Selections from the Poetry of the Afghans: Remarks on the Mystic Doctrine and Poetry of the Ṣūfīs

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REMARKS ON THE MYSTIC DOCTRINE AND POETRY OF THE ṢŪFĪS.

The poetry of the East, particularly that of the Muḥammadan nations, differs materially from that of the West; and when taken up by the uninitiated, would often appear to be the mere effusions of wild and voluptuous bacchanals, or worthy of Anacreon himself. These remarks, however, pertain more to Persian than to Afghān poetry, which contains less of the, often, bombastic style of the former, and approaches nearer to the simplicity of the poetry of the ancient Arabs. A general subject with the Afghān, as well as other Asiatic poets, is that of love, not human, but divine, and a contempt for the people and vanities of the world; whilst other Afghān poets, such as Khushḥāl Khān, write on any subject that may have been uppermost in their minds at the time, after the manner of Western poets.

The general reader, who would understand many of the poems contained in the following pages, must know that most of the Asiatic poets profess the mystical doctrine of the Ṣūfis, the tenets of which, it will be necessary to explain to him; although Oriental scholars may be supposed to be sufficiently familiar with the subject.

The Muḥammadan writers state, that these enthusiasts are co-existent with their religion; and, probably, their rapturous zeal may have greatly contributed to the first establishment of Islāmism; but they have since been considered its greatest enemies, and it is avouched that their doctrines have, for a long time, been even undermining Muḥammadanism itself. Hence the most rigorous

proceedings have, from time to time, been put in practice to repress their increase, but these, as usual in such cases, have had a contrary effect; and Ṣūfi-ism is said to be still on the increase. There is no doubt, but that the free opinions of the sect on the dogmas of the Muḥammadan religion, their contempt for its forms, and their claim to communion with, or rather absorption into the Creator, are all more or less calculated to subvert that faith, of whose outward forms the Ṣūfis profess their veneration.

The tenets of the Ṣūfi doctrines appear to have been most widely diffused over Persia; and, indeed, the great reputation acquired by one of the priests of the sect, enabled his descendants, for above two centuries, under the name of the Ṣafawīan dynasty, to occupy the throne of that country. *

The general name by which this sect of enthusiasts is known, is Ṣūfi, implying pure, a term probably derived from the Arabic word (ṣafah), signifying purity; and by this name all are known, from the venerated teacher, or spiritual guide, followed by crowds of disciples, to the humble kalandar, darwesh, or fakir, who wanders about almost naked, or only clothed in his khirkah or cloak of rags, subsisting upon scanty alms, to support this, voluntarily adopted, life of prayer and religious abstraction.

In India, more than in any other country of Asia, from remote ages, these visionary doctrines appear to have flourished, much after the same manner as in Egypt and Syria, in the early days of Christianity, as testified to by the early ecclesiastical writers, who trace to those countries the mystic, the hermit, and the monk; for there the propensity to a life of austerity was quite a disease. In the Hindū religion also, as well as in the people themselves, there is much that tends to foster a spirit of religious abstraction; and we may thus, with some justice, suppose that from India other nations

have derived this mystic worship of the Deity, but without adopting the dreadful austerities and macerations, common among the Hindūs, and deemed necessary for attaining unto this state of beatitude.

To give a full account of the doctrines of the Ṣūfis, would be almost a useless attempt; for traces of it may be found, in some shape or other, in all countries; alike, in the sublime theories of the philosophers of ancient Greece, and in those of modern Europe.

The Ṣūfis affirm, that their creed is adverse to superstition, scepticism, and error; but "it exists by the active propagation of all three." * The doctrines of their teachers are given to their disciples in place of the outward forms and observances of the faith they profess. They are invited to embark upon the ocean of doubt, piloted by a sacred teacher, or spiritual guide, whom they must consider superior to all other mortals, and deem worthy of the most pious and spiritual confidence—in fact, of almost adoration itself. They are devoted to the search after Truth, and are constantly occupied in adoration of the Deity. He, according to their belief, is diffused throughout all created things; † and they consider, that the soul of man, and the principle of existence, is of God (part of Him), not from Him. Hence their doctrine teaches that the soul of man is an exile from its Creator, who is its home and source; that the body is its cage, or prison-house; and the term of life, in this world, is its period of banishment from Him

ere the soul fell it had seen the face of Truth, but, in this world, it merely obtains a partial and shadowy glimpse, "which serves to awaken the slumbering memory of the past, but can only vaguely recall it; and Sūfi-ism undertakes, by a long course of education, and moral discipline, to lead the soul onward, from stage to stage, until, at length, it reaches the goal of perfect knowledge, truth, and peace." *

