Collected poems By Austin Dobson: Ninth edition |
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VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB
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 | Collected poems |  |
517
VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB
MAY 17, 1901
Salaam to Omar! We that meet to-night
Have bid Black Care be banished, and invite
The Rose, the Cup, the not-too-ancient Jest
To help, and cheer us,—but beyond the Rest,
Peaceful Digestion with its blissful Calm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
“It does not appear that there was any danger in holding and singing Súfi Pantheism, so long as the Poet made his Salaam to Mohammed at the beginning and end of his Song” (FitzGerald, Prefaces to Rubaiyat, 1872). The last stanza here printed was an afterthought, and was not included in the version on the menu. A third piece, written for the Omar Khayyám dinner of March 1903, and kindly read for the author in his absence by Mr. Henry Newbolt, is subjoined:—
“Under which King?” “Under which king, Bezonian? Speak, or die.” —2 Henry IV. Act v., Scene 3.
“Under which king?” you ask, my friend.
“The Hermit of the Suffolk shore?—
The Tent-maker of Naishapúr?—
Omar, FitzGerald—which?” Perpend.
“The Hermit of the Suffolk shore?—
The Tent-maker of Naishapúr?—
Omar, FitzGerald—which?” Perpend.
The great Corneille, when pressed of yore,
To judge two sonnets, answered thus:—
“One, in its way, is marvellous;
And yet—I like the other more.”
To judge two sonnets, answered thus:—
“One, in its way, is marvellous;
And yet—I like the other more.”
This is my case betwixt your twain.
But if you further question why
I sit in this brave company,
I will—with your good leave—explain.
But if you further question why
I sit in this brave company,
I will—with your good leave—explain.
Life is a toilsome thing at best:
We all too-heavy burdens bear,
And groaning 'neath our load of care,
Run to and fro in search of rest.
We all too-heavy burdens bear,
And groaning 'neath our load of care,
Run to and fro in search of rest.
We find it where this board is set:
Kind looks across the napery gleam;
The Past, the Future, grow a dream;
And—for the moment—we forget.
Kind looks across the napery gleam;
The Past, the Future, grow a dream;
And—for the moment—we forget.
Omar, FitzGerald—these are all
But phantasies. We snuff the air;
The green spot in the desert bare;
The Opiate of the Interval!
But phantasies. We snuff the air;
The green spot in the desert bare;
The Opiate of the Interval!
Have bid Black Care be banished, and invite
The Rose, the Cup, the not-too-ancient Jest
To help, and cheer us,—but beyond the Rest,
Peaceful Digestion with its blissful Calm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
Salaam to Omar! Life in truth is short,
And mortal Man of many Ills the Sport;
Yet still th' Oasis of the Board commends
Its Vantage-Ground for cheerful Talk of Friends,
And brings Oblivion, like an Eastern Balm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
And mortal Man of many Ills the Sport;
Yet still th' Oasis of the Board commends
Its Vantage-Ground for cheerful Talk of Friends,
And brings Oblivion, like an Eastern Balm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
Salaam to Omar! Many Things must go
Down the dim Way that leads to Weal or Woe;
But kindly Hearts and kindly Thoughts will last
Till Time himself—the Arch-Iconoclast—
Drops the last Coin in Charon's withered Palm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
Down the dim Way that leads to Weal or Woe;
But kindly Hearts and kindly Thoughts will last
Till Time himself—the Arch-Iconoclast—
Drops the last Coin in Charon's withered Palm.
Therefore to Omar once again—Salaam!
| Collected poems | |