The days went by with weary feet, and the night still looked upon a lonely heart, for the Arab law maintained that years must pass before one breath of freedom could be given to the woman in the rock-bound tower. But Lailī arose one morn with a new light in her dark eyes, and called her faithful Zyd, the boy who had long served his gentle lady, and to whom her word was the law supreme. To him she said:
THE MEETING IN THE DESERT.
Then with her faithful attendant she went cautiously forth, and together they threaded their way over the desolate sand and through the grove of palms; but she stayed not to gather the lilies blooming around her feet—she waited not to catch the breath of the roses, or to drink of the tiny stream, whose life-giving waves had made this little oasis to bloom like a garden in the midst of the desert. But she hastened on her way, and the boy ran by her side wondering why she sped so quickly through the grove. On, beyond its cooling shade and over the barren steepes, she pressed with unfaltering feet until she saw the haggard form of her lover; then she stepped gently to his side and laid her hand upon his arm. “Ah! Majnūn, it is thy Lailī that has come;” his mind awoke with one glad cry, for the familiar voice with its caressing tones rang with the notes of peace and joy through the darkened chambers of his brain. For one glad moment he held her in his arms, and then, overcome with emotion, he fainted at her feet. She quickly knelt beside him, and then
Then the beauteous vision rested within his arms, with her dark ringlets flowing around her smooth neck, and the sweet confession of her love beaming in her tremulous eyes. He saw her chin of dimpled sweetness, and the soft cheek with its crimson flush, then her matchless voice came again to his ears with its message of tenderness.
The tempted lover listened, with his soul in his longing eyes, but he knew that he could not make her his wife according to the Arab law—they could not be legally wedded, and his love for her was too pure and unselfish to accept the sacrifice that she proposed to make. To him, then, was given the hardest task ever given into lover’s hands—that of saving the woman that he worshipped from his own embrace. After the years of suffering that had been his, could he push the tempting cup from his thirsting lip? Was the weakened frame strong enough to carry out the dictates of his will? Nay, did God require such a sacrifice after all these years of loyalty and truth? Were they not already wedded in his pure sight? Had she not always been his own in the eyes of heaven? These questions surged through his throbbing brain as he held the woman he loved in his close embrace. One sweet taste of heaven, surely the Lord had given, in the desert of his wasted life—one moment of bliss wherein he might taste the lips he had hungered for, so long. But should he therefore outrage his own conscience, and sacrifice the woman he loved, for the temporary enjoyment of the present life? His manhood and his conscience answered, never. He clasped her closer to his aching heart—he kissed again the tempting lips—his eyes lingered with one long sad look upon the lovely face, and then he slowly answered:
With another kiss upon the silent lips—another close embrace, the manly lover tore himself away to another struggle between death and life; still warring in the unequal strife with fate, he told to the desert wind, his piteous tale:
DEATH OF THE LOVERS.
Time passed by on leaden feet, for he no longer carried in his hands the flowers of hope. No longer the bare horizon of the desert was illumined with the mirage of rivers and palms. Fate had done her worst, and Death, the great consoler, waited near to place his seal with the touch of peace upon the weary brow. The flower of the desert lay again in the tower where she had passed so many wasted years, and feeling that her life was going out with the glory of the setting sun, she called her mother to her side and pleaded that when she was gone Majnūn might be allowed to weep over her grave.
His sad duty was done, and the bereaved lover lay unconscious at his feet. With gentle ministry the stricken man was roused from his swoon, and then he started toward the loved one’s grave.
The troubled day was closing fast in night, and though he received the kindly ministry of his friends, only a few more weeks had passed away, when the stricken lover was found with his head resting lovingly upon her tomb, while upon his loyal brow there rested the peaceful touch of death. His weary heart had found rest at last, rest beyond the fevered dream of life, with all its anxious hopes and fears. Reverent hands opened Lailī’s tomb, and they laid the stilled heart beside her own.
THE VISION OF ZYD.