According to this mysterious doctrine, there are four stages through which it is necessary man should pass, prior to attaining unto the highest state, or that of divine beatitude; where, to use their own words, "his corporeal veil, which had previously obscured his sight, will be drawn aside, and his soul, emancipated from all material things, will again unite with the divine and transcendent essence, from which it had been divided, for a time, but not separated for ever."

The first of these stages is termed nāsut, or humanity, in which the disciple is supposed to be living in obedience to the sharæ, or orthodox law, and paying due observance to the rites and ceremonies of religion; for these things are allowed to be necessary and useful in regulating the lives of the vulgar and weak-minded, and in restraining within proper bounds, and guiding such as are unable to reach the acme of divine contemplation and abstraction, who might be led astray by that very latitude in matters of faith, which instructs and enraptures those of more powerful intellect, and more ardent piety.

The second stage is termed t̤arīḳat, or the way, in which the disciple attains what is called jabrūt, or potentiality and capacity; and he who reaches this stage, quits, altogether, that state in which he is merely permitted to follow and revere a teacher or spiritual guide, and thus he becomes admitted within the pale of Sūfi-ism. All observance of the rites and forms of religion may be laid aside;

for he now, it is supposed, exchanges what is called æamal-i jismānī, or corporeal worship, for æamal-i-rūḥānī, or spiritual adoration; but this stage cannot be attained, save by great piety, virtue, endurance, and resignation; for it is necessary to restrain the intellect when weak, until, from habits of mental devotion, grounded upon a proper knowledge of its own greatness and immortality, and of the Divine nature, it shall have acquired sufficient energy; since the mind cannot be trusted in the omission or disuse of the rites and usages of religion.

The third stage is æarūf, signifying knowledge or inspiration; and the disciple who arrives thereunto, is said to have attained superhuman knowledge—in fact, to be inspired; and when he has reached this stage, he is equal to the angels.

The fourth, and final state arrived at, is ḥaḳīḳat, or Truth itself, which signifies that his union with the Divinity is perfect and complete.

The dignity of Khalīfah, as the teacher is designated, can only be obtained after long-continued fasting and prayer, and by complete abstraction and severance from all mundane things; for the man must be annihilated, before the saint can exist. The preparation for the third stage of Ṣūfi-ism requires a protracted and fearful probation; and many lose their lives in their efforts to attain it. The person who makes the essay must be a devout and godly murīd or disciple, who has already advanced, by his piety and abstraction, beyond the necessity of observing religion's forms and usages. He must begin by endeavouring to attain a higher state of beatitude, by a lengthened fast, which should not be less than forty days; and during this period of fasting he remains in solitude, and in a posture of contemplation, and takes no sustenance save enough to keep body and soul together. The character of the votary greatly depends upon the patience and fortitude he may display during this severe ordeal; and when, reduced to a mere skeleton,

the disciple comes forth from his solitude, he still has years of trial to endure. He must wander about, companionless, in desert places, or remain in some frightful solitude, and only seeing, occasionally, the Khalīfah, or spiritual guide, whom he follows; for the chief merit of all ranks of Ṣūfis, is complete devotion to their teacher. When he dies, he leaves his khīrkah, or patched garment, and worldly wealth, to the disciple he considers the most worthy to succeed him; and when the latter dons the holy mantle, he is invested with the power of his predecessor. *

