Targum by George Borrow
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TARGUM.
Or Metrical Translations From Thirty Languages And Dialects.
By George Borrow.
"The raven has ascended to the nest of the nightingale."
Persian Poem
The following pieces, selections from a huge and undigested mass of
translation, accumulated during several years devoted to philological
pursuits, are with much diffidence offered to the public, the writer being
fully aware that not unfrequently he has failed in giving his version that
cast and turn, which constitute no slight part of the beauty of the
original; a point the accomplishment of which the poetical Translator
ought, in all instances, to bear particularly in view, but which he will
invariably find the most difficult part of the task which he has
undertaken; in comparison with which the rendering of the diction of his
Author into tolerable verse is an easy achievement. Perhaps no person,
amongst the many individuals who have distinguished themselves by skill in
the targumannic art, has more successfully surmounted this difficulty than
Fairfax, the Translator into English "octave rhyme" of "The Jerusalem,"
the master-piece of the greatest poet of modern Italy and, with one
exception, of modern time.
That the character of a nation is best distinguishable by the general tone
of its poetry, has been frequently remarked, and is a truth which does not
admit of controversy; the soft songs of the Persian, and the bold and
warlike ditties of the Dane are emblems of the effeminacy of the one, and
the reckless heroism of the other.--In most instances the writer in the
selection of pieces for this little work has been guided by a desire of
exhibiting what is most characteristic of the people to whose literature
it belongs. At the same time, he has been careful that this desire should
not lead him to the countenancing of any thing which could be considered
as pregnant with injury to good taste and morals, and has in consequence
been compelled to exclude from his anthology many a glorious flower, which
he would gladly have woven therein, had he not been apprehensive that it
was the offspring of a poisonous bulb. He cannot refrain from lamenting
that in his literary researches he has too often found amongst the
writings of those, most illustrious for their genius and imagination, the
least of that which is calculated to meet the approbation of the
Christian, or even of the mere Moralist; and in conclusion he will take
the liberty of addressing to those who may feel within them the stirrings
of a mind capable of mighty things, the sublime words, slightly modified,
of an Arabian sage and poet: O man, though the years of thy worldly fame
are destined to be equal in number to the doves of the heaven, they shall
nevertheless have an end, but whatever thou shalt do or say, which is
founded on the love of wisdom and of God, shall endure for ever.
Saint Petersburg. June 1, 1835.
ODE TO GOD.
From the Hebrew.
Reign'd the Universe's Master ere were earthly things begun;
When His mandate all created, Ruler was the name He won,
And alone He'll rule tremendous when all things are past and gone;
He no equal has nor consort, He the singular and lone
Has no end and no beginning, His the sceptre, might, and throne;
He's my God and living Saviour, rock to which in need I run;
He's my banner and my refuge, fount of weal when call'd upon;
In His hand I place my spirit at night-fall and rise of sun,
And therewith my body also; God's my God--I fear no one.
PRAYER.
From the Arabic.
O Thou who dost know what the heart fain would hide;
Who ever art ready whate'er may betide;
In whom the distressed can hope in their woe;
Whose ears with the groans of the wretched are plied--
Still bid Thy good gifts from Thy treasury flow;
All good is assembled where Thou dost abide;
To Thee, save my poverty, nought can I show,
And of Thee all my poverty's wants are supplied;
What choice have I save to Thy portal to go?
If 'tis shut, to what other my steps can I guide?
'Fore whom as a suppliant low shall I bow,
If Thy bounty to me, Thy poor slave, is denied?
But oh: though rebellious full often I grow
Thy bounty and kindness are not the less wide.
DEATH.
From the Arabic.
Grim Death in his shroud swatheth mortals each hour,
Yet little we reck of what's hanging us o'er;
O would on the world that ye laid not such stress,
That its baubles ye lov'd not, so gaudy and poor;
O where are the friends we were wont to caress,
And where are the lov'd ones who dwelt on our floor?