No heart more loyal was left behind than that of the faithful page who so long had done the lady’s bidding. He often pondered on the faith and devotion of the lovers, and one night he slept alone beneath the desert sky, when the canopy of heaven seemed to roll away. A new morning seemed to dawn in glory upon the waiting earth, and touch the distant mountain peaks with crowns of light. Beneath the radiance of its coming, the secrets of the earth, which had been written in the roll-call of the ages, were read by the waiting millions, for the age of recompense had come. The desert sands gave way to vistas of golden fruit and blooming roses; the white lilies gleamed amidst the green verdure, and the almond blossoms waved in silvery sprays upon the passing breeze. The nightingale sang in fadeless bowers, and the low, sweet voices of the ring-doves were heard among the feathery plumes of the palms. The desert voices gave way to the rich melodies from harp and shell. The fronded palms pressed upward, and a royal throne, with gems and gold, stood beneath their protecting shade.
This cup was filled with the nectar of immortality, and, quaffing its rich contents, they wandered away, hand in hand, through the long aisles of unfading flowers.
Zyd wakened from his wondrous dream, and, rejoicing, told the story of his glad vision. The sons of the desert took up the mystic theme, and still repeat the promise that pure and loyal love can never fail of its final reward.
CHAPTER XV.
THIRD PERIOD.
GENGHIS KHĀN—JALAL-UDDIN RŪMI—SĀ’DĪ—WORKS OF SĀ’DĪ—THE BŪSTĀN—THE PEARL—KINDNESS TO THE UNWORTHY—SILENCE THE SAFETY OF IGNORANCE—DARIUS AND HIS HORSE-KEEPER—STORIES FROM THE GŪLISTĀN—THE WISE WRESTLER—DANGERS OF PROSPERITY—BORES.
The third period of Persian poetry, which may be called the mystic and moral age, is assigned to the thirteenth century.
It was at this time that Genghis Khān, the Tartar chief, swept like a mountain torrent over the East. His first attack was upon the countries beyond the Oxus, where the devotees of science had taken refuge during the invasion of Persia by the Arabs. Bokhāra and Samarcānd were then the homes of scholars and the centres of civilization. Their colleges and libraries were celebrated throughout the Orient, but during the great Tartar invasion these cities were both destroyed, being stormed and burned by the Tartar horde, while more than two hundred thousand lives were sacrificed to the cruelty of the invading host. Bagdad was also devastated, the colleges destroyed and the most valuable books in the libraries were thrown into the Tigris.
During these stormy times the courts of the descendants of the Selucidæ were sought by scholars as places of refuge, some of their princes being literary men. A prince of this dynasty, by the name of Alladin Kaikūbad, became somewhat celebrated in the world of letters, and during his reign Iconium became the refuge of scholars from the Asiatic nations, who felt that on the western frontiers of the continent they were more secure from the attacks of the barbarians. The brightest ornament of this court was the mystic poet and philosopher,
JALAL-UDDIN RŪMI.[266]
His father was the founder of a college at Iconium in Syria, but after his father’s death Jalal-uddin went to Aleppo and Damascus to continue his studies, and finally succeeded to the direction of the college. His literary fame rests upon his Mesnevi, a work in six volumes, which is a series of stories with moral maxims. Some portions of this work may be compared to the Hitapodeśa, while other parts appear to be an imitation of the Book of Proverbs or Ecclesiastes. He was, however, the author of several lyrics that are worthy of preservation; of these the following is, perhaps, the best:
THE FAIREST LAND.
The most important bard of this period was
SĀ’DĪ.
Shaikh Sā’dī, as he is called, was born at Shīrāz,[267] while his country was under Turkish rule. He was educated at a college in Bagdad, where he lived until he was sixty-four years of age, when he had obtained an enviable reputation as a poet and orator. In later years, when the Tartar Chief Halāku Khān had overrun the adjacent territory and captured Bagdad, Sā’dī, with many others, was obliged to flee. He visited different parts of Europe, Africa, and even Asia as far as India.
The poet was twice married, but his caustic criticisms upon womankind would indicate that both of these ventures were unfortunate; the last was especially so. He had been living at Damascus, but becoming tired of the society that he found there, he wandered into the desert of Palestine. Here he was captured by the Crusaders, and forced to work in the mud with the Jewish captives, upon the fortifications at Tripoli. A chief belonging to Aleppo found him there, and recognizing him, he paid ten pieces of silver as the poet’s ransom, and carried him to his own home in Aleppo. It appears that the chief had a beautiful daughter, with a temper like a vixen; she had a dower, however, of an hundred pieces of silver, and by a little careful management of her temper and an artful exhibition of her beauty she finally succeeded in marrying Sā’dī. Of course his home was far from being a paradise, and her beauty soon lost its charms for her husband. Upon one occasion she tauntingly asked him, “Are you not the fellow that my father bought for ten pieces of silver?” “Yes,” retorted the poet, “and he sold me to you for an hundred pieces.”