The most celebrated Ṣūfi teachers have been alike famed for their devotion and their learning, in Persia as well as in other countries; and, in the former, the Ṣūfis have claimed for their own, all who have, by their writings or sayings, shown a spirit of philosophy, or knowledge of the nature Divine, which has elevated them above the prejudices of the vulgar; and, certainly, great numbers of persons, eminent for their learning, genius, and piety, have adopted the Ṣūfi doctrines. Amongst the most distinguished of these are poets; for the very essence of Ṣūfi-ism is poetry. The raptures of genius, expatiating upon a subject that cannot be exhausted, are held to be divine inspirations, by those who believe that the soul, when emancipated by devotion, can wander in the regions of the spiritual world, and, at last, unite with its Creator, the source from whence it emanated. It is the same with all Ṣūfi poets, whatever be their country; but Persia is more generally known as that, in which this species of poetry was supposed to have reached the highest degree of perfection; but it will be discovered, from the following pages, that Ṣūfi-ism has produced, amongst the rough and hardy Afghāns, conceptions equally as sublime. "Human speech, however," to quote the words of a writer already mentioned, †"is too weak and imperfect to convey these lofty experiences of the

soul, and hence these can only be represented by symbols and metaphors." For this reason the Ṣūfi poets, to quote the words of Sir William Jones, "adopt the fervour of devotion, and the ardent love of created spirits towards their beneficent Creator; and Ṣūfi poetry consists almost wholly of a mystical, religious allegory, though it seems, to the uninitiated ear, to contain merely the sentiments of wild and voluptuous bacchanals; but although we must admit the danger of such a poetical style, where the limits between enthusiasm and depravity are so minute, as to be scarcely distinguishable;"—for the mystical meaning of their poetry (save in the poems of the Afghān poet Mīrzā) never, or rarely, obtrudes itself;—we may, if we choose, pass it by, confining ourselves to those passages alone, which tell of a mundane passion, and a terrestrial summer and wine. Under the veil of earthly love, and the woes of temporal separation, they disguise the dark riddle of human life, and the celestial banishment, which lies behind the threshold of existence; and, under the joys of revelry and inebriation, they figure mystical transports, and ecstatic raptures. * Still, we must not censure it severely, and must allow it to be natural, though a warm imagination may carry it beyond the bounds of sober reason; "for," to quote the same author, "an ardently grateful piety is congenial to the undepraved nature of man, whose mind, sinking under the magnitude of the subject, and struggling to express its emotions; has recourse to metaphors and allegories, which it sometimes extends beyond the bounds of cool reason, and often to the brink of absurdity." Barrow, who would have been the sublimest mathematician, if his religious turn of mind had not made him the deepest theologian of his age, describes Love as "an affection or inclination of the soul towards an object, proceeding from an apprehension and esteem of some excellence or convenience in it, as its beauty, worth, or utility; and producing, if it be absent, a proportionable desire, and, consequently,

an endeavour to obtain such a property in it, such possession of it, such an approximation to it, or union with it, as the thing is capable of; with a regret and displeasure in failing to obtain it, or in the want and loss of it; begetting, likewise, a complacence, satisfaction, and delight, in its presence, possession, or enjoyment, which is, moreover, attended with a goodwill towards it, suitable to its nature; that is, with a desire that it should arrive at, or continue in, its best state, with a delight to perceive it thrive and flourish; with a displeasure to see it suffer or decay; with a consequent endeavour to advance it in all good, and preserve it from all evil." Agreeably to this description, which consists of two parts, and was designed to comprise the tender love of the Creator towards created spirits, the great philosopher bursts forth in another place, with his usual animation, and command of language, into the following panegyric on the pious love of human souls towards the Author of their happiness:—"Love is the sweetest and most delectable of all passions; and when, by the conduct of wisdom, it is directed in a rational way toward a worthy, congruous, and attainable object, it cannot otherwise than fill the heart with ravishing delight: such, in all respects, superlatively such, is God; who, infinitely beyond all other things, deserveth our affection, as most perfectly amiable and desirable; as having obliged us by innumerable and inestimable benefits; all the good that we have ever enjoyed, or can ever expect, being derived from His pure bounty; all things in the world, in competition with Him, being mean and ugly; all things, without Him, vain, unprofitable, and hurtful to us. He is the most proper object of our love; for we chiefly were framed, and it is the prime law of our nature, to love Him; our soul, from its original instinct, vergeth towards Him as its centre, and can have no rest till it be fixed on Him: He alone can satisfy the vast capacity of our minds, and fill our boundless desires. He, of all lovely things, most certainly and easily may be attained; for,