They have drank of the goblet of death's bitterness,
And have gone to the deep, to return never more;
Their mansions bewail them in tears and distress;
Yet has paradise lovelier mansions in store;
Of the worth of the plume the dove strips from its dress
Were their views, save in memory heaven they bore.
STANZAS.
From the Arabic.
On a Fountain.
In the fount fell my tears, like rain,
And straight defil'd became its flood;
How should it undefil'd remain,
All purpled o'er with human blood?
The Pursued.
How wretched roams the weary wight,
Who rage of keen pursuers fears;
The whole earth's surface in his sight
A hunter's treacherous net appears.
ODES.
From the Persian.
1.
Boy, hand my friends the cup, 'tis time of roses now;
Midst roses let us break each penitential vow;
With shout and antic bound we'll in the garden stray;
When nightingales are heard, we'll rove where roses blow;
Here in this open spot fill, fill, and quaff away;
Midst roses here we stand a troop with hearts that glow;
The rose our long-miss'd friend retains in full array;
No fairer pearls than friends and cups the roses know;
Poor Hafiz loves the rose, and down his soul would lay,
With joy, to win the dust its guardian's foot below.
2.
If shedding lovers' blood thou deem'st a matter slight,
No goodness I can plead to scare thee and affright,
O Thou, in whose black locks night's Genius stands confest,
Whose maiden cheek displays the morning's Master bright.
My eyes to fountains turn, down pouring on my breast,
I sink amid their waves, to swim I have no might.
O ruby lip, by thee life's water is possest,
Thou couldst awake the dead to vigour and delight;
There's no salvation from the tresses which invest
Those temples, nor from eyes swift-flashing left and right.
Devotion, piety I plead not to arrest
My doom, no goodness crowns the passion-madden'd wight;
Thy prayer unmeaning cease, with which thou weariest,
O Hafiz, the most High at morning and at night.
3.
O Thou, whose equal mind knows no vexation,
Who holding love in deep abomination,
On love's divan to loiter wilt not deign,
Thy wit doth merit every commendation.
Love's visions never will disturb his brain,
Who drinketh of the vine the sweet oblation;
And know, thou passion-smit, pale visag'd swain,
There's medicine to work thy restoration;
Ever in memory the receipt retain--
'Tis quaffing wine-cups to intoxication.
STANZAS.
From the Turkish of Fezouli.
O Fezouli, the hour is near,
Which bids thee from this world depart,
And leave--what now thou hold'st so dear--
The loves of thy too ardent heart.
Yet till that fated hour arrive,
Be thy emprises, every one,
If thou wouldst fain behold them thrive,
In God's Almighty name begun.
DESCRIPTION OF PARADISE.
From the Turkish.
(Translated from the metrical History of the World.)
Eight Gennets {8} there be, as some relate,
Or one subdivided, as others state;
The first Dar al Galal, the next is Salem,
And Gennet Amawi stands next to them;
Then Kholud and Nayim and Gennet Ferdous--
And that last as most lovely is pictur'd to us;
A seventh there is, Dar al Karar the same,
And an eighth there is also, and Ad is its name.
God made Dar al Galal of white pearls fair,
Then of rubies Al Salem, so red in their glare;
He made Gennet Kholud so splendid to stand
Of bright yellow corals, so smooth to the hand;
Then blest Gennet Nayim of silver ore--
Behold ye its strength, and its Maker adore.
Gold bricks He employ'd when He built Ferdous,
And of living sapphires Al Karar rose.
He made the eighth Gennet of jewels all,
With arbours replete 'tis a diamond hall.
Broad and vast is paradise-peak--
The lowest foundation is not weak.
One over the other the stories are pil'd:
The loftiest story Ad is styl'd.
From above or below if you cast your eyes,
You can see the Gennets in order rise.
You ask, for whom are those mansions gay;
For the prophets of God, for his lov'd, I say.
Seven walls are plac'd, which to open are meant,
Far betwixt them is the extent;
Betwixt two walls the whole doth stand,
Walls uncrumbling, mighty and grand.
