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PERSIAN LITERATURE

comprising

THE SHÁH NÁMEH, THE RUBÁIYÁT THE DIVAN, AND THE GULISTAN

Revised Edition, Volume 1

1909

With a special introduction by
RICHARD J. H. GOTTHEIL, Ph.D.

SPECIAL INTRODUCTION

A certain amount of romantic interest has always attached to Persia. With a continuous history stretching back into those dawn-days of history in which fancy loves to play, the mention of its name brings to our minds the vision of things beautiful and artistic, the memory of great deeds and days of chivalry. We seem almost to smell the fragrance of the rose-gardens of Tus and of Shiraz, and to hear the knight-errants tell of war and of love. There are other Oriental civilizations, whose coming and going have not been in vain for the world; they have done their little bit of apportioned work in the universe, and have done it well. India and Arabia have had their great poets and their great heroes, yet they have remained well-nigh unknown to the men and women of our latter day, even to those whose world is that of letters. But the names of Firdusi, Sa'di, Omar Khayyám, Jami, and Háfiz, have a place in our own temples of fame. They have won their way into the book-stalls and stand upon our shelves, side by side with the other books which mould our life and shape our character.

Some reason there must be for the special favor which we show to these products of Persian genius, and for the hold which they have upon us. We need not go far to find it. The under-current forces, which determine our own civilization of to-day, are in a general way the same forces which were at play during the heyday of Persian literary production. We owe to the Hellenic spirit, which at various times has found its way into our midst, our love for the beautiful in art and in literature. We owe to the Semitic, which has been inbreathed into us by religious forms and beliefs, the tone of our better life, the moral level to which we aspire. The same two forces were at work in Persia. Even while that country was purely Iránian, it was always open to Semitic influences. The welding together of the two civilizations is the true signature of Persian history. The likeness which is so evident between the religion of the Avesta, the sacred book of the pre-Mohammedan Persians, and the religion of the Old and New Testaments, makes it in a sense easy for us to understand these followers of Zoroaster. Persian poetry, with its love of life and this-worldliness, with its wealth of imagery and its appeal to that which is human in all men, is much more readily comprehended by us than is the poetry of all the rest of the Orient. And, therefore, Goethe, Platen, Rückert, von Schack, Fitzgerald, and Arnold have been able to re-sing their masterpieces so as to delight and instruct our own days—of which thing neither India nor Arabia can boast.

Tales of chivalry have always delighted the Persian ear. A certain inherent gayety of heart, a philosophy which was not so sternly vigorous as was that of the Semite, lent color to his imagination. It guided the hands of the skilful workmen in the palaces of Susa and Persepolis, and fixed the brightly colored tiles upon their walls. It led the deftly working fingers of their scribes and painters to illuminate their manuscripts so gorgeously as to strike us with wonder at the assemblage of hues and the boldness of designs. Their Zoroaster was never deified. They could think of his own doings and of the deeds of the mighty men of valor who lived before and after him with very little to hinder the free play of their fancy. And so this fancy roamed up and down the whole course of Persian history: taking a long look into the vista of the past, trying even to lift the veil which hides from mortal sight the beginnings of all things; intertwining fact with fiction, building its mansions on earth, and its castles in the air.

The greatest of all Eastern national epics is the work of a Persian. The "Sháh Námeh," or Book of Kings, may take its place most worthily by the side of the Indian Nala, the Homeric Iliad, the German Niebelungen. Its plan is laid out on a scale worthy of its contents, and its execution is equally worthy of its planning. One might almost say that with it neo-Persian literature begins its history. There were poets in Persia before the writer of the "Sháh Námeh"—Rudagi, the blind (died 954), Zandshi (950), Chusravani (tenth century). There were great poets during his own day. But Firdusi ranks far above them all; and at the very beginning sets up so high a standard that all who come after him must try to live up to it, or else they will sink into oblivion.

The times in which Firdusi lived were marked by strange revolutions. The Arabs, filled with the daring which Mohammed had breathed into them, had indeed conquered Persia. In A.D. 657, when Merv fell, and the last Sassanian king, Yezdegird III, met his end, these Arabs became nominally supreme. Persia had been conquered—but not the Persian spirit. Even though Turkish speech reigned supreme at court and the Arabic script became universal, the temper of the old Arsacides and Sassanians still lived on. It is true that Ormuzd was replaced by Allah, and Ahriman by Satan. But the Persian had a glorious past of his own; and in this the conquered was far above the conqueror. This past was kept alive in the myth-loving mind of this Aryan people; in the songs of its poets and in the lays of its minstrels. In this way there was, in a measure, a continuous opposition of Persian to Arab, despite the mingling of the two in Islam; and the opposition of Persian Shiites to the Sunnites of the rest of the Mohammedan world at this very day is a curious survival of racial antipathy. The fall of the only real Arab Mohammedan dynasty—that of the Umayyid caliphs at Damascus—the rise of the separate and often opposing dynasties in Spain, Sicily, Egypt, and Tunis, served to strengthen the Persians in their desire to keep alive their historical individuality and their ancient traditions.

Firdusi was not the first, as he was not the only one, to collect the old epic materials of Persia. In the Avesta itself, with its ancient traditions, much can be found. More than this was handed down and bandied about from mouth to mouth. Some of it had even found its way into the Kalam of the Scribe; to-wit, the "Zarer, or Memorials of the Warriors" (A.D. 500), the "History of King Ardeshir" (A.D. 600), the Chronicles of the Persian Kings. If we are to trust Baisonghur's preface to the "Sháh Námeh," there were various efforts made from time to time to put together a complete story of the nation's history, by Farruchani, Ramin, and especially by the Dihkan Danishwar (A.D. 651). The work of this Danishwar, the "Chodainameh" (Book of Kings), deserves to be specially singled out. It was written, not in neo-Persian and Arabic script, but in what scholars call middle-Persian and in what is known as the Pahlavi writing. It was from this "Chodainameh" that Abu Mansur, lord of Tus, had a "Sháh Námeh" of his own prepared in the neo-Persian. And then, to complete the tale, in 980 a certain Zoroastrian whose name was Dakiki versified a thousand lines of this neo-Persian Book of Kings.

In this very city of Tus, Abul Kasim Mansur (or Ahmed) Firdusi was born, A.D. 935. One loves to think that perhaps he got his name from the Persian-Arabic word for garden; for, verily, it was he that gathered into one garden all the beautiful flowers which had blossomed in the fancy of his people. As he has draped the figures in his great epic, so has an admiring posterity draped his own person. His fortune has been interwoven with the fame of that Mahmud of Ghazna (998-1030), the first to bear the proud title of "Sultan," the first to carry Mohammed and the prophets into India. The Round Table of Mahmud cannot be altogether a figment of the imagination. With such poets as Farruchi, Unsuri, Minutsheri, with such scientists as Biruni and Avicenna as intimates, what wonder that Firdusi was lured by the splendors of a court life! But before he left his native place he must have finished his epic, at least in its rough form; for we know that in 999 he dedicated it to Ahmad ibn Muhammad of Chalandsha. He had been working at it steadily since 971, but had not yet rounded it out according to the standard which he had set for himself. Occupying the position almost of a court poet, he continued to work for Mahmud, and this son of a Turkish slave became a patron of letters. On February 25, 1010, his work was finished. As poet laureate, he had inserted many a verse in praise of his master. Yet the story goes, that though this master had covenanted for a gold dirhem a line, he sent Firdusi sixty thousand silver ones, which the poet spurned and distributed as largesses and hied him from so ungenerous a master.

It is a pretty tale. Yet some great disappointment must have been his lot, for a lampoon which he wrote a short time afterwards is filled with the bitterest satire upon the prince whose praises he had sung so beautifully. Happily, the satire does not seem to have gotten under the eyes of Mahmud; it was bought off by a friend, for one thousand dirhems a verse. But Firdusi was a wanderer; we find him in Herat, in Taberistán, and then at the Buyide Court of Bagdad, where he composed his "Yusuf and Salikha," a poem as Mohammedan in spirit as the "Sháh Námeh" was Persian. In 1021, or 1025, he returned to Tus to die, and to be buried in his own garden—because his mind had not been orthodox enough that his body should rest in sacred ground. At the last moment—the story takes up again—Mahmud repented and sent the poet the coveted gold. The gold arrived at one gate while Firdusi's body was being carried by at another; and it was spent by his daughter in the building of a hospice near the city. For the sake of Mahmud let us try to believe the tale.

