspires.

eed is gone with all his Rose,

shyd's Seven-ringed Cup where no one knows;

Fill a Ruby kindles in the Vine,

y a Garden by the Water blows.

id's lips are locked; but in divine bing Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Wine!"-the Nightingale cries to the Rose low cheek of hers t' incarnadine.

Il the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
inter-garment of Repentance fling:
ird of Time has but a little way
er-and the Bird is on the Wing.

rat Naishápúr or Babylon,
r the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
Vine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
aves of Life keep falling one by one.

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Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?

And this first Summer month that brings the Rose Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobád away.

Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú?
Let Zál and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hátim call to Supper-heed not you.

With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,

Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot—
And peace to Mahmud on his gölden Throne!

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!

Some for the Glories of this World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

Look to the blowing Rose about us-"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."

And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turned
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes-ot it prospets; and anion,

Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face;
Lighting a little hour or two-was gone.

Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám 2765

in this battered caravanserai

Portals are alternate Night and Day,
Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
his destined Hour, and went his way.

ay the Lion and the Lizard keep

purts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep;
Bahrám, that great Hunter the Wild Ass
s o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

times think that never blows so red
ose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
t every Hyacinth the Garden wears
ed in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

his reviving Herb whose tender Green
es the River-Lip on which we lean.........
lean upon it lightly! for who knows
what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

ny Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
AY of past Regret and future Fears:
-MORROW!Why, To-morrow I may be
elf with Yesterday's Seven thousand Years.

Some we loved, the loveliest and the best
from his Vintage rolling Time hath pressed,
ave drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
one by one crept silently to rest.

we that now make merry in the Room y left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, urselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth cend ourselves to make a Couch-for whom?

make the most of what we yet may spend, ore we too into the Dust descend;

Just into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

s Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!)

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