Within are bowers, cedar-woods dusk,
Houries and odours of amber and musk;
Eight are the gates for the eight estates,
Jewel-beset, gold-beaming gates;
Upon the first inscrib'd you see:
For those who repent this gate is free.
On the second: for those who up-offer pray'r;
On the third: for the sons of charity fair.
On the fourth this solemn inscription stands:
For those who fulfil the Lord's commands.
In painted letters the fifth doth say:
For those who for pilgrimage gold up-lay.
The sixth fair portal thus proclaims:
For ye who inhibit from sin your frames;
The seventh: for God's own warrior train,
Who bleed for his cause, nor flinch from pain.
'Tis written in white the eighth above:
For those who instruct for Allah's love {10}.
For ye who serve God with heart and eye,
Control your passions when swelling high,
Your parents cherish and all your race,
For ye are the halls of joy and grace;
For the prophets of God are they decreed,
Who His law in the sacred volumes read.
O LORD! I NOTHING CRAVE BUT THEE.
From the Tartar.
O thou, from whom all love doth flow,
Whom all the world doth reverence so,
Thou constitut'st each care I know;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
O keep me from each sinful way;
Thou breathedst life within my clay,
I'll therefore serve Thee, night and day;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
I ope my eyes and see Thy face,
On Thee my musings all I place,
I've left my parents, friends and race;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Take Thou my soul, my every thing,
My blood from out its vessels wring,
Thy slave am I, and Thou my King;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
I speak--my tongue on Thee doth roam;
I list--the winds Thy title boom;
For in my soul has God His home;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
The world the shallow worldling craves,
And greatness need ambitious knaves,
The lover of his maiden raves;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
The student needs his bookish lore,
The bigot shrines, to pray before,
His pulpit needs the orator;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
Though all the learning 'neath the skies,
And th' houries all of paradise,
The Lord should place before my eyes,
O Lord! I'd nothing crave but Thee.
When I through paradise shall stray,
Its houries and delights survey,
Full little gust awake will they,
O Lord! I'll nothing crave but Thee.
For Hadgee Ahmed is my name,
My heart with love of God doth flame,
Here and above I'll bide the same;
O Lord! I nothing crave but Thee.
MYSTICAL POEM.
Relating to the worship of the Great Foutsa or Buddh.
From the Tibetian.
Should I Foutsa's force and glory,
Earth's protector, all unfold,
Through more years would last my story
Than has Ganges sands of gold.
Him the fitting reverence showing
For a minute's period e'en,
Bringeth blessing overflowing
Unto heaven and man, I ween.
If from race of man descended,
Or from that of dragon-sprite,
When thy prior course {13} is ended,
Thou in evil paths shouldst light,--
If Great Foutsa ever, ever
Thou but seek with mind sincere,
Thou the mists of sin shalt sever,
All shall lie before thee clear.
Whosoe'er his parents losing
From his early infancy,
Cannot guess with all his musing,
Where their place of birth might be;
He who sister dear nor brother,
Since the sun upon him shone,
And of kindred all the other
Shoots and branches ne'er has known--
If of Foutsa Grand the figure
He shall shape and colour o'er,
Gaze upon it rapt and eager,
And with fitting rites adore,
And through twenty days shall utter
The dread name with reverend fear,
Foutsa huge of form shall flutter
Round about him and appear,
And to him the spot discover,
Birth-place of his flesh and bone {14};
And though evils whelm them over,
For his sake release them soon;
If that man unchang'd still keeping
From back-sliding shall refrain,
He, by Foutsa touch'd when sleeping,
Shall Biwangarit's title gain;
If to Bouddi's elevation,
He would win, and from the three
Confines dark of tribulation
Soar to light and liberty--
When a heart with kindness glowing
He within him shall descry,
To Grand Foutsa's image going,
Let him gaze attentively:
Soon his every wish acquiring
He shall triumph glad and fain,
And the shades of sin retiring
Never more his soul restrain.
