XI. The Lion’s Hunt, in Company.
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Jalal al-Din Rumi, Maulana and Redhouse, James W. (James William), Sir
His smallest daily toil,—a work like pleasure still,—
Is to send forth three armies, bound to work His will.
One, from the loins of spheres the elements to stir;
So that all plants may vegetate, from moss to fir.
One, from the wombs of mothers to earth’s surface prone,
That male and female may increase, not lie like stone.
The third hence wends its way to sepulchre’s dread bourn,
There to receive, at length, reward; and joy, or mourn.65
Leave we this theme;—’tis endless,—never would have done.
Let’s see, now, how the friends enjoyed themselves alone.
Our host invites his guest to enter, free from scorn:
“Thou’rt welcome, self of mine! We’re not like rose and thorn.
Our thread is single,—free from knots and tangle; done,
As ‘Be,’ though duplex as to form, in sense is one.”
That “Be” ’s a rope, of power collective, to the end
That nullity may be united to a friend.
Thus duplex means are wanted, for appearances;
Though, in effect, one means there be of all that is.70
The biped, as the quadruped, goes but one road.
The one-edged knife, the two-edged shears, make one inroad.
Observe yon pair of bleachers at their daily toil.
Apparently, they differ, combat, as they moil.
The one’s for ever wetting cloths in their stream’s tide,
The other dries them just as fast in hot noontide.
The first, again to soak the scarce-dried cloths makes haste;
As though in opposition to his partner’s waste.
But, in reality, the two have but one aim:
Co-operation’s what they jointly, both proclaim.75
Each prophet, every saint, has his especial rite;
But, as all tend to God, they’re one, multipartite.
Sleep overcomes alike the followers of all creeds;
As water makes all mills to turn and grind, at needs.
The water flows from upwards, down upon the mill;
Its flowing through the trough is but man’s wants to fill.
No sooner has man’s need been fully satisfied,
He turns the water off;—straight in its bed it’s tied.
To teach men wisdom, stream of speech flows through the mouth;
But spirit hath another course, far less uncouth.80
Without a voice or repetition it rolls on,
As through elysium, streams;—flowers springing aye, anon.