IQBAL KE AHAM SHAREHEE
KA TANQEEDI MOTALA
THESIS
Submitted for the Degree of
(Doctor of (pfiiCosopfiy
IN
Urdu
BY
QAMAR JAHAN SIDDIQUI
Under the Supervision of
(Prof. S. 94.. Tfasftim
DEPARTMENT OF URDU
ALIGARH MUSLIM UNIVERSITY
ALIGARH (INDIA)
2005
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"On the receipt of my mother's f iT-z/f^^ JM'C {jjiJiJ^i ^h/iu^
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^Jjepartment of iqrdu
ALIGARH MUSLIM UNIVERSITY, ALlCARH-202002 (India)
To Whom It May Concern
Dated. j|f. I f?r
This is to certify that Mrs. Qamar Jahan Siddiqui has carried out his
research work entitled Iqbal Ke Aham Shareheen ka Tanqeedi
Motala under my supervision for the award of the degree of Ph.D. in
Urdu of this University. It is an original work and it has not been
previously or presently submitted to any other University.
Coun
Prof. Qazi Afzal Husain
Chairman <^'-^^; ^f.j.ciij
Prof. S.M. Hashim
Supervisor
Deptt. ofUrdu
Sup rv
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• * • •
( • ^
^THE SPIDER AND THE
F L Y ^ L T M A R Y H O W I T T ^ L / ^ ^ /THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
"Will you walk into my parlour?" Said a Spider to a Fly:
"Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour is up a: winding stair.
And I have many pretty things to show you when you're there". "Oh no, no! "said the little Fly: to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
"I'm sure you must be weary with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
"'There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin.
And if you like to rest awhile. Fll snugly tuck you in." "Oh no, no! "said the little Fly, for I've often heard it said. They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed."
THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY.VOI.I.P.IIO L THE SPIDER AND THE FLY BY MARY HOWITT.
(•A
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have, within my pantry, good store of ail that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome-will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no!" said the little Fly: "kind sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and 1 do not wish to see."
"Sweet creature 1" said the Spider, "you're wily and you're wise! How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
1 have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf;
If you'd step in one moment, deaf, you shall behold your- self !"
"I thank you, gentle Sir," she cried, "for what you're pleased to say.
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day." The Spider turned him round about and went into his den. He knew the vain and silly Fly would soon come back again; So he wove tiny web in a corner, on the sly.
And he set his table raadp-to dine upon the Fly.
Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing:
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing. Your robes are green and purple-there's a crest upon your head.
! • < ;
Your eyes are like the diamond brigiit but mine are dull a lead."
Alas! alas I how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by: With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, her green and purple hue. And dreaming of her crested head-poor foolish thing ! At last
Up jumped the cunning Spider and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismel den, Within his little parlour-and she ne'er came down again.
And now, do you take warning, all who this story hear, To idle, silly, flattering words I pray you ne'er give ear;
To all deceitful counsellors close ear, and heart, and eye,
And take a lesion from this tale of the Spider and the Fly
''THE COW AND kSS'f\Jd^^SSm TAYLOR ^^J^j?^
T H E C O W AND THE ASS
Beside a green meadow a stream used to flow. So clear, you might see the white pebbles below.
To this cooling brook the warm cattle would stray, To stand in the shade, on a hot summer's day.
A cow' quite oppressed by the heat of the sun. Came here to refresh, as she often had done;
And standing quite still, stooping over the stream. Was musing perhaps; or perhaps she might dream. But soon a brown ass of respectable look
Came trotting up also, to taste of the brook,
And to nibble a few of the daisies and grass:
"How d'ye do?" said the cow. -"How d'ye do?" said the ass. "Take a seat !" said the cow, gently waving her hand. "By no means, dear madam," said he, "while you stand !"
"Ma-am, your health 1" said the ass "Thank you, sir!" said the e c u .
When a few of these compliments more had been passed. They laid themselves down on the herbage at last;
And waited politely-as gentlemen
must-The ass held his tongue, that the cow might speak first.
Then with a deep sigh, she directly began:
'Don't you think, Mr. Ass, we are injured by man? T i s a subject which lies with a weight on my mind: We really are greatly oppressed by mankind.
"Pray what is the reason-I see none at
ail-That I always must go when Suke chooses to call? Whatever I'm doing-'tis certainly
hard-I'm forced to leave off to be milked in the yard.
I've no will of my own, but must do as they please,
And give them my milk to make butter and cheese:
Sometimes I endeavour to knock down the pail. Or give suke a box on the ear with my tail !"