Whosoever bent on speeding
To that distant shore, the home
Of the wise, shall take to reading
The all-wondrous Soudra tome;
If that study deep beginning,
No fit preparation made,
Scanty shall he find his winning,
Straight forgetting what he's read:
Whilst he in the dark subjection
Shall of shadowing sin remain,
Soudra's page of full perfection
How shall he in mind retain?
Unto him the earth who blesses,
Unto Foutsa, therefore he
Drink and incense, food and dresses
Should up-offer plenteously;
And the fountain's limpid liquor
Pour Grand Foutsa's face before,
Drain himself a cooling beaker
When a day and night are o'er;
Tune his heart to high devotion:
The five evil things eschew,
Lust and flesh and vinous potion,
And the words which are not true;
Living thing abstain from killing
For full twenty days and one,
And meanwhile with accents thrilling
Mighty Foutsa call upon--
Then of infinite dimension
Foutsa's form in dreams he'll see,
And if he with fixt attention,
When his sleep dissolv'd shall be,
Shall but list to Soudra's volume,
He, through thousand ages flight,
Shall of Soudra's doctrine solemn;
Ne'er forget one portion slight
Yes, a soul so richly gifted
Every child of man can find,
If to mighty Foutsa lifted
He but keep his heart and mind.
He who goods and cattle lacking
Is to fell disease a prey,
In whose household bones are cracking,
Cuts occurring every day,
Who though slumbering never resteth
From excess of bitter pain,
And what he in prayer requesteth
Never, never can obtain,--
To earth-favouring Foutsa's figure
If but reverence he shall pay
Dire misfortune's dreadful rigour
Flits for ever and for aye;
In his sleep no ills distress him,
And of nought he knows the want;
Cattle, corn and riches bless him,
Which the favouring demons grant.
Those, who sombre forests threading,
Those, who sailing ocean's plain,
Fain would wend their way undreading
Evil poisons, beasts and men,
Evil spirits, demons, javals {17},
And the force of evil winds,
And each ill, which he who travels
In his course so frequent finds--
Let them only take their station
'Fore the form of Foutsa Grand,
On it gaze with adoration,
Sacrifice with reverent hand--
And within the forest gloomy,
On the mountain or the vale,
On the ocean wide and roomy
Them no evil shall assail.
Thou, who every secret knowest,
Foutsa, hear my heart-felt pray'r;
Thou, who earth such favour showest,
How shall I thy praise declare?
Through ten million calaps {18} hoary
If with cataract's voice I roar,
Yet of Foutsa's force and glory
I may not the sum out-pour
Whosoe'er the title learning
Of the earth's protector high,
Shall, whene'er his form discerning,
On it gaze with steadfast eye,
And at times shall offer dresses,
Offer fitting drink and food.
He ten thousand joys possesses,
And escapes each trouble rude.
Whoso into deed shall carry
Of the law each precept, he
Through all time alive shall tarry,
And from birth and death be free.
Foutsa, thou, who best of any
Know'st the truth of what I've told,
Spread the tale through regions, many
As the Ganges' sands of gold.
MORAL METAPHORS.
From the Chinese.
1.
From out the South the genial breezes sigh,
They shake the bramble branches to and fro,
Whose lovely green delights the gazer's eye--
A mother's thoughts are troubled even so.
From out the South the genial breezes move,
They shake the branches of the bramble-tree;
Unless the sons fair men and honest prove,
The virtuous mother will dishonor'd be.
The frigid fount with violence and spray
By Shiyoun's town upcasts its watery store;
Though full seven sons she give to life and day
The mother's heart is but disturb'd the more.
When sings the redbreast it is bliss to hear
The dulcet notes the little songster breeds;
But ah, more blissful to a mother's ear
The fair report of seven good children's deeds.
2.
Survey, survey Gi Shoi's murmuring flood!
How its bamboos with living green are gay;
Survey the great, illustrious and good--
How sculptur'd, polish'd and refin'd are they!
What elegance and majesty they bear!
What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes;
View them but once, and whilst thou breath'st the air
Thou'lt ne'er forget the great, the good and wise.
Survey, survey Gi Shoi's murmuring flood!