whereas, commonly, men are crossed in their affections, and their love is embittered from their affecting things imaginary, which they cannot reach, or coy things, which disdain and reject them, it is with God quite otherwise: He is most ready to impart himself; He most earnestly desireth and wooeth our love; He is not only most willing to correspond in affection, but even doth prevent us therein: He doth cherish and encourage our love by sweetest influences, and most consoling embraces, by kindest expressions of favour, by most beneficial returns; and, whereas all other objects do, in the enjoyment, much fail our expectation, He doth even far exceed it. Wherefore, in all affectionate motions of our hearts towards God; in desiring Him, in seeking His favour or friendship; in embracing Him, or setting our esteem, our goodwill, our confidence, on Him; in enjoying Him, by devotional meditations, and addresses to Him; in a reflective sense of our interest and propriety in Him; in that mysterious union of spirit, whereby we do closely adhere to, and are, as it were, inserted in Him; in a hearty complacence in His benignity, a grateful sense of His kindness, and a zealous desire of yielding some requital for it, we cannot but feel very, very pleasant transports: indeed, that celestial flame, kindled in our hearts by the spirit of love, cannot be void of warmth; we cannot fix our eyes on infinite beauty, we cannot taste infinite sweetness, we cannot cleave to infinite felicity, without also perpetually rejoicing in the first daughter of Love to God—Charity towards men; which, in complexion and careful disposition, doth much resemble her mother; for she doth rid us of all these gloomy, keen, turbulent imaginations and passions, which cloud our mind, which fret our heart, which discompose the frame of our soul, from burning anger, from storming contention, from gnawing envy, from rankling spite, from racking suspicion, from distracting ambition and avarice; and, consequently, doth settle our mind in an even temper, in a sedate humour, in an harmonious order, in that pleasant state of

tranquillity, which, naturally, doth result from the voidance of irregular passions."

This passage, which borders upon quietism and enthusiastic devotion, differs no more from the mystic tenets of the Ṣūfi creed, than do European fruits and flowers from the lusciousness and fragrance of those of Asia, or than the cold skies and sun of the West differ from the gorgeous skies and blazing sun of Eastern lands.

It is to express fervid feelings like these that, by Ṣūfi-ism, poetry is brought into play, which, in its sweetest strains, teaches that all nature abounds with a Divine love, causing even the humblest plant to seek the sublime object of its desire.

Sir William Jones, in his "Essay on the Mystical Poetry of the Persians and Hindūs," † has given an excellent description of the Ṣūfis and their doctrine; and I cannot do better here than extract therefrom such portions as may elucidate my present subject. "The Ṣūfis," he says, "concur in believing that the souls of men differ infinitely in degree, but not at all in kind, from the Divine Spirit, of which they are particles, and in which they will ultimately be re-absorbed; that the Spirit of God pervades the universe, always immediately present to His work, and, consequently, always in substance; that He alone is perfect benevolence, perfect truth, perfect beauty; that the love of Him alone is real and genuine love, while that of all other objects is absurd and

illusory; that the beauties of nature are faint resemblances, like images in a mirror, of the Divine charms; that, from eternity without beginning, to eternity without end, the Supreme Benevolence is occupied in bestowing happiness, or the means of attaining it: that men can only attain it by performing their part of the primal covenant, between them and the Creator; that nothing has a pure, absolute existence but mind or spirit; that material substances, as the ignorant call them, are no more than gay pictures, presented continually to our minds by the spiritual Artist; that we must be aware of attachment to such phantoms, and attach ourselves, exclusively, to God, who truly exists in us, as we exist solely in Him; that we retain, even in this forlorn state of separation from our beloved, the idea of heavenly beauty, and the remembrance of our primeval vows; that sweet music, gentle breezes, fragrant flowers, perpetually renew the primary idea, refresh our fading memory, and melt us with tender affections; that we must cherish these affections, and, by abstracting our souls from vanity, that is, from all but God, approximate to His essence, in our final union with which will consist our supreme beatitude. From these principles flow a thousand metaphors, and other poetical figures, which abound in the sacred poems of the Persians and Hindūs, who seem to mean the same thing in substance, and differ only in expression, as their languages differ in idiom." It is the same in Afghān poetry also, as the following pages will amply show.