We know much about the genesis of this great epic, the "Sháh Námeh"; far more than we know about the make-up of the other great epics in the world's literature. Firdusi worked from written materials; but he produced no mere labored mosaic. Into it all he has breathed a spirit of freshness and vividness: whether it be the romance of Alexander the Great and the exploits of Rustem, or the love scenes of Zál and Rodhale, of Bezhan and Manezhe, of Gushtásp and Kitayim. That he was also an excellent lyric poet, Firdusi shows in the beautiful elegy upon the death of his only son; a curious intermingling of his personal woes with the history of his heroes. A cheerful vigor runs through it all. He praises the delights of wine-drinking, and does not despise the comforts which money can procure. In his descriptive parts, in his scenes of battle and encounters, he is not often led into the delirium of extravagance. Sober-minded and free from all fanaticism, he leans not too much to Zoroaster or to Mohammed, though his desire to idealize his Iránian heroes leads him to excuse their faith to his readers. And so these fifty or more thousand verses, written in the Arabic heroic Mutakarib metre, have remained the delight of the Persians down to this very day—when the glories of the land have almost altogether departed and Mahmud himself is all forgotten of his descendants.

Firdusi introduces us to the greatness of Mahmud of Ghazna's court. Omar Khayyám takes us into its ruins; for one of the friends of his boyhood days was Nizam al-Mulk, the grandson of that Toghrul the Turk, who with his Seljuks had supplanted the Persian power. Omar's other friend was Ibn Sabbah, the "old Man of the Mountain," the founder of the Assassins. The doings of both worked misery upon Christian Europe, and entailed a tremendous loss of life during the Crusades. As a sweet revenge, that same Europe has taken the first of the trio to its bosom, and has made of Omar Khayyám a household friend. "My tomb shall be in a spot where the north wind may scatter roses" is said to have been one of Omar's last wishes. He little thought that those very roses from the tomb in which he was laid to rest in 1123 would, in the nineteenth century, grace the spot where his greatest modern interpreter—Fitzgerald—lies buried in the little English town of Woodbridge!

The author of the famous Quatrains—Omar Ibn Ibrahim al-Khayyám—not himself a tent-maker, but so-called, as are the Smiths of our own day—was of the city of Níshapúr. The invention of the Rubáiyát, or Epigram, is not to his credit. That honor belongs to Abu Said of Khorasan (968-1049), who used it as a means of expressing his mystic pantheism. But there is an Omar Khayyám club in London—not one bearing the name of Abu Said. What is the bond which binds the Rubáiyát-maker in far-off Persia to the literati of modern Anglo-Saxondom?

By his own people Omar was persecuted for his want of orthodoxy; and yet his grave to this day is held in much honor. By others he was looked upon as a Mystic. Reading the five hundred or so authentic quatrains one asks, Which is the real Omar? Is it he who sings of wine and of pleasure, who seems to preach a life of sensual enjoyment? or is it the stern preacher, who criticises all, high and low; priest, dervish, and Mystic—yea, even God himself? I venture to say that the real Omar is both; or, rather, he is something higher than is adequately expressed in these two words. The Ecclesiastes of Persia, he was weighed down by the great questions of life and death and morality, as was he whom people so wrongly call "the great sceptic of the Bible." The "Weltschmerz" was his, and he fought hard within himself to find that mean way which philosophers delight in pointing out. If at times Omar does preach carpe diem, if he paint in his exuberant fancy the delights of carousing, Fitzgerald is right—he bragged more than he drank. The under-current of a serious view of life runs through all he has written; the love of the beautiful in nature—a sense of the real worth of certain things and the worthlessness of the Ego. Resignation to what is man's evident fate; doing well what every day brings to be done—this is his own answer. It was Job's—it was that of Ecclesiastes.

This same "Weltschmerz" is ours to-day; therefore Omar Khayyám is of us beloved. He speaks what often we do not dare to speak; one of his quatrains can be more easily quoted than some of those thoughts can be formulated. And then he is picturesque—picturesque because he is at times ambiguous. Omar seems to us to have been so many things—a believing Moslem, a pantheistic Mystic, an exact scientist (for he reformed the Persian calendar). Such many-sidedness was possible in Islam; but it gives him the advantage of appealing to many and different classes of men; each class will find that he speaks their mind and their mind only. That Omar was also tainted by Sufism there can be no doubt; and many of his most daring flights must be regarded as the results of the greater license which Mystic interpretation gave to its votaries.

By the side of Firdusi the epic poet, and Omar the philosopher, Sa'di the wise man, well deserves a place. His countrymen are accustomed to speak of him simply as "the Sheikh," much more to his real liking than the titles "The nightingale of the groves of Shiraz," or "The nightingale of a Thousand Songs," in which Oriental hyperbole expresses its appreciation. Few leaders and teachers have had the good fortune to live out their teachings in their own lives as had Sa'di. And that life was long indeed. Muharrif al-Din Abdallah Sa'di was born at Shiraz in 1184, and far exceeded the natural span of life allotted to man—for he lived to be one hundred and ten years of age—and much of the time was lived in days of stress and trouble. The Mongols were devastating in the East; the Crusaders were fighting in the West. In 1226 Sa'di himself felt the effects of the one—he was forced to leave Shiraz and grasp the wanderer's staff, and by the Crusaders he was taken captive and led away to Tripoli. But just this look into the wide world, this thorough experience of men and things, produced that serenity of being that gave him the firm hold upon life which the true teacher must always have. Of his own spiritual condition and contentment he says: "Never did I complain of my forlorn condition but on one occasion, when my feet were bare, and I had not wherewithal to shoe them. Soon after, meeting a man without feet, I was thankful for the bounty of Providence to myself, and with perfect resignation submitted to my want of shoes."

Thus attuned to the world, Sa'di escapes the depths of misanthropy as well as the transports of unbridled license and somewhat blustering swagger into which Omar at times fell. In his simplicity of heart he says very tenderly of his own work;—

"We give advice in its proper place,
Spending a lifetime in the task.
If it should not touch any one's ear of desire,
The messenger told his tale; it is enough."

That tale is a long one. His apprenticeship was spent in Arabic Bagdad, sitting at the feet of noted scholars, and taking in knowledge not only of his own Persian Sufism, but also of the science and learning which had been gathered in the home of the Abbaside Caliphs. His journeyman-years took him all through the dominions which were under Arab influence—in Europe, the Barbary States, Egypt, Abyssinia, Arabia, Syria, Palestine, Asia Minor, India. All these places were visited before he returned to Shiraz, the "seat of learning," to put to writing the thoughts which his sympathetic and observing mind had been evolving during all these years. This time of his mastership was spent in the seclusion almost of a recluse and in producing the twenty-two works which have come down to us. An Oriental writer says of these periods of his life: "The first thirty years of Sa'di's long life were devoted to study and laying up a stock of knowledge; the next thirty, or perhaps forty, in treasuring up experience and disseminating that knowledge during his wide extending travels; and that some portion should intervene between the business of life and the hour of death (and that with him chanced to be the largest share of it), he spent the remainder of his life, or seventy years, in the retirement of a recluse, when he was exemplary in his temperance and edifying in his piety."

Of Sa'di's versatility, these twenty-two works give sufficient evidence. He could write homilies (Risalahs) in a Mystic-religious fashion. He could compose lyrics in Arabic and Turkish as well as in Persian. He was even led to give forth erotic verses. Fondly we hope that he did this last at the command of some patron or ruler! But Sa'di is known to us chiefly by his didactic works, and for these we cherish him. The "Bustan," or "Tree-Garden," is the more sober and theoretical, treating of the various problems and questions of ethics, and filled with Mystic and Sufic descriptions of love.

His other didactic work, the "Gulistan," is indeed a "Garden of Roses," as its name implies; a mirror for every one alike, no matter what his station in life may be. In prose and in poetry, alternating; in the form of rare adventures and quaint devices; in accounts of the lives of kings who have passed away; in maxims and apothegms, Sa'di inculcates his worldly wisdom—worldly in the better sense of the word. Like Goethe in our own day, he stood above the world and yet in it; so that while we feel bound to him by the bonds of a common human frailty, he reaches out with us to a higher and purer atmosphere. Though his style is often wonderfully ornate, it is still more sober than that of Háfiz. Sa'di is known to all readers of Persian in the East; his "Gulistan" is often a favorite reading-book.