Sā’dī had a son and a daughter, who were the children of his first wife; the son, to whom he was devotedly attached, died in infancy, but the daughter lived to become the wife of the celebrated poet Hāfiz. Sā’dī closed his long life at Shīrāz, where it began, having lived more than a hundred years.[268] He is honored as a saint by the Mohammedans, and his tomb called Sādiya, near Shīrāz, is visited by many pilgrims, and is also a resort for European travelers.
THE WORKS OF SĀ’DĪ.
This author was an accomplished linguist, and M. De Tassy[269] claims that he was the first poet who wrote verse in the Hindūstānī dialect. He also wrote freely in Arabic as well as Persian. His style is vigorous and unusually simple for a Persian poet, but like all the others, he sometimes indulges in fulsome flattery, and florid description. His largest work is the Diwān, which is a collection of lyric poetry, but it is not so much admired as some of his smaller works. Indeed his lyric poems do not possess the graceful ease of Hāfiz’s songs, but they are full of pathos, and like his other works, they show a fearless love of truth, and a tone of pure morality. Although he was the author of many works, the most popular among European scholars are the Būstān, or Fruit Garden, and the Gūlistān, or Rose Garden, both of which are dedicated to the reigning king.
THE BŪSTĀN.
This is a work consisting of ten chapters of didactic verse, and it teaches lessons of morality and prudence in the form of poetic fable. It has been published in Calcutta, Lahore and Cawnpore, as well as in the capitals of Europe. It has been translated into German, French, English and other tongues, always retaining more or less of the popularity which it still enjoys in its native idiom.
The following[270] are the best specimens of this peculiar verse:
THE PEARL.
KINDNESS TO THE UNWORTHY.
SILENCE THE SAFETY OF IGNORANCE.
DARIUS AND HIS HORSE-KEEPER.
STORIES FROM THE GŪLISTĀN.
The Gūlistān is the best of Sā’dī’s works, and one of the most popular of the Persian classics. It has been translated into the dialects of India, as well as the languages of Europe, and the Latin version of Gentius has long been popular with European scholars.
It has acquired a greater popularity, both in the East and the West, than any other work by the same author, on account of the graceful style of its composition, and the varied character of its contents. It is a collection of short stories, each of which is intended to illustrate some cardinal principle. There are one hundred and eighty-eight of these sketches, while the final chapter is devoted to “Rules for the Conduct of Life.” Many of these rules, like the Dhammapada of Būddha, appear to have been founded upon the proverbs of Solomon. Of the sketches, the following[271] are the best.
THE WISE WRESTLER.
A celebrated athlete taught the art of wrestling to Persian youths, and so great was his dexterity that his pupils learned hundreds of different methods whereby an antagonist could be thrown. Indeed, it was said that the teacher understood three hundred and sixty capital sleights in this art, and every day exhibited some new feat to his pupils. He had one favorite pupil, whose fine proportions and manly bearing were the admiration of the master, and he taught him three hundred and fifty-nine of these sleights. The young man became very proficient, and at length very boastful. He gloried in his youth and fine physical development, as well as his proficiency in the art, and after a time he boasted, even in the presence of the Sultan, that no one was able to cope with him—that he merely allowed his master to maintain a superiority over him in deference to his years, and also in consideration of the fact, that he had been his tutor.
The Sultan was disgusted with the conceit of the young wrestler, and commanded him to make a trial of his skill in the royal presence, choosing his former tutor as his opponent. The ministers of state and many officials of the court were in attendance, and the young champion entered the field with all the confidence and insolence of his nature—indeed it is said that “he entered with a percussion that would have removed a mountain of iron.” The old master stood calmly awaiting the fiery youth, whose strength he well knew far excelled his own, but when he came up to him, the tutor made the attack with the sleight the knowledge of which he had kept to himself.
