VII. The Merchant and the Parrot.
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Jalal al-Din Rumi, Maulana and Redhouse, James W. (James William), Sir
It cried: “Hither, John; refuge come take with me.
Thy life I will save from foe’s sharp sword. Come; see.”
“Adieu, master dear; I’m now off to my home.
May’st thou, too, be free, when the judgment shall come.
Good-bye, my kind master; compassion thou’st shown.
From tyranny’s chains, now, through thee, have I flown.”
He gave to our merchant some words of advice.
Then flew away, shouting: “Good-bye! Very nice!”
The merchant a “Safe journey” augured to him.
Then thought: “Useful lesson I’ve learned, and trim.305
His doings may serve as a pattern for me.
I’ll imitate him. Better teacher can’t be.
My soul is not, sure, inferior to his.
See how souls should act, to gain heavenly bliss.”
The body’s a cage and a thorn to the soul.
Hence, seldom are body and soul wholly whole.
The body says: “I’ll follow where thou mayest lead.”
The soul answers: “Nay! Thy desire’s all I heed.”
The body then argues: “There’s none like to thee,
Thou’rt perfect, kind, beautiful, good as needs be.”310
The soul now demurs: “This and next worlds are thine.
All hearts to the feast hasten, where thou’rt to shine.”
The body then says: “’Tis a time for delight.”
And soul responds quick: “Season, sure, to bedight.”
When body sees crowds, throngs, profess love for it,
Control of self loses, in teeth takes the bit,
It does not reflect how the thousands and more,
Itself like, has sin brought to ruin’s grim shore.
The bait of gross flattery is always found sweet.
Therewith be not caught. Lurid fire’s ’neath its greet.315
Its sweetness is present; its flame’s not forecast;
Its smoke of destruction will burst forth at last.
Say not: “I’ll ne’er listen to flatterer’s tale;
They’re sordid, its motives;—like ‘sprat to catch whale.’”
A lampoon should thy panegyrist indite
Against thee in public, thy rest’s disturbed quite.
Thou knowest it was spoken in sheer angry spleen,
When he in some wish unsuccessful had been.
The barb of it rankles, still, in thy heart’s core,
The price paid for flattery, ’tis, makes thee feel sore.320