The heroic and the didactic are, however, not the only forms in which the genius of Persian poetry loved to clothe itself. From the earliest times there were poets who sung of love and of wine, of youth and of nature, with no thought of drawing a moral, or illustrating a tale. From the times of Rudagi and the Samanide princes (tenth century), these poets of sentiment sang their songs and charmed the ears of their hearers. Even Firdusi showed, in some of his minor poems, that joyous look into and upon the world which is the soul of all lyric poetry. But of all the Persian lyric poets, Shams al-Din Mohammed Háfiz has been declared by all to be the greatest. Though the storms of war and the noise of strife beat all about his country and even disturbed the peace of his native place—no trace of all this can be found in the poems of Háfiz—as though he were entirely removed from all that went on about him, though seeing just the actual things of life. He was, to all appearance, unconcerned: glad only to live and to sing. At Shiraz he was born; at Shiraz he died. Only once, it is recorded, did he leave his native place, to visit the brother of his patron in Yezd. He was soon back again: travel had no inducement for him. The great world outside could offer him nothing more than his wonted haunts in Shiraz. It is further said that he put on the garb of a Dervish; but he was altogether free of the Dervish's conceit. "The ascetic is the serpent of his age" is a saying put into his mouth.

He had in him much that resembled Omar Khayyám; but he was not a philosopher. Therefore, in the East at least, his "Divan" is more popular than the Quatrains of Omar; his songs are sung where Omar's name is not heard. He is substantially a man of melody—with much mannerism, it is true, in his melody—but filling whatever he says with a wealth of charming imagery and clothing his verse in delicate rhythms. Withal a man, despite his boisterous gladsomeness and his overflowing joy in what the present has to offer, in whom there is nothing common, nothing low. "The Garden of Paradise may be pleasant," he tells us, "but forget not the shade of the willow-tree and the fair margin of the fruitful field." He is very human; but his humanity is deeply ethical in character.

Much more than Omar and Sa'di, Háfiz was a thorough Sufi. "In one and the same song you write of wine, of Sufism, and of the object of your affection," is what Sháh Shuja said to him once. In fact, we are often at an entire loss to tell where reality ends and Sufic vacuity commences. For this Mystic philosophy that we call Sufism patched up a sort of peace between the old Persian and the conquering Mohammedan. By using veiled language, by taking all the every-day things of life as mere symbols of the highest transcendentalism, it was possible to be an observing Mohammedan in the flesh, whilst the mind wandered in the realms of pure fantasy and speculation. While enjoying Háfiz, then, and bathing in his wealth of picture, one is at a loss to tell whether the bodies he describes are of flesh and blood, or incorporeal ones with a mystic background; whether the wine of which he sings really runs red, and the love he describes is really centred upon a mortal being. Yet, when he says of himself, "Open my grave when I am dead, and thou shalt see a cloud of smoke rising out from it; then shalt thou know that the fire still burns in my dead heart—yea, it has set my very winding-sheet alight," there is a ring of reality in the substance which pierces through the extravagant imagery. This the Persians themselves have always felt; and they will not be far from the truth in regarding Háfiz with a very peculiar affection as the writer who, better than anyone else, is the poet of their gay moments and the boon companion of their feasts.

Firdusi, Omar, Sa'di, Háfiz, are names of which any literature may be proud. None like unto them rose again in Persia, if we except the great Jami. At the courts of Sháh Abbas the Great (1588-1629) and of Akbar of India (1556-1605), an attempt to revive Persian letters was indeed made. But nothing came that could in any measure equal the heyday of the great poets. The political downfall of Persia has effectually prevented the coming of another spring and summer. The pride of the land of the Sháh must now rest in its past.

[Illustration: (Signature of Richard Gottheil)]

Columbia University, June 11, 1900.

CONTENTS

THE SHÁH NÁMEH

Introduction
Kaiúmers
Húsheng
Tahúmers
Jemshíd
Mirtás-Tází, and His Son Zohák
Kavah, the Blacksmith
Feridún
Feridún and His Three Sons
Minúchihr
Zál, the Son of Sám
The Dream of Sám
Rúdábeh
Death of Minúchihr
Nauder
Afrásiyáb Marches against Nauder
Afrásiyáb
Zau
Garshásp
Kai-Kobád
Kai-Káús
The Seven Labors of Rustem
Invasion of Irán by Afrásiyáb
The Return of Kai-Káús
Story of Sohráb
The Story of Saiáwush
Kai-Khosráu
Akwán Díw
The Story of Byzun and Maníjeh
Barzú, and His Conflict with Rustem
Súsen and Afrásiyáb
The Expedition of Gúdarz
The Death of Afrásiyáb
The Death of Kai-Khosráu
Lohurásp
Gushtásp, and the Faith of Zerdusht
The Heft-Khan of Isfendiyár
Capture of the Brazen Fortress
The Death of Isfendiyár
The Death of Rustem
Bahman
Húmaí and the Birth of Dáráb
Dáráb and Dárá
Sikander
Firdusi's Invocation
Firdusi's Satire on Mahmud

THE RUBÁIYÁT

Introduction
Omar Khayyám
The Rubáiyát

THE DIVAN

Introduction
Fragment by Háfiz
The Divan

THE SHÁH NÁMEH

by

FIRDUSI

(Abul Kasim Mansur)

[Translated into English by James Atkinson]

The system of Sir William Jones in the printing of Oriental words has been kept in view in the following work, viz.: The letter a represents the short vowel as in bat, á with an accent the broad sound of a in hall, i as in lily, í with an accent as in police, u as in bull, ú with an accent as in rude, ó with an accent as o in pole, the diphthong ai as in aisle, au as in the German word kraut or ou in house.

INTRODUCTION

When Sir John Lubbock, in the list of a hundred books which he published, in the year 1886, as containing the best hundred worth reading, mentioned the "Sháh Námeh" or "Book of Kings," written by the Persian poet Firdusi, it is doubtful whether many of his readers had even heard of such a poem or of its author. Yet Firdusi, "The Poet of Paradise" (for such is the meaning of this pen-name), is as much the national poet of Persia as Dante is of Italy or Shakespeare of England. Abul Kasim Mansur is indeed a genuine epic poet, and for this reason his work is of genuine interest to the lovers of Homer, Vergil, and Dante. The qualities that go to make up an epic poem are all to be found in this work of the Persian bard. In the first place, the "Sháh Námeh" is written by an enthusiastic patriot, who glorifies his country, and by that means has become recognized as the national poet of Persia. In the second place, the poem presents us with a complete view of a certain definite phase, and complete era of civilization; in other words, it is a transcript from the life; a portrait-gallery of distinct and unique individuals; a description of what was once an actual society. We find in it delineated the Persia of the heroic age, an age of chivalry, eclipsing, in romantic emotion, deeds of daring, scenes of love and violence, even the mediaeval chivalry of France and Spain. Again, this poem deals principally with the adventures of one man. For all other parts of the work are but accessories to the single figure of Rustem, the heroic personage whose superhuman strength, dignity, and beauty make him to be a veritable Persian Achilles. But when we regard the details of this work we see how deeply the literary posterity of Homer are indebted to the Father of European Poetry. The fantastic crowd of demons, peris, and necromancers that appear as the supernatural machinery of the Sháh Námeh, such grotesque fancies as the serpents that grew from the shoulders of King Zohák, or the ladder of Zerdusht, on which he mounted from earth to heaven—all these and a hundred other fancies compare unfavorably with the reserve of Homer, in his use of such a personage as Circe, and the human grace and dignity which he lends to that genial circle on Olympus, whose inextinguishable laughter is called forth by the halting wine-bearer a god like themselves. While we read the "Sháh Námeh" with keen interest, because from its study the mind is enlarged and stimulated by new scenes, new ideas and unprecedented situations, we feel grateful that the battle of Salamis stopped the Persian invasion of Europe, which would doubtless have resulted in changing the current of literature from that orderly and stately course which it had taken from its fountain in a Greek Parnassus, and diverted it into the thousand brawling rills of Persian fancy and exaggeration.