The young boaster was taken at a disadvantage, and was helpless in the hands of the master, who took him up from the ground, and threw him over his head, leaving him prostrate upon the earth.
The wildest cheers of delight rang through the assembled multitudes, and the Sultan commanded that a rich reward be given to the tutor. The discomfited youth complained to the royal donor that his master had not gained the victory over him through strength or skill, but had kept from him one little feint in the art of wrestling, and by this means had taken the advantage of him.
The master then observed, “I reserved it for an occasion like this; the sages have taught us not to put oneself so much in the power of a supposed friend that, should he become an enemy, he may be able to injure you.”
DANGERS OF PROSPERITY.
A certain king, who was dying without an heir to the throne, directed in the royal will that, on the morning after his death, the first person who came in through the gates of the city should receive the crown of royalty and the care of the kingdom. It happened that the first man who came in, was in the depths of poverty, and his life was a struggle with hardship and suffering. The ministers of state, however, placed the crown of royalty upon the head of the astonished man, and he was delighted with the wonderful change in his fortune. After a time, however, the nobles of his court rebelled against his rule, the surrounding kings formed hostile combinations against him, and he learned that no position in life is exempt from trials. His troops were thrown into confusion, the peasantry sympathized with the leaders of the revolt and he soon lost possession of the disputed territories.
In the midst of these political misfortunes and military defeats, an old friend, who had been the companion of the king in the days of his poverty, returned from a long trip, and called to congratulate him upon the radical change in his fortunes.
But the unfortunate monarch replied, “Oh, my brother! this is not a time for congratulations, but for condolence; when you last saw me I was anxious only to obtain my bread, but now I have all the cares of the world to encounter. There is, indeed, no calamity greater than worldly prosperity; if therefore you want riches, seek only for contentment, which is inestimable wealth. If a rich man should throw money into your lap, consider yourself under no obligations to him, for the kindness of a humble and genuine friend is better than the alms of the rich.”
BORES.
A busy student complained to his teacher that his time was constantly taken up by visitors. People, whose time is of no value to them, do not consider that any one else may value theirs; they therefore present themselves continually and gossip of people or things, merely to pass away the time and waste the golden hours. “How can I be relieved of them?” pleaded the pupil. His tutor replied, “To such of them as are poor, lend money, and from those that are rich, ask favors; then you may rest assured that they will cease to trouble you. If a beggar were the leader of the Mohammedan army, the infidels would flee to China, through fear of his importunity.”
CHAPTER XVI.
LATER PERIODS.
THE FOURTH PERIOD—LITERARY KINGS—HĀFIZ—PĪR-I-SEBZ—SHĪRĀZ—THE FEAST OF SPRING—MY BIRD—FIFTH PERIOD—JĀMI—THE WORKS OF JĀMI—RECEPTION—THE SIXTH PERIOD—THE SEVENTH PERIOD.
The fourth period, which began at the close of the thirteenth century and continued until the beginning of the fifteenth, represents the highest development of lyric poetry and rhetoric, although these were stormy times in the political and literary world.
During this period Persia had many men of culture, and, indeed, she boasted of one literary king.
Sultān Ahmed Ilkhāni, who reigned over Bagdad, Azerbaijān, and some parts of Asia Minor, conducted his court with great pomp and splendor. He was one of the most accomplished men of the age, being an artist and illuminator as well as a musical composer. His beautiful calligraphy, in various languages, was highly celebrated, and his poetical productions, in both the Persian and Turkish tongues, were considered very meritorious. His moral character, however, presented a sad contrast to his intellectual attainments, and his remorseless cruelty made him an object of detestation to his subjects. He was entirely merciless when intoxicated with opium, and on these occasions he would put people to death on the most trivial pretenses. His conduct provoked the enmity of the influential families of Bagdad, and at length the public sentiment against him became so strong that letters were written by the principal men, inviting Amir Timūr (Tamerlane) to the conquest of their country, and pledging him their assistance. The invitation was gladly accepted, and when the hostile intentions of the conqueror became known, the poetical Sultan sent him the following message:
The sentiment was given in Persian verse, and Timūr soon found a poet who could write a suitable response, when the following answer was returned:
Soon afterward Timūr approached Bagdad,[272] and he not only captured that city and province, but he proved to be the veritable scourge of the Orient. The country had scarcely recovered from the ravages of Genghis Khān when Timūr conquered the whole of ancient Persia, and, flushed with success, he invaded India and sacked Delhi, where he obtained the richest spoils of his campaign. It was said that he erected towers of human heads,[273] waded through streams of blood, and marched over the ruins of burning cities, in order to achieve his triumphs.