How its bamboos uptower in green array;
The bonnets of the great, the wise and good
At either ear an agate gem display;
Bright as a star the crownlet of their hair--
What witchery lurketh in their voice and eyes;
Survey them once, and whilst thou breath'st the air
Thou'lt ne'er forget the great, the good and wise.
Survey, survey Gi Shoi's murmuring flood!
Like to the green bamboos upon it's shore
Are the illustrious, the great and good--
More pure than gold, more soft than stannine ore;
The round imperial agate's not more sheen;
Ever magnanimous and constant found,
On glory's car they sit with placid mien,
And smile benign where jocund sports abound.
THE MOUNTAIN-CHASE.
From the Mandchou or Chinese Tartar.
(An extract from the "Description of Moukden" by the Emperor Kian Loung.)
Autumn has fled and winter left our bounds;
Now for the chase amongst the mountain grounds,
Our troops their implements and arms prepare.
Like colour'd rainbow see our banners glare;
While paler far and like the waning bow,
Rustle the standards in the winds that blow;
Piercing the mists, above our heads that lower,
Aloft behold our stately Toron {21} tower,
Flapping the skies with its embroider'd rim.
Away we journey, hale in mind and limb;
Our cars of state are creaking in the rear,
Whilst in the front the active guides appear.
And now our children mount their colts of speed,
Their sculptur'd cars full little here they need;
From the right side they take the arrow keen,
Ne'er to its quiver to return, I ween;
The bow, the left side's fitting ornament;
The bow, the tough and pliant bow is bent;
It yields a sound, like thunder from afar,
While flies the arrow, like a streaming star.
None now expects a tale of fabled might;
Wang Liyang's {22} bridle will no more delight;
Nor how his chariot Siyan Ou did guide;
Nor how, incas'd in hauberk's steely pride,
His hundred myriads, at the cymbals' sound,
The falcon launch'd, or slipp'd the eager hound;
Or giving rein to every fiery steed
No more precipitous Tai Shan would heed,
Than stair which leadeth to some upper bower;
Or swarming down tumultuous to the shore,
Chain'd the sea-waters with the nets they cast--
For such wild miracles the time is past.
Numerous and brilliant spreads our hunting train,
Stilly or noisily the aim is ta'en,
Forth the shaft speedeth all athirst for blood,
Whilst the string rattleth sharp against the wood;
The stags we scatter, in the plain which browse,
Or from his cavern the rough boar uprouse;
We scare the bokoin to the highest steeps,
Hunt down the hare, along the plain which leaps.
But though we slaughter, nor the work resign
When stiff and wearied are each hand and spine,
On field and mountain still the beasts are spied
Plenteous as grasses in the summer tide;
As at three points the fierce attack I ply,
Seeing what numbers still remain to die,
Captains, pick'd captains I with speed despatch,
Who by the tail the spotted leopard catch,
Crash to the brain the furious tiger's head,
Grapple the bear so powerful and dread,
The ancient sow, the desert's haunter, slay--
Whilst with applause their prowess we survey.
When thus fresh meat they have obtain'd with glee,
The largest beasts the hunters bear to me,
From which we separate and cast aside
Whatever beast by frontal wound has died;
To those the preference we at once decree,
In whose left side the fatal mark we see,
Those to be offer'd to our fathers' manes,
Within their high and consecrated fanes,
To dry and cure in wooden trays are laid,
Till bak'd or roast the offering is made.
Our guests they dine on the rejected prey,
And what they leave is safely stor'd away;
The gross amount of what is slain and shot
Falls to the carmen and the rabble's lot.
THE GLORY OF THE COSSACKS.
An Ode.
From the Russian of Boris Fedorow.
Quiet Don!
Azure Don!
Who dost glide
Deep and wide,
To the proud
Cossack crowd
Drink which cheers,
Path which bears.
Quiet Don!
Azure Don!
Glory be
To thy sons,
Cossacks free
Warrior ones;
The world mute
Of their deeds
Hears the bruit--
Wide it speeds.