It is a hundred years ago that a certain physician in the employment of the East India Company, who then represented British supremacy in Bengal and Calcutta, published the "Story of Sohrab," a poem in heroic couplets, being a translation of the most pathetic episode in the "Sháh Námeh." If we compare this English poem with Jules Mohl's literal translation of the Persian epic into French, we find that James Atkinson stands very much in the same relation to Firdusi as Pope does to Homer. It would be indeed absurd for an English writer to attempt to conform, in an English version, to the vagaries of Persian idiom, or even to attempt a literal rendering of the Persian trope. The manner of a poet can never be faithfully reproduced in a translation, but all that is really valuable, really affecting, in an epic poem will survive transfusion into the frank and natural idiom of another tongue. We say epic poem, because one of the distinguishing features in this form of literary expression is that its action hinges on those fundamental passions of humanity, that "touch which makes the whole world kin," whose alphabet is the same in every latitude. The publication of "Sohrab" was nevertheless the revelation of a new world to London coteries, and the influence of Mr. Atkinson's work can be traced as well in the Persian pastorals of Collins as in the oriental poems of Southey and Moore. This metrical version of "Sohrab" is the only complete episode of the Sháh Námeh contained in the present collection. When we consider that the Persian original consists of some one hundred and twenty thousand lines, it will easily be understood that a literal rendering of the whole would make a volume whose bulk would put it far out of reach to the general reader. Atkinson has very wisely furnished us with a masterly résumé of the chief episodes, each of which he outlines in prose, occasionally flashing out into passages of sparkling verse, which run through the narrative like golden threads woven into the tissue of some storied tapestry. The literary style of the translator is admirable. Sometimes, as when he describes the tent of Maníjeh, he becomes as simple and direct as Homer in depicting the palace of Alcinous. The language of his Sohrab recalls the pathos of Vergil's Nisus and Euryalus, and the paternal love and despair of Dante's Ugolino. But in Rustem the tears of anguish and sorrow seem to vanish like morning dew, in the excitement of fresh adventure, and human feeling, as depicted by Firdusi, lacks not only the refined gradations, but also the intensity, which we see in the Florentine poet. Atkinson's versification is rather that of Queen Anne's time than what we of the Victorian age profess to admire in Browning and Tennyson. But it is one of the chief praises of Tennyson that he has treated Sir Thomas Malory very much in the same way as Mr. Atkinson has treated Abul Kasim Mansur, by bringing the essential features of an extinct society within the range of modern vision, and into touch with modern sympathies. All that is of value in Firdusi, to the reader of to-day, will be found in this version of Atkinson, while the philologist or the antiquarian can satisfy their curiosity either in the original, or in the French versions whose fidelity is above suspicion. For it is bare justice to say that James Atkinson's Firdusi is one of those translations, even though it be at the same time an abridgment, which have taken their place in the rank of British classics. It is the highest praise that can be given to a work of this character to say that it may be placed on the bookshelf side by side with Jeremy Collier's "Marcus Aurelius," Leland's "Demosthenes," and the "Montaigne" of Charles Cotton. It embalms the genuine spirit and life of an Oriental poem in the simple yet tasteful form of English narrative. The blending of verse and prose is a happy expedient. If we may use the metaphor of Horace, we should say, that Mr. Atkinson alternately trudges along on foot, and rises on the wings of verse into the upper air. The reader follows with pleasure both his march and his flight, and reaches the end of the volume with the distinct impression that he has been reading a Persian poem, and all the while forgotten that it was written in the English language.

E.W.

THE SHÁH NÁMEH

KAIÚMERS

According to the traditions of former ages, recorded in the Bastan-námeh, the first person who established a code of laws and exercised the functions of a monarch in Persia, was Kaiúmers. It is said that he dwelt among the mountains, and that his garments were made of the skins of beasts.

His reign was thirty years, and o'er the earth
He spread the blessings of paternal sway;
Wild animals, obsequious to his will,
Assembled round his throne, and did him homage.
He had a son named Saiámuk, a youth
Of lovely form and countenance, in war
Brave and accomplished, and the dear delight
Of his fond father, who adored the boy,
And only dreaded to be parted from him.
So is it ever with the world—the parent
Still doating on his offspring. Kaiúmers
Had not a foe, save one, a hideous Demon,
Who viewed his power with envy, and aspired
To work his ruin. He, too, had a son,
Fierce as a wolf, whose days were dark and bitter,
Because the favoring heavens in kinder mood
Smiled on the monarch and his gallant heir.
—When Saiámuk first heard the Demon's aim
Was to o'erthrow his father and himself,
Surprise and indignation filled his heart,
And speedily a martial force he raised,
To punish the invader. Proudly garbed
In leopard's skin, he hastened to the war;
But when the combatants, with eager mien,
Impatient met upon the battle-field.
And both together tried their utmost strength,
Down from his enemy's dragon-grasp soon fell
The luckless son of royal Kaiúmers,
Vanquished and lifeless. Sad, unhappy fate!

Disheartened by this disastrous event, the army immediately retreated, and returned to Kaiúmers, who wept bitterly for the loss of his son, and continued a long time inconsolable. But after a year had elapsed a mysterious voice addressed him, saying:—"Be patient, and despair not—thou hast only to send another army against the Demons, and the triumph and the victory will be thine.

"Drive from the earth that Demon horrible,
And sorrow will be rooted from thy heart."

Saiámuk left a son whose name was Húsheng, whom the king loved much more even than his father.

Húsheng his name. There seemed in him combined,
Knowledge and goodness eminent. To him
Was given his father's dignity and station.
And the old man, his grandsire, scarcely deigned
To look upon another, his affection
For him was so unbounded.

Kaiúmers having appointed Húsheng the leader of the army, the young hero set out with an immense body of troops to engage the Demon and his son. It is said that at that time every species of animal, wild and tame, was obedient to his command.

The savage beasts, and those of gentler kind,
Alike reposed before him, and appeared
To do him homage.

The wolf, the tiger, the lion, the panther, and even the fowls of the air, assembled in aid of him, and he, by the blessing of God, slew the Demon and his offspring with his own hand. After which the army of Kaiúmers, and the devouring animals that accompanied him in his march, defeated and tore to pieces the scattered legions of the enemy. Upon the death of Kaiúmers Húsheng ascended the throne of Persia.

HÚSHENG

It is recorded that Húsheng was the first who brought out fire from
stone, and from that circumstance he founded the religion of the
Fire-worshippers, calling the flame which was produced, the Light of the
Divinity. The accidental discovery of this element is thus described:—

Passing, one day, towards the mountain's side,
Attended by his train, surprised he saw
Something in aspect terrible—its eyes
Fountains of blood; its dreadful mouth sent forth
Volumes of smoke that darkened all the air.
Fixing his gaze upon that hideous form,
He seized a stone, and with prodigious force
Hurling it, chanced to strike a jutting rock,
Whence sparks arose, and presently a fire
O'erspread the plain, in which the monster perished.
—Thus Húsheng found the element which shed
Light through the world. The monarch prostrate bowed,
Praising the great Creator, for the good
Bestowed on man, and, pious, then he said,
"This is the Light from Heaven, sent down from God;
If ye be wise, adore and worship it!"

It is also related that, in the evening of the day on which the luminous flash appeared to him from the stone, he lighted an immense fire, and, having made a royal entertainment, he called it the Festival of Siddeh. By him the art of the blacksmith was discovered, and he taught river and streamlet to supply the towns, and irrigate the fields for the purposes of cultivation. And he also brought into use the fur of the sable, and the squirrel, and the ermine. Before his time mankind had nothing for food but fruit, and the leaves of trees and the skins of animals for clothing. He introduced, and taught his people, the method of making bread, and the art of cookery.

Then ate they their own bread, for it was good,
And they were grateful to their benefactor;
Mild laws were framed—the very land rejoiced,
Smiling with cultivation; all the world
Remembering Húsheng's virtues.

The period of his government is said to have lasted forty years, and he was succeeded by his son, Tahúmers.

TAHÚMERS

This sovereign was also called Díw-bund, or the Binder of Demons. He assembled together all the wise men in his dominions, to consider and deliberate upon whatever might be of utility and advantage to the people of God. In his days wool was spun and woven, and garments and carpets manufactured, and various animals, such as panthers, falcons, hawks, and syagoshes, were tamed, and taught to assist in the sports of the field. Tahúmers had also a vizir, renowned for his wisdom and understanding. Having one day charmed a Demon into his power by philters and magic, he conveyed him to Tahúmers; upon which, the brethren and allies of the prisoner, feeling ashamed and degraded by the insult, collected an army, and went to war against the king. Tahúmers was equally in wrath when he heard of these hostile proceedings, and having also gathered together an army on his part, presented himself before the enemy. The name of the leader of the Demons was Ghú. On one side the force consisted of fire, and smoke, and Demons; on the other, brave and magnanimous warriors. Tahúmers lifted his mace, as soon as he was opposed to the enemy, and giving Ghú a blow on the head, killed him on the spot. The other Demons being taken prisoners, he ordered them to be destroyed; but they petitioned for mercy, promising, if their lives were spared, that they would teach him a wonderful art. Tahúmers assented, and they immediately brought their books, and pens and ink, and instructed him how to read and write.