Such men are scarcely calculated to encourage the science of letters, but it is claimed that he was friendly to scholars, and it is certain that history was developed during this period.
HĀFIZ.
Not only history, but also poetry flourished under the rule of the Mongol conqueror.[274] This was the period which gave birth to the finest lyric poet of Persia, and when the great Timūr conquered Fārs and put Shah Mansūr to death, Hāfiz was in Shīrāz.
It was at this time that he was ordered into the presence of the new ruler, and severely reproved for writing such a line as the following:
“For the black mole on thy cheek, I would give the cities of Samarcānd and Bokhāra.”
Timūr sternly said to the poet, “I have taken and destroyed, with the keen edge of my sword, the greatest kingdoms of the earth, to add splendor and population to the royal cities of my native land,—Samarcānd and Bokhāra; and yet you would dispose of them both at once for the black mole on the cheek of your beloved.”
Instead of being daunted by the sternness of the reproof, Hāfiz calmly replied, “Yes, sire, and it is by such acts of generosity that I am reduced, as you see, to my present state of poverty.”
Timūr smiled, and bestowed upon him some splendid marks of the royal favor.
The name of Hāfiz was a nom de plume, the poet’s true name being Shemsuddin Muhammed; he was born in Shīrāz early in the fourteenth century, and it was here that he died at an advanced age. He was a student from his childhood, but his especial talent was the gift of song. His style is clear, his imagery harmonious, and his work had a certain fascination of its own to the poetry-loving Persians, who are still charmed with the peculiar accent of his musical rhythm, and the flights of his vivid imagination. He was invited to make his home with the reigning Sultan, but he preferred to live in retirement, enjoying the society of friends and scholars, to the splendor and insecurity of court life.
Hāfiz was also invited to the court of one of the Indian princes, at a time when many poets of Persia and Arabia found favor with a literary king, and this courtesy he intended to accept, as the monarch sent a liberal amount of money with the invitation to present himself at the royal abode. The poet gave a portion of the money to his creditors, and supplied the needs of his sister’s children, before he started out upon his journey. When he had crossed the Indus and traveled as far as Lahore, he met a friend who was in great distress, having been robbed by banditti, and to him he gave all his means without considering his own needs. But fortunately he soon met two Persian merchants, who were returning from Hindūstān, and who proposed to pay his expenses for the pleasure of his company. They journeyed together to the Persian Gulf, and he even went with them on board the ship that was to bear them away, but before the anchor was weighed a terrible storm arose, and the poet turned his back upon his friends, and returned home.
Before leaving the shore, he sent on board the ship an apology to his friends, and this was couched in graceful verse, but it was to the effect that at first the horrors of the sea seemed light in consideration of the pearls which it contained, but the terror of the storm had taught him that “the infliction of one of its waves would not be compensated for by an hundred-weight of gold.”
PĪR-I-SEBZ.
There is a legend connected with his youth which is supposed to explain his wondrous gift of poesy. Tradition claimed that the youth who should pass forty successive nights at Pīr-i-sebz without sleep, would become a great poet. Young Hāfiz therefore made a vow, that he would fulfill the conditions with the utmost exactness. For thirty-nine days he went faithfully to his post, walking every morning by the home of the girl he loved, and on the fortieth morning she called him in, but he remembered his vow and the evening found him again at the place of his lonely vigil.
The uneventful night passed slowly away, and the gray dawn began to tint the distant mountain tops, but no other light was visible save the gleam of the morning star, when the watcher saw in the distance a figure approaching him. It was a venerable man wearing a green mantle,[275] and his white beard flowed down upon his garments like a cascade of silver. He bore in his hand a cup, filled with the nectar of immortality, and the reverent youth bent low before the genius of the mountain, and then drank eagerly of the proffered cup; therefore he still lives in the memory of man.
He was loyal to his native land, and the following lines indicate his strong attachment to the city of his birth.