Classic Poem

'T WAS Swift who said that people " view
In Homer more than Homer knew."
I can't pretend to claim the gift
Of playing B ENTLEY upon Swift ;
But I suspect the reading true
Is " O MAR more than O MAR knew," —
Or why this large assembly met
Lest we this O MAR should forget?
(In a parenthesis I note
Our R USTUM here, without red coat;
Where S OHRAB sits I'm not aware,
But that's F IRDAUSI in the Chair!)ÔÇô
I say then that we now are met
Lest we this O MAR should forget,
Who, ages back, remote, obscure,
Wrote verses once at Naishapur, —
Verses which, as I understand,
Were merely copied out by hand,
And now, without etched plates, or aid
Of India paper, or hand-made,
Bid fair Parnassus' top to climb,
And knock the Classics out of time.

Persicos odi — Horace said,
And therefore is no longer read.
Time, who could simply not endure
Slight to the Bard of Naishapur,
(Time, by the way, was rather late
For one so often up-to-date!)
Went swiftly to the Roll of Fame
And blotted Q. H. F. his name,
Since when, for every Youth or Miss
That knows Quis multa gracilis ,
There are a hundred who can tell
What O MAR thought of Heav'n and Hell;
Who B AHRÁM was; and where (at need)
Lies hid the Beaker of J AMSHYD ; —
In short, without a break can quote
Most of what O MAR ever wrote.

Well, O MAR K HAYYÁM wrote of Wine,
And all of us, sometimes, must dine;
And O MAR K HAYYÁM wrote of Roses,
And all of us, no doubt, have noses;
And O MAR K HAYYÁM wrote of Love,
Which some of us are not above.
Also, he charms to this extent,
We don't know, always, what he meant.
Lastly, the man's so plainly dead
We can heap honours on his head.

Then, too, he scores in other wise
By his " deplorable demise."
There is so much that we could say
Were he a Bard of yesterday!
We should discuss his draughts and pills,
His baker's and his vintner's bills;
Rake up — perhaps 'tis well we can't —
Gossip about his maiden aunt;
And all that marketable matter
Which F REEMAN nicknamed " Harriet-chatter!"
But here not even Persian candles
Can light us to the smallest scandals; —
Thus far your O MAR gains at least
By having been so long deceased.

Failing of this, we needs must fall
Back on his opus after all: —
Those quatrains so compact, complete,
So suited to F ITZ G ERALD'S feet,
(And, let us add, so subtly planned
To tempt the imitative band!) —
Those censers of Omari ware
That breathe into the perfumed air
His doubt, his unrest, his despair; —
Those jewels-four-lines-long that show,
Eight hundred years and more ago,
An old thing underneath the sun
In Babylonish Babylon: —
A Body and a Soul at strife
To solve the Mystery of Life!

So then all hail to O MAR K.!
(To take our more familiar way)
Though much of what he wrote and did
In darkest mystery is hid;
And though (unlike our bards) his task
Was less to answer than to ask;
For all his endless Why and Whether,
He brings us here to-night together;
And therefore (as I said before),
Hail! O MAR K HAYYÁM , hail! once more!