They taught him letters, and his eager mind
With learning was illumined. The world was blest
With quiet and repose, Peris and Demons
Submitting to his will.

The reign of Tahúmers lasted thirty years, and after him the monarchy descended to Jemshíd, his son.

JEMSHÍD

Jemshíd was eminently distinguished for learning and wisdom. It is said that coats of mail, cuirasses, and swords and various kinds of armor were invented and manufactured in his time, and also that garments of silk were made and worn by his people.

Helmets and swords, with curious art they made,
Guided by Jemshíd's skill; and silks and linen
And robes of fur and ermine. Desert lands
Were cultivated; and wherever stream
Or rivulet wandered, and the soil was good,
He fixed the habitations of his people;
And there they ploughed and reaped: for in that age
All labored; none in sloth and idleness
Were suffered to remain, since indolence
Too often vanquishes the best, and turns
To nought the noblest, firmest resolution.

Jemshíd afterwards commanded his Demons to construct a splendid palace, and he directed his people how to make the foundations strong.

He taught the unholy Demon-train to mingle
Water and clay, with which, formed into bricks,
The walls were built, and then high turrets, towers,
And balconies, and roofs to keep out rain
And cold, and sunshine. Every art was known
To Jemshíd, without equal in the world.

He also made vessels for the sea and the river, and erected a magnificent throne, embellished with pearls and precious stones; and having seated himself upon it, commanded his Demons to raise him up in the air, that he might be able to transport himself in a moment wherever he chose. He named the first day of the year Nú-rúz and on every Nú-rúz he made a royal feast, so that under his hospitable roof, mortals, and Genii, and Demons, and Peris, were delighted and happy, every one being equally regaled with wine and music. His government is said to have continued in existence seven hundred years, and during that period, it is added, none of his subjects suffered death, or was afflicted with disease.

Man seemed immortal, sickness was unknown,
And life rolled on in happiness and joy.

After the lapse of seven hundred years, however, inordinate ambition inflamed the heart of Jemshíd, and, having assembled all the illustrious personages and learned men in his dominions before him, he said to them:—"Tell me if there exists, or ever existed, in all the world, a king of such magnificence and power as I am?" They unanimously replied:—"Thou art alone, the mightiest, the most victorious: there is no equal to thee!" The just God beheld this foolish pride and vanity with displeasure, and, as a punishment, cast him from the government of an empire into a state of utter degradation and misery.

All looked upon the throne, and heard and saw
Nothing but Jemshíd, he alone was king,
Absorbing every thought; and in their praise,
And adoration of that mortal man,
Forgot the worship of the great Creator.
Then proudly thus he to his nobles spoke,
Intoxicated with their loud applause,
"I am unequalled, for to me the earth
Owes all its science, never did exist
A sovereignty like mine, beneficent
And glorious, driving from the populous land
Disease and want. Domestic joy and rest
Proceed from me, all that is good and great
Waits my behest; the universal voice
Declares the splendor of my government,
Beyond whatever human heart conceived,
And me the only monarch of the world."
—Soon as these words had parted from his lips,
Words impious, and insulting to high heaven,
His earthly grandeur faded—then all tongues
Grew clamorous and bold. The day of Jemshíd
Passed into gloom, his brightness all obscured.
What said the Moralist? "When thou wert a king
Thy subjects were obedient, but whoever
Proudly neglects the worship of his God,
Brings desolation on his house and home."
—And when he marked the insolence of his people,
He knew the wrath of Heaven had been provoked,
And terror overcame him.

MIRTÁS-TÁZÍ, AND HIS SON ZOHÁK

The old historians relate that Mirtás was the name of a king of the Arabs; and that he had a thousand animals which gave milk, and the milk of these animals he always distributed in charity among the poor. God was pleased with his goodness, and accordingly increased his favor upon him.

Goats, sheep, and camels, yielded up their store
Of balmy milk, with which the generous king
Nourished the indigent and helpless poor.

Mirtás had a son called Zohák, who possessed ten thousand Arab horses, or Tazís, upon which account he was surnamed Bíwurasp; biwur meaning ten thousand, and asp a horse. One day Iblís, the Evil Spirit, appeared to Zohák in the disguise of a good and virtuous man, and conversed with him in the most agreeable manner.

Pleased with his eloquence, the youth
Suspected not the speaker's truth;
But praised the sweet impassioned strain,
And asked him to discourse again.

Iblís replied, that he was master of still sweeter converse, but he could not address it to him, unless he first entered into a solemn compact, and engaged never on any pretence to divulge his secret.

Zohák in perfect innocence of heart
Assented to the oath, and bound himself
Never to tell the secret; all he wished
Was still to hear the good man's honey words.

But as soon as the oath was taken, Iblís said to him: "Thy father has become old and worthless, and thou art young, and wise, and valiant. Let him no longer stand in thy way, but kill him; the robes of sovereignty are ready, and better adapted for thee."

The youth in agony of mind,
Heard what the stranger now designed;
Could crime like this be understood!
The shedding of a parent's blood!
Iblís would no excuses hear—
The oath was sworn—his death was near.
"For if thou think'st to pass it by,
The peril's thine, and thou must die!"

Zohák was terrified and subdued by this warning, and asked Iblís in what manner he proposed to sacrifice his father. Iblís replied, that he would dig a pit on the path-way which led to Mirtás-Tázi's house of prayer. Accordingly he secretly made a deep well upon the spot most convenient for the purpose, and covered it over with grass. At night, as the king was going, as usual, to the house of prayer, he fell into the pit, and his legs and arms being broken by the fall, he shortly expired. O righteous Heaven! that father too, whose tenderness would not suffer even the winds to blow upon his son too roughly—and that son, by the temptation of Iblís, to bring such a father to a miserable end!

Thus urged to crime, through cruel treachery,
Zohák usurped his pious father's throne.

When Iblís found that he had got Zohák completely in his power, he told him that, if he followed his counsel and advice implicitly, he would become the greatest monarch of the age, the sovereign of the seven climes, signifying the whole world. Zohák agreed to every thing, and Iblís continued to bestow upon him the most devoted attention and flattery for the purpose of moulding him entirely to his will. To such an extreme degree had his authority attained, that he became the sole director even in the royal kitchen, and prepared for Zohák the most delicious and savory food imaginable; for in those days bread and fruit only were the usual articles of food. Iblís himself was the original inventor of the cooking art. Zohák was delighted with the dishes, made from every variety of bird and four-footed animal. Every day something new and rare was brought to his table, and every day Iblís increased in favor. But an egg was to him the most delicate of all! "What can there be superior to this?" said he. "To-morrow," replied Iblís, "thou shalt have something better, and of a far superior kind."

Next day he brought delicious fare, and dressed
In manner exquisite to please the eye,
As well as taste; partridge and pheasant rich,
A banquet for a prince. Zohák beheld
Delighted the repast, and eagerly
Relished its flavor; then in gratitude,
And admiration of the matchless art
Which thus had ministered to his appetite,
He cried:—"For this, whatever thou desirest,
And I can give, is thine." Iblís was glad,
And, little anxious, had but one request—
One unimportant wish—it was to kiss
The monarch's naked shoulder—a mere whim.
And promptly did Zohák comply, for he
Was unsuspicious still, and stripped himself,
Ready to gratify that simple wish.

Iblís then kissed the part with fiendish glee,
And vanished in an instant.

From the touch
Sprang two black serpents! Then a tumult rose
Among the people, searching for Iblís
Through all the palace, but they sought in vain.

To young and old it was a marvellous thing;
The serpents writhed about as seeking food,
And learned men to see the wonder came,
And sage magicians tried to charm away
That dreadful evil, but no cure was found.