The modern Ṣūfis, who profess a belief in the Ḳur’ān, suppose, with much sublimity both of thought and diction, that in a prior state of existence the soul had been united with God; and that, at the Creation, the created spirits, and the supreme soul from which they emanated, were summoned together, when a celestial voice demanded from each, separately, "Alasto bi-rabbikum?" "Art thou not with thy God?" that is, "Art thou not bound by solemn

contract with Him?" whereunto the spirits answered, "Balā," "Yea!" And hence it is that "Alasto," or "Art thou not?" (the question of this primeval compact), and "Balā," or "Yea!" occur continually in these mystical compositions of Muḥammadan poets, whether Persians, Turks, or Afghāns. "Music, poetry, and the arts," again to quote the words of a modern writer, * "are the unconscious aspirations of the soul, as it hurries along in its restless impulses through the world, stung by the echo of "Alasto," yet ringing in their ears, but with no visible object to claim the passionate adoration which it burns to pour forth."

"The Hindūs," says Sir William Jones, "describe the same covenant under the figurative notion, so finely expressed by Isaiah, of a nuptial contract; for, considering God in the three characters of Creator, Regenerator, and Preserver, and supposing the power of Preservation and Benevolence to have become incarnate in the power of Krishna, they represent him as married to Rādhā, a word signifying atonement, pacification, or satisfaction, but applied allegorically to the soul of man, or rather to the whole assemblage of created souls, between whom and their benevolent Creator they suppose that reciprocal love, which Barrow describes with a glow of expression perfectly Oriental, and which our most orthodox theologians believe to have been mystically shadowed in the Song of Solomon, while they admit that, in a literal sense, it is an epithalamium on the marriage of the sapient king with the princess of Egypt. The very learned author of the "Prelections on Sacred Poetry," declared his opinion, that the Canticles were founded on historical truth, but involved in allegory of that sort, which he named mystical; and the beautiful Persian poem, on the loves of Laylā and Majnūn, by the inimitable Niz̤āmī—to say nothing of other poems on the same subject—is, indisputably, built on true

history, yet avowedly allegorical and mysterious; for the introduction to it is a continued rapture on Divine love; and the name of Laylā seems to be used in the Masnawī * and the odes of Ḥāfiz̤, for the omnipresent Spirit of God." If reference is here made to the first of the poems of the Afghān monarch, Aḥmad Shāh, at page 294, the force of the words of Sir William Jones will be more fully seen.

According to the interpretation given to these mystical poems, by the Ṣūfis themselves—for they have even composed a vocabulary of the words used by these mystics—by wine is meant devotion, sleep is meditation on the Divine perfections, and perfume the hope of the Divine favour; the zephyrs are outbursts of grace; kisses and embraces, the transports of devotion and piety; idolators, infidels, and libertines, are men of the purest faith, and the idol they worship is the Creator himself; the tavern is a secluded oratory, where they become intoxicated with the wine of love, and its keeper is an enlightened instructor or spiritual guide; beauty denotes the perfection of the Deity; curls and tresses are the infiniteness of His glory; the lips are the inscrutable mysteries of His essence; down on the cheek, the world of spirits who surround His throne; and the black mole upon the cheek of the beloved, the point of indivisible unity; and wantonness, mirth, and inebriation, signify religious enthusiasm, and abstraction from all earthly thoughts and contempt of all worldly affairs.

The poets themselves give a colour to such interpretations as the foregoing, in many passages in their poems; and it is impossible to imagine that such effusions as those of Ḥāfiz̤, Saædī, and their imitators, would, otherwise, be tolerated in a Musalmān country, particularly at places like Cairo and Constantinople, where they are venerated as divine compositions. It must be, however,

allowed, that " the mystical allegory, which, like metaphors and comparisons, should be general only, not minutely exact, is greatly diminished, if not wholly destroyed, by any attempt at particular and distinct resemblances; and that this style of composition is open to dangerous misinterpretation." *

The following ode, by a Ṣūfi of Bokhārā, is such an extraordinary specimen of the mysterious doctrine of the sect, although some of the poems of the Afghān poet Mīrzā are sufficiently so, that I cannot refrain from inserting it in this place:—

The tenets of the Ṣūfi belief, as may be judged from what has been already stated, are involved in mystery. They begin by instilling doctrines of virtue and piety, and by teaching forbearance, abstemiousness, and universal benevolence. This much they profess; but they have secrets and mysteries for every step and degree, which are never disclosed to the uninitiated and profane; but I shall now proceed to quote a few passages from the writings of celebrated Ṣūfis, which may tend to throw some additional light upon this dark and mystic creed.

