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JĀMĪ

(1414-1492)

BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON

HE Persian poet Jāmī was the last classic minstrel of Iran, and a master in the historical, lyrical, and mystic literature. He lived during the fifteenth century, and his writings are fired by the last sparks from the torch of Firdausī, Sa'dī, and Hāfiz; so that his name has become one of the shining lights in the Persian temple of poetic fame. Jāmī's native place was Jām, a small town in the neighborhood of Herat in Khorassan. Hence he is called Jām-i; although he plays upon this appellation as meaning also a "cup," and as significant of his pouring out the spiritual wine of the love of God, the wine of which the mystic Sufis so often speak: for Jāmī, like his predecessors, had quaffed draughts from the flagon of the mystic poetry of Sufīism.

The minstrel's full name is given as Nūr-uddin 'Abd-urrahmān Jāmī; his birth-year was 1414; and his education from early youth was at the hands of eminent teachers. We know of his marriage, and we are told of his endeavor, through his didactic prose storybook 'Bahāristān,' to give instruction to an only surviving son, born late in life. A religious pilgrimage undertaken by Jāmī to Mecca. is also recorded. His poetic fame was so wide-spread that princes unasked were ready to offer him favors: but Jāmī at heart was devoted to Dervish teaching and to Sufi philosophy, which won for him a sort of saintly reputation; and when in 1492 he passed away, advanced in years, he was mourned by the people of Herat and by the highest dignitaries of State.

According to some accounts Jami was the author of nearly a hundred works; it is not an exaggeration to attribute to him at least forty. Fine manuscripts of his writings are not uncommon, and one exquisite codex has been preserved which was prepared for the Emperor of Hindustan, a century after Jami's death. This superb specimen of Oriental calligraphy and illumination is said to have cost thousands of dollars. Seven of the best of Jami's writings have been gathered into a collection entitled 'Haft Aurang,' 'The Seven Stars of the Great Bear,' or 'The Seven Thrones' as it is sometimes called. One of these seven is the pathetic story of 'Lailā and Majnun'; another is the allegorical moral poem 'Salāman and Absāl,'

an English adaptation of which is to be found in the works of Edward Fitzgerald; the third of the seven stars is the romantic tale of Yusuf and Zulikhā,' or Joseph and Potiphar's wife. This latter theme had been previously treated by Firdausī among other poets; but it still remains one of Jami's masterpieces. The story is not the simple incident of the Bible, but is elaborately developed from the Koran. The beautiful Zulikha's dream in her youth of an ideal spouse is thrice repeated. Her disappointment in the marriage with Potiphar is bitter and keen, and is intensified by her discovering that the fair youth Joseph who was purchased in the slave market is the embodiment of that glorious apparition she had beheld in the vision. The poem is then developed on very romantic lines, so as to bring out each of the characters in clearest colors; but after the vicissitudes of years, the poem ends happily when the fair Zulīkhā, now widowed, is united to Joseph as the ideal of manly beauty and purity, and she becomes a worshiper of the true God. Jāmi's prose work the 'Bahāristān,' or 'Abode of Spring,' comprises a series of pithy short stories, entertaining brief tales, or Oriental wisdom, and is modeled on Sa'di's 'Gulistan.'

Considerable material is accessible to English readers who may be interested in Jāmi: for example, S. Robinson, 'Persian Poetry' (Glasgow, 1883), from which the selections appended are taken; also L. S. Costello, 'Rose Garden of Persia' (London, 1887); Edward Fitzgerald, 'Salaman and Absal, Translated' (American edition, Boston, 1887); again, 'The Bahāristān Literally Translated' (published by the Kama Shastra Society, Benares, 1887). See also Sir Gore Ouseley, 'Biographical Notices of Persian Poets' (London, 1846); and for bibliographical lists of translations into German and French, consult H. Ethé in Geiger's 'Grundriss der Iranischen Philologie,' ii. 305, 307.

[The following selections are from Jami's 'Joseph and Zulaikha.']

A

LOVE

HEART which is void of the pains of love is not heart;

A body without heart woes is nothing but clay and water.

Turn thy face away from the world to the pangs of love;

For the world of love is a world of sweetness.

Let there not be in the world an unloving heart!

Let not the pangs of love be less in the bosom of any one!
Heaven itself is confused with longings after love;

[ness.

Earth is filled with the tumult at the clamors of its passion.
Become the captive of love, in order to become free;
Lay its sorrows to thy heart, that thou mayest know its glad-
The wine of love will inebriate and warm thee,

Will free from thee coldness and devotion to self.

In the memories of love the lover renews his freshness;
In his devotion to it he creates for himself a lofty fame.
If Mejnun had never drunk the wine from this cup,
Who would have spread his name throughout the worlds?
Thousands of the wise and learned have passed away,
Passed away-forgotten, because strangers to love;
No name, no trace remains of their existence,
No history of them is left on the records of Time.
Many are the birds of beautiful forms

Which the people closes its lip and refuses to speak of;
When those who have all hearts tell stories of love,
The stories they tell are of the Moth and the Nightingale.
In the world thou mayest be skilled in a hundred arts,-
Love is the only one which will free thee from thyself.
Turn not thy face from love: even if it be shallow,

It is thy apprenticeship for learning the true one;

If thou dost not first learn thine A B C on thy slate,

How wilt thou ever be able to read a lesson from the Koran?