Some time afterwards Iblís returned to Zohák, but in the shape of a physician, and told him that it was according to his own horoscope that he suffered in this manner—it was, in short, his destiny—and that the serpents would continue connected with him throughout his life, involving him in perpetual misery. Zohák sunk into despair, upon the assurance of there being no remedy for him, but Iblís again roused him by saying, that if the serpents were fed daily with human brains, which would probably kill them, his life might be prolonged, and made easy.

If life has any charm for thee,
The brain of man their food must be!

With the adoption of this deceitful stratagem, Iblís was highly pleased, and congratulated himself upon the success of his wicked exertions, thinking that in this manner a great portion of the human race would be destroyed. He was not aware that his craft and cunning had no influence in the house of God; and that the descendants of Adam are continually increasing.

When the people of Irán and Túrán heard that Zohák kept near him two devouring serpents, alarm and terror spread everywhere, and so universal was the dread produced by this intelligence, that the nobles of Persia were induced to abandon their allegiance to Jemshíd, and, turning through fear to Zohák, confederated with the Arab troops against their own country. Jemshíd continued for some time to resist their efforts, but was at last defeated, and became a wanderer on the face of the earth.

To him existence was a burden now,
The world a desert—for Zohák had gained
The imperial crown, and from all acts and deeds
Of royal import, razed out the very name
Of Jemshíd hateful in the tyrant's eyes.

The Persian government having fallen into the hands of the usurper, he sent his spies in every direction for the purpose of getting possession of Jemshíd wherever he might be found, but their labor was not crowned with success. The unfortunate wanderer, after experiencing numberless misfortunes, at length took refuge in Zábulistán.

Flying from place to place, through wilderness,
Wide plain, and mountain, veiled from human eye,
Hungry and worn out with fatigue and sorrow,
He came to Zábul.

The king of Zábulistán, whose name was Gúreng, had a daughter of extreme beauty. She was also remarkable for her mental endowments, and was familiar with warlike exercises.

So graceful in her movements, and so sweet,
Her very look plucked from the breast of age
The root of sorrow—her wine-sipping lips,
And mouth like sugar, cheeks all dimpled o'er
With smiles, and glowing as the summer rose—
Won every heart.

This damsel, possessed of these beauties and charms, was accustomed to dress herself in the warlike habiliments of a man, and to combat with heroes. She was then only fifteen years of age, but so accomplished in valor, judgment, and discretion, that Minúchihr, who had in that year commenced hostile operations against her father, was compelled to relinquish his pretensions, and submit to the gallantry which she displayed on that occasion. Her father's realm was saved by her magnanimity. Many kings were her suitors, but Gúreng would not give his consent to her marriage with any of them. He only agreed that she should marry the sovereign whom she might spontaneously love.

It must be love, and love alone,[1]
That binds thee to another's throne;
In this my father has no voice,
Thine the election, thine the choice.

The daughter of Gúreng had a Kábul woman for her nurse, who was deeply skilled in all sorts of magic and sorcery.

The old enchantress well could say,
What would befall on distant day;
And by her art omnipotent,
Could from the watery element
Draw fire, and with her magic breath,
Seal up a dragon's eyes in death.
Could from the flint-stone conjure dew;
The moon and seven stars she knew;
And of all things invisible
To human sight, this crone could tell.

This Kábul sorceress had long before intimated to the damsel that, conformably with her destiny, which had been distinctly ascertained from the motions of the heavenly bodies, she would, after a certain time, be married to King Jemshíd, and bear him a beautiful son. The damsel was overjoyed at these tidings, and her father received them with equal pleasure, refusing in consequence the solicitations of every other suitor. Now according to the prophecy, Jemshíd arrived at the city of Zábul in the spring season, when the roses were in bloom; and it so happened that the garden of King Gúreng was in the way, and also that his daughter was amusing herself at the time in the garden. Jemshíd proceeded in that direction, but the keepers of the garden would not allow him to pass, and therefore, fatigued and dispirited, he sat down by the garden-door under the shade of a tree. Whilst he was sitting there a slave-girl chanced to come out of the garden, and, observing him, was surprised at his melancholy and forlorn condition. She said to him involuntarily: "Who art thou?" and Jemshíd raising up his eyes, replied:—"I was once possessed of wealth and lived in great affluence, but I am now abandoned by fortune, and have come from a distant country. Would to heaven I could be blessed with a few cups of wine, my fatigue and affliction might then be relieved." The girl smiled, and returned hastily to the princess, and told her that a young man, wearied with travelling, was sitting at the garden gate, whose countenance was more lovely even than that of her mistress, and who requested to have a few cups of wine. When the damsel heard such high praise of the stranger's features she was exceedingly pleased, and said: "He asks only for wine, but I will give him both wine and music, and a beautiful mistress beside."

This saying, she repaired towards the gate,
In motion graceful as the waving cypress,
Attended by her hand-maid; seeing him,
She thought he was a warrior of Irán
With spreading shoulders, and his loins well bound.
His visage pale as the pomegranate flower,
He looked like light in darkness. Warm emotions
Rose in her heart, and softly thus she spoke:
"Grief-broken stranger, rest thee underneath
These shady bowers; if wine can make thee glad,
Enter this pleasant place, and drink thy fill."

Whilst the damsel was still speaking and inviting Jemshíd into the garden, he looked at her thoughtfully, and hesitated; and she said to him: "Why do you hesitate? I am permitted by my father to do what I please, and my heart is my own.

"Stranger, my father is the monarch mild
Of Zábulistán, and I his only child;
On me is all his fond affection shown;
My wish is his, on me he dotes alone."

Jemshíd had before heard of the character and renown of this extraordinary damsel, yet he was not disposed to comply with her entreaty; but contemplating again her lovely face, his heart became enamoured, when she took him by the hand and led him along the beautiful walks.

With dignity and elegance she passed—
As moves the mountain partridge through the meads;
Her tresses richly falling to her feet,
And filling with perfume the softened breeze.

In their promenade they arrived at the basin of a fountain, near which they seated themselves upon royal carpets, and the damsel having placed Jemshíd in such a manner that they might face each other, she called for music and wine.

But first the rose-cheeked handmaids gathered round,
And washed obsequiously the stranger's feet;
Then on the margin of the silvery lake
Attentive sate.

The youth, after this, readily took the wine and refreshments which were ordered by the princess.

Three cups he drank with eager zest,
Three cups of ruby wine;
Which banished sorrow from his breast,
For memory left no sign
Of past affliction; not a trace
Remained upon his heart, or smiling face.

Whilst he was drinking, the princess observed his peculiar action and elegance of manner, and instantly said in her heart: "This must be a king!" She then offered him some more food, as he had come a long journey, and from a distant land, but he only asked for more wine. "Is your fondness for wine so great?" said she. And he replied: "With wine I have no enemy; yet, without it I can be resigned and contented.

"Whilst drinking wine I never see
The frowning face of my enemy;
Drink freely of the grape, and nought
Can give the soul one mournful thought;
Wine is a bride of witching power,
And wisdom is her marriage dower;
Wine can the purest joy impart,
Wine inspires the saddest heart;
Wine gives cowards valour's rage,
Wine gives youth to tottering age;
Wine gives vigour to the weak,
And crimson to the pallid cheek;
And dries up sorrow, as the sun
Absorbs the dew it shines upon."

From the voice and eloquence of the speaker she now conjectured that this certainly must be King Jemshíd, and she felt satisfied that her notions would soon be realized. At this moment she recollected that there was a picture of Jemshíd in her father's gallery, and thought of sending for it to compare the features; but again she considered that the person before her was certainly and truly Jemshíd, and that the picture would be unnecessary on the occasion.

It is said that two ring-doves, a male and female, happened to alight on the garden wall near the fountain where they were sitting, and began billing and cooing in amorous play, so that seeing them together in such soft intercourse, blushes overspread the cheeks of the princess, who immediately called for her bow and arrows. When they were brought she said to Jemshíd, "Point out which of them I shall hit, and I will bring it to the ground." Jemshíd replied: "Where a man is, a woman's aid is not required—give me the bow, and mark my skill;

"However brave a woman may appear,
Whatever strength of arm she may possess,
She is but half a man!"