The Persian poet, Shaikh Saædī, in his "Bostan," or "Flower Garden," the subject of which is devoted to divine love, thus describes it:—"The love of a being constituted, like thyself, of water and clay, destroys thy patience and thy peace of mind; it excites thee, in thy waking hours, with minute beauties, and occupies thee, in thy sleep, with vain imaginations. With such real affection dost thou lay thine head at her feet, that the universe, in comparison with her, vanishes into nothing before thee; and, since her eye is not allured by thy gold, gold and dust alike appear equal in thine. Not a breath dost thou utter unto any one

else, for with her thou hast no room for any other; thou declarest that her abode is in thine eye, or, when thou closest it, in thy heart; thou hast no power to be at rest for a moment: if she demands thy soul, it runs, instantly, to thy lip; and if she waves a sword over thee, thy head falls, immediately, under it. Since an absurd passion, with its basis on air, affects thee so violently, and commands with a sway so despotic, canst thou wonder that they who walk in the true path are overwhelmed in the sea of mysterious adoration? They abandon the world through remembrance of its Creator; they are inebriated with the melody of amorous complainings; they remember their beloved, and resign unto Him both this life and that to come. Through remembrance of God, they shun the whole of mankind; they are so enamoured of the cup-bearer, that they spill the wine from the cup. No panacea can cure them; for no mortal can be apprised of their malady; so loudly have the divine words, Alasto and Balā, the tumultuous exclamation of all spirits, rung in their ears, from time without beginning. They are a sect fully employed, though sitting in retirement; their feet are of earth, but their breath is like flame. With a single shout they could rend a mountain from its base; with a single cry they could throw a city into commotion. Like the wind, they are gone, and more swiftly; like stone, they are silent, yet utter God's praises. At the dawn of day, their tears flow so copiously, as to wash from their eyes the black antimony of sleep; * though the fleet steed of their conception ran so swiftly all night; yet the morning finds them left, in disorder, behind. Night and day they are plunged in an ocean of ardent desire, until they are, through astonishment, unable to distinguish the night from the day. With the peerless beauty of Him, who adorned the human form, so enraptured are they, that, with the beauty of the figure

itself, they have no concern; and whenever they behold a beauteous form, they see in it the mystery of the Almighty's work. The wise take not the husk in exchange for the kernel; and he who makes that choice has no understanding. He alone has drunk the pure wine of unity, who has forgotten, by remembering God, all things besides in both worlds."

Jāmī, the author of the celebrated poem of Laylā and Majnūn, defines the principles of this mystic philosophy in the following words:—"Some wise and holy men are of opinion, that when the Supreme Being sheds the refulgence of his Holy Spirit upon any of his creatures, that creature's essence, attributes, and actions, become so completely absorbed in the essence, the attributes, and the actions of the Creator, that he finds himself in the position of regulator or director, with reference to the rest of the creation, the several existences of which become, as it were, his limbs—nothing happens to any of them, that he does not feel it has happened to himself. In consequence of his individual and utter annihilation, the result of his essential union with the Deity, he sees his own essence to be the essence of the One and Only; his own attributes to be His attributes; and his own actions to be His actions;—and beyond this, there is no stage in progression to complete union with God attainable by man. When the spiritual vision of any man is engrossed by contemplating the beauty of the Divine Essence, by the overpowering influence of the Eternal Spirit, the light of his understanding, which is that quality by which we are enabled to distinguish between things, becomes wholly extinguished; and as 'error passeth away on the appearance of Truth,' so is the power of discriminating, between the perishable and the imperishable, at once removed." *

Few orthodox Muḥammadans give a literal construction to the

words of the Prophet on the subject of predestination, although the Ḳur’ān inculcates such; for they deem it impious so to do, as thereby God would be made the author and cause of man's sin. All Ṣūfis are fatalists, and believe that the principle which emanates from the Almighty can do nothing without His will, and cannot refrain from what He wills that it should do. Some Ṣūfis deny that evil exists at all, because every thing proceeds from God, and must therefore necessarily be good; and they exclaim, with the poet—

"My destiny hath been allotted to the tavern * by the Almighty:
 Then tell me, O teacher! where lieth my crime."