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T. Pratt - 1899

23 quatrains. From: "Edward FitzGerald and some recent Omar Khayyam literature". The Manchester Quarterly, Vol. XVIII, Jan. 1899. Pp. 19-31.
25 quatrains. From: "Persephone in Hades and other poems". London, Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co., 1899. Pp. 39-43

25 quatrains 23 quatrains
1
Behold, I kneel! though sinful to the core,
My life is now with sorrow darkened o’er;
Nor am I hopeless of Thy mercy, save
That little service have I shown before.
1
Behold, I kneel! though sinful to the core,
My life is now with sorrow darkened o’er;
Nor am I hopeless of Thy mercy, save
That little service have I shown before.
2
Creation’s First and Last! of Thee I pray
That Thou wilt set me in the clearer way;
Till now I followed but the lure of sin:
A prodigal, although my years are grey.
2
Creation’s First and Last! of Thee I pray
That Thou wilt set me in the clearer way;
Till now I followed but the lure of Sin:
- A prodigal, although my years are grey.
3
Lend me Thine ear! while open stands the door
I bow me down with sorrow stricken sore:
The master of the tavern stands a-gape
To find me kneeling thus upon the floor.
3
Lend me Thine ear! While open stands the door,
I bow me down with sorrow stricken sore:
The master of the tavern stands a-gape
To find me kneeling thus upon the floor.
4
Do with me as Thou wilt! or cherish me,
Or let me suffer in the flame for Thee!
’Tis well the tavern-haunter hears my grief,
That he the snare of sin may quickly flee.
4
Do with me as Thou wilt! Or cherish me,
Or let me suffer in the flame for Thee!
’Tis well the tavern-haunter hears my grief,
That he the snare of sin may quickly flee.
5
Khayyam, what talk is this of grief and sin?
How shouldst thou hope the meed of grace to win
By fruitless whining at the door of Fate?
Thinkest thou there are no others of thy kin?
5
- Khayyam, what talk is this of grief and sin?
How shouldst thou hope the meed of grace to win
By fruitless whining at the door of Fate?
- Thinkest thou there are no others of thy kin?
6
He knew who breathed into this life of mine
I should not scorn the treasures of the vine:
Then let the churlish one say what he will,
Since I was born to sing of love and wine.
15
He knew who breathed into this life of mine,
I should not scorn the treasures of the vine:
Then let the churlish one say what he will,
Since I was born to sing of love and wine.
7
In cell and college some may seek for grace,
And yearn to look upon the Prophet’s face:
Brothers, if ye but read the Koran well,
The touch shall come within a little space.
 
8
Upon the goblet is a text enwrought
Which men read ever – but they have not sought
The veiled Truth, and, lacking this, I say
Their dreams and hopes alike shall come to nought.
 
9
Hear thou the Word from Khayyam. - Though men say
Thou may’st not rob upon the world’s highway –
The Truth runs, couldst thou read it but aright,
“Let not man’s blame the hand of justice stay!”
7
Hear thou the Word from Khayyám. - Though men say
Thou may’st not rob upon the world’s highway:
The Word runs, couldst thou read it but aright,
“Let not man’s blame the hand of justice stay!”
10
Forbear thy wrath! - So far as in thee lies
Give pain to none, but look with gentle eyes
Upon thy brother’s fault, so shalt thou dwell
With those the world doth hold exceeding wise.
9
Forbear thy wrath! - So far as in thee lies
Give pain to none, but look with gentle eyes
Upon thy brother’s fault, so shalt thou dwell
With those the world doth hold exceeding wise.
11
Few friends are best. Why wilt thou ope thy mind
To every chance acquaintance of thy kind?
He whom thou boldest dear, perchance, shall prove,
At utmost need unstable as the wind.
8
Few friends are best. Why wilt thou ope thy mind
To every chance acquaintance of thy kind?
He whom thou boldest dear, perchance, shall prove,
At utmost need unstable as the wind.
12
Scorn not the mean artificer of earth,
Nor coldly glance on those of humble birth:
For know, thou proud one! that some hovel poor
Ere this hath reared the life of sovereign worth.
11
Scorn not the mean artificer of earth,
Nor coldly glance on those of humble birth:
For know, thou proud one! that some hovel poor
Ere this hath reared the life of sovereign worth.
13
Ah, woe to him that feels not passion’s sway!
His life no morrow hath, nor yesterday.
Dull clod of Earth! without heart -cheering love,
Far better thou wert buried ’neath the clay!
10
Ah, woe to him that feels not passion’s sway,
His life no morrow hath, nor yesterday,
- Dull clod of earth! without heart-cheering love
Far better thou wert buried ’neath the clay!
14
Come, fill the cup! The day breaks like snow!
I feel the blood within me pulse and glow:
Cast yonder log of aloe of the fire,
And with the lute we’ll banish care and woe.
 