Light, I wot,
Hands they've not;
Down they fly
Thundringly,
Foes to crush,
E'en as rush
Down midst rocks
Eagle flocks.
Silent Don!
Azure Don!
Praise to their
Deeds so fair;
Fain our bright
Czar requite
Would each one,
Knew it might
Scarce be done--
Gave his son.
Silent Don!
Azure Don!
Sport and play,
Shine forth gay;
Gift most rare--
Alexander,
Russia's heir,
To thy clan
Given is for
Attaman.
Joys now every Cossack man,
Joys the Black sea's every stan {26}
And Ural
Flings its spray,
Roars withal
Night and day--
Joy to Cossacks--joy and glee
To each hero-regiment be:
Given is an
Attaman.
THE BLACK SHAWL.
From the Russian of Pushkin.
On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,
And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.
When easy of faith, young and ardent was I,
I lov'd a fair Grecian with love the most high.
The damsel deceitful she flatter'd my flame,
But soon a dark cloud o'er my sunshine there came.
One day I'd invited of guests a gay crew,
Then to me there came creeping an infamous Jew.
"With thy friends thou art feasting" he croaked in my ear--
"Whilst to thee proves unfaithful Greshenka thy dear."
I gave to him gold and a curse, for his meed,
And I summon'd a thrall, ever faithful in need.
Forth rushing, I leap'd my tall courser upon,
And soft pity I bade from my bosom begone.
But scarcely the door of Greshenka I view'd
When my eyes became dark, and a swoon near ensu'd.
Alone to a far remote chamber I pac'd,
And there an Armenian my damsel embrac'd.
My sight it forsook me--forth flash'd my sword straight,
But I to prevent the knave's kiss was too late.
The vile, headless trunk I spurn'd fierce with my foot,
And I gaz'd on the pallid maid darkly and mute.
I remember her praying--her blood streaming wide--
There perish'd Greshenka, my sweet love there died.
The shawl, the black shawl from her shoulders I tore,
And in silence I wip'd from my sabre the gore.
My thrall, when the evening mists fell with their dew,
In the waves of the Dunau her fair body threw.
From that hour I have seen not her eyes' beamy lights,
From that hour I have known no delectable nights.
On the shawl, the black shawl with distraction I gaze,
And on my poor spirit keen agony preys.
SONG.
From the Russian of Pushkin.
Hoary man, hateful man!
Gash my frame, burn my frame;
Bold I am, scoff I can
At the sword, at the flame.
Thee as hell I abhor,
And despise heartily;
I another do adore,
And for love of him die.
Gash my frame, burn my frame!--
Nothing I will tell thee;
Man of age, man of rage,
Him thou'lt ne'er know from me.
Fresh as May and as gay,
Warm as Summer days he;
O how sweet, young and neat,
O how well he loves me.
O how him I carest
In the night still and fine;
O how then we did jest
At that grey head of thine.
THE COSSACK.
An ancient Ballad.
From the Malo-Russian.
O'er the field the snow is flying,
There a wounded Cossack's lying;
On a bush his head he's leaning,
And his eyes with grass is screening,
Meadow-grass so greenly shiny,
And with cloth the make of China;
Croaks the raven hoarsely o'er him,
Neighs his courser sad before him:
"Either, master, give me pay,
Or dismiss me on my way."
"Break thy bridle, O my courser,
Down the path amain be speeding,
Through the verdant forest leading;
Drink of two lakes on thy way,
Eat of mowings two the hay;
Rush the castle-portal under,
With thy hoof against it thunder,
Out shall come a Dame that moaneth,
Whom thy lord for mother owneth;
I will tell thee, my brave prancer,
When she speaks thee what to answer.
"O thou steed, than lightning faster,
Tell me where's thy youthful master!
Him in fight thou hast forsaken,
Or has cast him down, I reckon."
"Nor in fight I've him forsaken,
Nor have cast him down, I reckon,
The lone field with blood bedewing,
There the damsel Death he's wooing."
THE THREE SONS OF BUDRYS.
A Lithuanian Ballad.
From the Polish of Mickiewicz.