Whither went the lovely hoyden? Disappeared in blessed wife; Servant to a wooden cradle, Living in a baby's life. Still thou playest; - short vacation Fate grants each to stand aside; Now must thou be man and artist, 'Tis the turning of the tide. PAINTING AND SCULPTURE. THE sinful painter drapes his goddess warm, Because she still is naked, being dressed: The godlike sculptor will not so deform Beauty, which limbs and flesh enough invest. FROM THE PERSIAN OF HAFIZ. The poems of Hafiz are held by the Persians to be allegoric and mystical. His German editor, Von Hammer, remarks on the following poem, that, though in appearance anacreontic, it may be regarded as one of the best of those compositions which earned for Hafiz the honorable title of "Tongue of the Secret." BUTLER, fetch the ruby wine Which with sudden greatness fills us; Pour for me, who in my spirit Fail in courage and performance. Bring this philosophic stone, All the doors of luck and life. Bring to me the liquid fire Zoroaster sought in dust: To Hafiz, revelling, 'tis allowed To pray to Matter and to Fire. Bring the wine of Jamschid's glass, Which glowed, ere time was, in the Néant; I, as Jamschid, see through worlds. 'The world's not worth a barleycorn :' Lees of wine outvalue crowns. Bring me, boy, the veiled beauty, Bring her forth; my honest name Bring me, boy, the fire-water; Drinks the lion, the woods burn; Give it me, that I storm heaven, And tear the net from the archwolf. Wine wherewith the Houris teach Souls the ways of paradise! On the living coals I'll set it, And therewith my brain perfume. Bring me wine, through whose effulgence Jam and Chosroes yielded light; Wine, that to the flute I sing Where is Jam, and where is Kauss. Bring the blessing of old times,— Bring me wine which spendeth lordship, Give me wine to wash me clean Of the weather-stains of cares, See the countenance of luck. Whilst I dwell in spirit-gardens, Lo, this mirror shows me all! Drunk, I speak of purity, Beggar, I of lordship speak; When Hafiz in his revel sings, Shouteth Sohra in her sphere. Fear the changes of a day: |