Upon this observation being made, the damsel turned her head aside ashamed, and gave him the bow. Her heart was full of love. Jemshíd took the bow, and selecting a feathered arrow out of her hand, said:—"Now for a wager. If I hit the female, shall the lady whom I most admire in this company be mine?" The damsel assented. Jemshíd drew the string, and the arrow struck the female dove so skilfully as to transfix both the wings, and pin them together. The male ring-dove flew away, but moved by natural affection it soon returned, and settled on the same spot as before. The bow was said to be so strong that there was not a warrior in the whole kingdom who could even draw the string; and when the damsel witnessed the dexterity of the stranger, and the ease with which he used the weapon, she thought within her heart, "There can be no necessity for the picture; I am certain that this can be no other than the King Jemshíd, the son of Tahúmers, called the Binder of Demons." Then she took the bow from the hand of Jemshíd, and observed: "The male bird has returned to its former place, if my aim be successful shall the man whom I choose in this company be my husband?" Jemshíd instantly understood her meaning. At that moment the Kábul nurse appeared, and the young princess communicated to her all that had occurred. The nurse leisurely examined Jemshíd from head to foot with a slave-purchaser's eye, and knew him, and said to her mistress—"All that I saw in thy horoscope and foretold, is now in the course of fulfilment. God has brought Jemshíd hither to be thy spouse. Be not regardless of thy good fortune, and the Almighty will bless thee with a son, who will be the conqueror of the world. The signs and tokens of thy destiny I have already explained." The damsel had become greatly enamoured of the person of the stranger before she knew who he was, and now being told by her nurse that he was Jemshíd himself, her affection was augmented twofold.

The happy tidings, blissful to her heart,
Increased the ardour of her love for him.

And now the picture was brought to the princess, who, finding the resemblance exact, put it into Jemshíd's hand. Jemshíd, in secretly recognizing his own likeness, was forcibly reminded of his past glory and happiness, and he burst into tears.

The memory of the diadem and throne
No longer his, came o'er him, and his soul
Was rent with anguish.

The princess said to him: "Why at the commencement of our friendship dost thou weep? Art thou discontented—dissatisfied, unhappy? and am I the cause?" Jemshíd replied: "No, it is simply this; those who have feeling, and pity the sufferings of others, weep involuntarily. I pity the misfortunes of Jemshíd, driven as he is by adversity from the splendor of a throne, and reduced to a state of destitution and ruin. But he must now be dead; devoured, perhaps, by the wolves and lions of the forest." The nurse and princess, however, were convinced, from the sweetness of his voice and discourse, that he could be no other than Jemshíd himself, and taking him aside, they said: "Speak truly, art thou not Jemshíd?" But he denied himself. Again, they observed: "What says this picture?" To this he replied; "It is not impossible that I may be like Jemshíd in feature; for surely there may be in the world two men like each other?" And notwithstanding all the efforts made by the damsel and her nurse to induce Jemshíd to confess, he still resolutely denied himself. Several times she assured him she would keep his secret, if he had one, but that she was certain of his being Jemshíd. Still he denied himself. "This nurse of mine, whom thou seest," said she, "has often repeated to me the good tidings that I should be united to Jemshíd, and bear him a son. My heart instinctively acknowledged thee at first sight: then wherefore this denial of the truth? Many kings have solicited my hand in marriage, but all have been rejected, as I am destined to be thine, and united to no other." Dismissing now all her attendants, she remained with the nurse and Jemshíd, and then resumed:—

"How long hath sleep forsaken me? how long
Hath my fond heart been kept awake by love?
Hope still upheld me—give me one kind look,
And I will sacrifice my life for thee;
Come, take my life, for it is thine for ever."

Saying this, the damsel began to weep, and shedding a flood of tears, tenderly reproached him for not acknowledging the truth. Jemshíd was at length moved by her affection and sorrow, and thus addressed her:—"There are two considerations which at present prevent the truth being told. One of them is my having a powerful enemy, and Heaven forbid that he should obtain information of my place of refuge. The other is, I never intrust my secrets to a woman!

"Fortune I dread, since fortune is my foe,
And womankind are seldom known to keep
Another's secret. To be poor and safe,
Is better far than wealth exposed to peril."
To this the princess: "Is it so decreed,
That every woman has two tongues, two hearts?
All false alike, their tempers all the same?
No, no! could I disloyally betray thee?
I who still love thee better than my life?"

Jemshíd found it impossible to resist the damsel's incessant entreaties and persuasive tenderness, mingled as they were with tears of sorrow. Vanquished thus by the warmth of her affections, he told her his name, and the history of his misfortunes. She then ardently seized his hand, overjoyed at the disclosure, and taking him privately to her own chamber, they were married according to the customs of her country.

Him to the secret bower with blushing cheek
Exultingly she led, and mutual bliss,
Springing from mutual tenderness and love,
Entranced their souls.

When Gúreng the king found that his daughter's visits to him became less frequent than usual, he set his spies to work, and was not long in ascertaining the cause of her continued absence. She had married without his permission, and he was in great wrath. It happened, too, at this time that the bride was pale and in delicate health.

The mystery soon was manifest,
And thus the king his child addrest,
Whilst anger darkened o'er his brow:—
"What hast thou done, ungrateful, now?
Why hast thou flung, in evil day,
The veil of modesty away?
That cheek the bloom of spring displayed,
Now all is withered, all decayed;
But daughters, as the wise declare,
Are ever false, if they be fair."

Incensed at words so sharp and strong,
The damsel thus repelled the wrong:—
"Me, father, canst thou justly blame?
I never, never, brought thee shame;
With me can sin and crime accord,
When Jemshíd is my wedded lord?"

After this precipitate avowal, the Kábul nurse, of many spells, instantly took up her defence, and informed the king that the prophecy she had formerly communicated to him was on the point of fulfilment, and that the Almighty having, in the course of destiny, brought Jemshíd into his kingdom, the princess, according to the same planetary influence, would shortly become a mother.

And now the damsel grovels on the ground
Before King Gúreng. "Well thou know'st," she cries,
"From me no evil comes. Whether in arms,
Or at the banquet, honour guides me still:
And well thou know'st thy royal will pronounced
That I should be unfettered in my choice,
And free to take the husband I preferred.
This I have done; and to the greatest king
The world can boast, my fortunes are united,
To Jemshíd, the most perfect of mankind."

With this explanation the king expressed abundant and unusual satisfaction. His satisfaction, however, did not arise from the circumstance of the marriage, and the new connection it established, but from the opportunity it afforded him of betraying Jemshíd, and treacherously sending him bound to Zohák, which he intended to do, in the hopes of being magnificently rewarded. Exulting with this anticipation, he said to her smiling:—

"Glad tidings thou hast given to me,
My glory owes its birth to thee;
I bless the day, and bless the hour,
Which placed this Jemshíd in my power.
Now to Zohák, a captive bound,
I send the wanderer thou hast found;
For he who charms the monarch's eyes,
With this long-sought, this noble prize,
On solemn word and oath, obtains
A wealthy kingdom for his pains."

On hearing these cruel words the damsel groaned, and wept exceedingly before her father, and said to him: "Oh, be not accessory to the murder of such a king! Wealth and kingdoms pass away, but a bad name remains till the day of doom.

"Turn thee, my father, from this dreadful thought,
And save his sacred blood: let not thy name
Be syllabled with horror through the world,
For such an act as this. When foes are slain,
It is enough, but keep the sword away
From friends and kindred; shun domestic crime.
Fear him who giveth life, and strength, and power,
For goodness is most blessed. On the day
Of judgment thou wilt then be unappalled.
But if determined to divide us, first
Smite off this head, and let thy daughter die."

So deep and violent was the grief of the princess, and her lamentations so unceasing, that the father became softened into compassion, and, on her account, departed from the resolution he had made. He even promised to furnish Jemshíd with possessions, with treasure, and an army, and requested her to give him the consolation he required, adding that he would see him in the morning in his garden.

The heart-alluring damsel instant flew
To tell the welcome tidings to her lord.

Next day King Gúreng proceeded to the garden, and had an interview with Jemshíd, to whom he expressed the warmest favor and affection; but notwithstanding all he said, Jemshíd could place no confidence in his professions, and was anxious to effect his escape. He was, indeed, soon convinced of his danger, for he had a private intimation that the king's vizirs were consulting together on the expedience of securing his person, under the apprehension that Zohák would be invading the country, and consigning it to devastation and ruin, if his retreat was discovered. He therefore took to flight.

Jemshíd first turned his steps towards Chín, and afterwards into Ind. He had travelled a great distance in that beautiful country, and one day came to a tower, under whose shadow he sought a little repose, for the thoughts of his melancholy and disastrous condition kept him almost constantly awake.