"But, Mam'am", said the ass, not presuming to
teach---Oh dear! I beg pardon-pray finish your speech; Excuse my mistake", said the complaisant swain; "Go on, and I'll not interrupt you again."
"Why, Sir, I was just then about to observe,
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But leave them forever to do as they please.
And look somewhere else for their butter and cheese." Ass waited a moment, as gentleman can.
And then, 'Not presuming to teach." he began. "Permit me to say, since my thoughts you invite, 1 always saw things in a different light.
"That you afford man an important supply. No ass in his senses would ever deny; But then in return, 'tis but fair to allow
They are of some service to you, Mistress Cow. ""Tis their pleasant meadow in which you repose, And they find you a shelter from winterly snows; For comforts like these we're indebted to man. And for him, in return, should do all that we can." The cow, upon this, cast her eyes on the grass. Not pleased to be schooled in this way by an ass; "Yet," said she to herself, "though he's not very bright, I really believe that the fellow is right."
i i r
cf MATILDA BETHAM ED\NARDSJ^lb^^Ji/^^^^J^
- ^ f U L ^ 6 v ^ ^ > ^ v y ^ ^ ^ " A CHILD HYMN" A.^/jf
A C h i l d ' s Hymn
God make my l i f e a l i t t l e light. W i t h i n the w o r l d to g l o w ;
A little flame that burneth bright,
Wherever I may go.
God make my life a little flower That giveth joy to ail.
(ir
Content to bloom in native bower,
Altiiough tiie place be small.
God make my life a little song
That comforteh the sad .
That helpeth others to be strong
And makes the singer glad. God make my life a little staff Whereon the weak may rest,
That so what health and strength 1 have May serve my neighbours best.
God make my life a little hymn
Of tenderness and praise.
Of faith that never waneth dim
In all His wondrous ways.
( 1 ^
^. / ^ 3^^ L . /^. ^ Su^iS^j:i^ S^^ ^ J^ if'I- / Jr-v (i^
^ T H E MOTHER'S DREAM ^ j ^ ' / j / c f "WILLIAM BRACHES"
The Mother's Dream
I'd a dream to-night
As I feel asleep
Oh! the touching sight
Make me will to weep
Of my little lad,
Aye, the child I had.
But was not to keep,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of Nature and of grace.
Those christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.
(William Braches) The Poetical Works of William Cooper
111
11^
• ** i
^^ i^uTlir ^ ^ V ^ ' ^ ^ ^ z / ^ C ^ A T H E W ARNOLD)
(MEMORIAL ;^vi (J:y:^^y^lj^(/(WILLIAM WORDS WORTH)
: ^ J'J^7>a>>'v^iri^L/'^c/'^^ VERSES)
MEMORIAL VERSES
Goethe in Weimer sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
But one such death remain'd to come. The last poetic verse is dumb.
What shall be said o'er Wordsworth's tomb? And Wordsworth - Ah, pale ghosts! Rejoice!
For ever has such soothing voice
Been to your shadowy world convey'd Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
IIA
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.
Wordsworth is gone from us-anp ye,
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we.
He too upon the wintry clime
Had fallen-on this iron time .
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbeing round:
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth. Smiles broke from us and we had ease; The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd; for there was shed,
On spirits that had long been dead.
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd. The freshness of the early word.
* ' * > I, ^^ » ^ ^ ' ^ • • » >
"ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHERS PICTURE''^
"ON THE RECEIPT OF ^'S (Wiliam Cowper)y/(^/'t^^ L ( / ^ i y
' ^ ( J l ' ( j : ! : ^ c t ' v L - / / f ^ i - ^ y O i j D ^ ^ M Y MOTHERS PICTURE"
ir*
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE
Oh that these lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thine own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails. Else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bleat be the art that can immortalize. The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on the still the same My mother ! when 1 learn'd that thou wast dead.
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss: Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in
bliss-Ah that maternal smile! it answers-yes.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
The mighty visits to my chamber made.
in
Thy morning bounties ere 1 left my home.
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd;
All this, and more endearing still than all. Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall.
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and brakes
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so, to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay. Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heay'n, though little notic'd Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
1 prick'd them into paper with a pin.
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Would'st softly speak and stroke my head and smile)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear,
Might one wish string them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
-\n
But no-what here we call our life is such.
So little to be lov'd and thou so much. That 1 should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
My beast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud preteasions rise-The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now, farewell-time, unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain.
1 seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine :
And, while the wings of fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee.
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left.
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