I heard of a scholar who besought a teacher

To assist him in treading the path of his doctrine;

The teacher replied: "Thou hast never yet stirred a foot in the way of love;

Go become a lover, and then appear before me;
For till thou hast tasted the symbolical wine-cup,
Thou wilt never drain the real one to the lees."
No! thou must not stay lingering over the image,
But quickly transport thyself over this bridge:

If thou desirest ever to reach the inn,

Thou must not remain standing at the bridge ahead.

[tery,

Praise be to God! that so long as I have dwelt in this monas

I have been a nimble traveler in the road of love!

When the midwife first divided the navel-string,

She divided it with the knife of love;

When my mother first put my lips to her breast,
She gave me to suck the blood-tinged milk of love;
Although my hair is now white as milk,

The savor of love still dwells in my mind.

In youth or in age there is nothing like love;
The enchantment of love breathes upon me forever.
"Jāmi," it says, "thou hast grown old in love:

Rouse thy spirit, and in love die!

Compose a tale on the pleasures of love,

[existence!

That thou mayest leave to the world some memorial of thy Draw thou a picture with thy delicate pencil,

Which, when thou quittest thy place, may remain in thy stead."

Translation of S. Robinson.

BEAUTY

IN THAT Solitude in which Being is without a mark,

IN

The universe still lay hidden in the treasure-house of non

existence;

Whilst its substance had not yet taken the form of duality,
And was far from speech and talk, from "We" and "Ye,”-
Beauty was free from the shackles of form,

And by its own light alone was it visible to itself;

It was a lovely bride behind the veil of her nuptial chamber, Her vesture unsullied by a suspicion of a speck.

There was no mirror to reflect back its countenance,

Nor had ever comb passed a hand through its ringlets;

No breeze had ever ruffled a lock of its tresses;

Its eye had never been touched by a grain of surma dust;
No nightingale had yet nestled under the shade of his rose;
No rose had put yet on her adornment of verdure;

Its cheek was not yet embellished by mole or down,
And no eye had yet beheld it even in imagination;
Its voice of endearment was with itself alone,
And with itself was played its game of affection.

But wherever the power of Beauty exists,
Beauty is angered to be hidden by a veil.

A lovely face will not endure concealment:

Bar but the door, it will escape by the window!

Behold the tulip on the mountain-top,

How smilingly it comes forth in the vernal season;

It shoots out of the earth thro' every cleft of the rock,
And forces itself into notice by its own loveliness.
When a feeling of Beauty once falls upon the sight,
And strangely threads itself on the tie of sensation,
It can never again pass away from the fancy;
It insists henceforth on being heard or spoken of.
Wherever is the Beautiful, this is its law,
Imposed by the action of the Eternal Beauty;
XIV-508

Coming from the realms of the Holy, here it pitched its station, And revealed itself in every quarter and to every spirit.

In every mirror is reflected its face,

In every place is heard its conversation and language;
And all the holy who are seeking the Holy,
Exclaim in ecstasy, "O thou Holy One!"

And from all the divers in this celestial ocean
Rises the shout, "Glory to the Lord of Angels!"

From its brightness a beam fell upon the Rose,

[ingale;

And from the Rose came its melody into the soul of the NightFrom its fire the Taper kindled up its cheek,

And forthwith a hundred Moths were burnt in every chamber;

From its light a spark set on fire the sun,

And straightway the Nile-lily raised its head from the water.

By its countenance Laila arrayed her own,

And Mejnun's passion was inflamed by every hair;

The mouth of Shirin opened its sugared lip,

And stole the heart of Parviz and the soul of Ferhad;
The Moon of Canaan raised its head from its breast,
And bore away reason from the brain of Zulaikha.
Yes! Beauty unveils its countenance in the private chamber,
Even when hid behind the veil from earthly lovers;

Of every veil which thou seest it is the veil-holder,

'Tis its decree which carries every heart into bondage;

In its love only has the heart its life;

In its love only has the soul its felicity.

The heart of every one who is enamored with the lovely
Is inspired by its love, whether he knows it or not.
Beware that thou fall into no error as to Beauty:
Love we must, when it shows forth its charms;
For as each thing is fair, so it is worthy of love:
It is the stem whence comes the object;
Thou art the mirror, it brings thee the image;
Thou art hid by a veil, it shows itself openly;

When thou lookest on Beauty, it is the mirror also,

For it is not only the treasure, but the treasure-house too.

We have in this matter no right to intermeddle - thou and I;

Our opinions about it are but vain fancies!

Be silent!- for this is a tale which has no ending;

Its language is one which has no interpreter.
Better for us that our business be love,

For without its converse we are nothing- nothing!

Translation of S. Robinson.