15
Thou hypocrite! why all this outward show?
If inward grave be thine shall He not know?
Lay thou aside this garment of thy sin,
Not for an hour eternity forego.
 
16
Regard my virtues one by one, I pray;
My faults at every ten do thou but stay;
The burden of my guilt lies in His hand,
And all the errors of my earthly way.
18
Regard my virtues one by one, I pray;
My faults at every ten do thou but stay;
And, in Thy count, let this be in Thy mind
- “Thus I perchance, had fallen by the way.”
17
Take heed! the sword of Destiny is keen:
If Fortune place thy wanton lips between
The almond-sweets of Life, receive them not,
-For subtle poison lurketh there unseen.
14
Take heed! The sword of Destiny is keen:
If Fortune place thy wanton lips between
The almond sweets of life, receive them not,
For subtle poison lurketh there unseen.
18
What though my words have oft been laughed to scorn?
-Impotent are the lives of woman born:
Yet hear me still - how great soe’er Thou be,
Thou canst not stay the coming -on of dawn!
17
What though my words have oft been laughed to scorn?
Impotent are the lives of woman born:
I say but this - how great so e’er Thou be,
Thou canst not stay the coming-on of dawn!
19
The girdle of my woes hath many years:
I water Oxus with my frequent tears:
Yet Hell to me is but an hour of care,
And Paradise a life devoid of fears.
19
The girdle of my woes hath many years:
I water oxen with my frequent tears:
Yet Hell to me is but an hour of care,
And Paradise a life devoid of fears.
20
To-day is sweet! - Why talk of yesterday?
Thou canst not bid the breeze of Spring to stay!
And this same rose that blooms to-night may fall
Or ere the morrow’s dawn awakens grey.
13
To-day is sweet! - Why talk of yesterday?
Thou canst not bid the breeze of Spring to stay!
The rose that blooms to-night perchance may fall
Or ere the morrow’s dawn awakens grey.
21
To-morrow is not thine, nor hast thou power
To stay thy going for a single hour:
Rejoice thy heart and but remember this,
—If not the seed –time, thou hast known the flower!
12
To-morrow is not thine, nor hast thou power
To stay thy going for a single hour:
Rejoice thy heart! and but remember this,
- If not the seed–time thou hast known the flower.
22
As o’er the sandy desert wastes the wind
Sweeps on and leaves no trace for man behind,
So sweeps the torrent of my grief through me,
Nor holdeth habitation in my mind.
20
As o’er the sandy desert wastes the wind
Sweeps on and leaves no trace for man behind,
So sweeps the torrent of my grief through me,
Nor holdeth habitation in my mind.
23
Yon vault of blue that canopies my head
Shall nourish still the earth when I am dead:
Why should I grieve! Or, shall it be my gain
To sorrow ere my lusty days are fled?
21
Yon vault of blue that canopies my head
Shall nourish still the Earth when I am dead:
Why should I grieve? or, shall it be my gain
To sorrow ere my lusty days are fled?
24
Within yon azure dome I read no grief!
Why should I render pleasure then more brief?
My life is but a day within His eye,
And passeth with the falling of the leaf!
22
Within yon azure dome I read no grief!
- Why should I render pleasure then more brief?
My life is but a day within His eye,
And passeth with the falling of the leaf!
25
Unconquerable Fate! can nothing tum
Thy purpose from the life I cannot spurn?
Then, sweet -faced bearer of the golden cup,
Give me to drink ere I to dust return!
23
Unconquerable Fate! can nothing tum
Thy purpose from the life I cannot spurn?
Then, sweet-faced bearer of the golden cup,
Give me to drink ere I to dust return!
  6
What time is this for words? - come, give me wine!
And let thy deep dark eyes upon me shin!
—Ah, love. we’ll put by sorrow till the morn,
The hours till then, O, loved one! all are thine.