And am I thus to perish? Thus forlorn,
To mingle with the dust? Almighty God!
Was ever mortal born to such a fate,
A fate so sad as mine! O that I never
Had drawn the breath of life, to perish thus!

Exhausted by the keenness of his affliction Jemshíd at length fell asleep. Zohák, in the meanwhile, had despatched an envoy, with an escort of troops, to the Khakán of Chín, and at that moment the cavalcade happened to be passing by the tower where Jemshíd was reposing. The envoy, attracted to the spot, immediately recognized him, and awakening him to a sense of this new misfortune, secured the despairing and agonized wanderer, and sent him to Zohák.

He saw a person sleeping on the ground,
And knew that it was Jemshíd. Overjoyed,
He bound his feet with chains, and mounted him
Upon a horse, a prisoner.

What a world!
No place of rest for man! Fix not thy heart,
Vain mortal! on this tenement of life,
On earthly pleasures; think of Jemshíd's fate;
His glory reached the Heavens, and now this world
Has bound the valiant monarch's limbs in fetters,
And placed its justice in the hands of slaves.

When Zohák received intelligence of the apprehension of his enemy, he ordered him to be brought before the throne that he might enjoy the triumph.

All fixed their gaze upon the captive king,
Loaded with chains; his hands behind his back;
The ponderous fetters passing from his neck
Down to his feet; oppressed with shame he stood,
Like the narcissus bent with heavy dew.
Zohák received him with a scornful smile,
Saying, "Where is thy diadem, thy throne,
Where is thy kingdom, where thy sovereign rule;
Thy laws and royal ordinances—where,
Where are they now? What change is this that fate
Has wrought upon thee?" Jemshíd thus rejoined:
"Unjustly am I brought in chains before thee,
Betrayed, insulted—thou the cause of all,
And yet thou wouldst appear to feel my wrongs!"
Incensed at this defiance, mixed with scorn,
Fiercely Zohák replied, "Then choose thy death;
Shall I behead thee, stab thee, or impale thee,
Or with an arrow's point transfix thy heart!
What is thy choice?"—

"Since I am in thy power,
Do with me what thou wilt—why should I dread
Thy utmost vengeance, why express a wish
To save my body from a moment's pain!"

As soon as Zohák heard these words he resolved upon a horrible deed of vengeance. He ordered two planks to be brought, and Jemshíd being fastened down between them, his body was divided the whole length with a saw, making two figures of Jemshíd out of one!

Why do mankind upon this fleeting world
Place their affections, wickedness alone
Is nourished into freshness; sounds of death, too,
Are ever on the gale to wear out life.
My heart is satisfied—O Heaven! no more,
Free me at once from this continual sorrow.

It was not long before tidings of the foul proceedings, which put an end to the existence of the unfortunate Jemshíd, reached Zábulistán. The princess, his wife, on hearing of his fate, wasted away with inconsolable grief, and at last took poison to unburden herself of insupportable affliction.

It is related that Jemshíd had two sisters, named Shahrnáz and Arnawáz. They had been both seized, and conveyed to Zohák by his people, and continued in confinement for some time in the King's harem, but they were afterwards released by Feridún.

The tyrant's cruelty and oppression had become intolerable. He was constantly shedding blood, and committing every species of crime.

The serpents still on human brains were fed,
And every day two youthful victims bled;
The sword, still ready—thirsting still to strike,
Warrior and slave were sacrificed alike.

The career of Zohák himself, however, was not unvisited by terrors. One night he dreamt that he was attacked by three warriors; two of them of large stature, and one of them small. The youngest struck him a blow on the head with his mace, bound his hands, and casting a rope round his neck, dragged him along in the presence of crowds of people. Zohák screamed, and sprung up from his sleep in the greatest horror. The females of his harem were filled with amazement when they beheld the terrified countenance of the king who, in reply to their inquiries, said, trembling: "This is a dream too dreadful to be concealed." He afterwards called together the Múbids, or wise men of his court; and having communicated to them the particulars of what had appeared to him in his sleep, commanded them to give him a faithful interpretation of the dream. The Múbids foresaw in this vision the approaching declension of his power and dominion, but were afraid to explain their opinions, because they were sure that their lives would be sacrificed if the true interpretation was given to him. Three days were consumed under the pretence of studying more scrupulously all the signs and appearances, and still not one of them had courage to speak out. On the fourth day the king grew angry, and insisted upon the dream being interpreted. In this dilemma, the Múbids said, "Then, if the truth must be told, without evasion, thy life approaches to an end, and Feridún, though yet unborn, will be thy successor,"—"But who was it," inquired Zohák impatiently, "that struck the blow on my head?" The Múbids declared, with fear and trembling, "it was the apparition of Feridún himself, who is destined to smite thee on the head."—"But why," rejoined Zohák, "does he wish to injure me?"—"Because, his father's blood being spilt by thee, vengeance falls into his hands." Hearing this interpretation of his dream, the king sunk senseless on the ground; and when he recovered, he could neither sleep nor take food, but continued overwhelmed with sorrow and misery. The light of his day was forever darkened.

Abtín was the name of Feridún's father, and that of his mother Faránuk, of the race of Tahúmers. Zohák, therefore, stimulated to further cruelty by the prophecy, issued an order that every person belonging to the family of the Kais, wherever found, should be seized and fettered, and brought to him. Abtín had long avoided discovery, continuing to reside in the most retired and solitary places; but one day his usual circumspection forsook him, and he ventured beyond his limits. This imprudent step was dreadfully punished, for the spies of Zohák fell in with him, recognized him, and carrying him to the king, he was immediately put to death. When the mother of Feridún heard of this sanguinary catastrophe, she took up her infant and fled. It is said that Feridún was at that time only two months old. In her flight, the mother happened to arrive at some pasturage ground. The keeper of the pasture had a cow named Pur'máieh, which yielded abundance of milk, and he gave it away in charity. In consequence of the grief and distress of mind occasioned by the murder of her husband, Faránuk's milk dried up in her breasts, and she was therefore under the necessity of feeding the child with the milk from the cow. She remained there one night, and would have departed in the morning; but considering the deficiency of milk, and the misery in which she was involved, continually afraid of being discovered and known, she did not know what to do. At length she thought it best to leave Feridún with the keeper of the pasture, and resigning him to the protection of God, went herself to the mountain Alberz. The keeper readily complied with the tenderest wishes of the mother, and nourished the child with the fondness and affection of a parent during the space of three years. After that period had elapsed, deep sorrow continuing to afflict the mind of Faránuk, she returned secretly to the old man of the pasture, for the purpose of reclaiming and conveying Feridún to a safer place of refuge upon the mountain Alberz. The keeper said to her: "Why dost thou take the child to the mountain? he will perish there;" but she replied that God Almighty had inspired a feeling in her heart that it was necessary to remove him. It was a divine inspiration, and verified by the event.

Intelligence having at length reached Zohák that the son of Abtín was nourished and protected by the keeper of the pasture, he himself proceeded with a large force to the spot, where he put to death the keeper and all his tribe, and also the cow which had supplied milk to Feridún, whom he sought for in vain.

He found the dwelling of his infant-foe,
And laid it in the dust; the very ground
Was punished for the sustenance it gave him.

The ancient records relate that a dervish happened to have taken up his abode in the mountain Alberz, and that Faránuk committed her infant to his fostering care. The dervish generously divided with the mother and son all the food and comforts which God gave him, and at the same time he took great pains in storing the mind of Feridún with various kinds of knowledge. One day he said to the mother: "The person foretold by wise men and astrologers as the destroyer of Zohák and his tyranny, is thy son!

"This child to whom thou gavest birth,
Will be the monarch of the earth;"

and the mother, from several concurring indications and signs, held a similar conviction.

When Feridún had attained his sixteenth year, he descended from the mountain, and remained for a time on the plain beneath. He inquired of his mother why Zohák had put his father to death, and Faránuk then told him the melancholy story; upon hearing which, he resolved to be revenged on the tyrant. His mother endeavored to divert him from his determination, observing that he was young, friendless, and alone, whilst his enemy was the master of the world, and surrounded by armies. "Be not therefore precipitate," said she. "If it is thy destiny to become a king, wait till the Almighty shall bless thee with means sufficient for the purpose."

Displeased, the youth his mother's caution heard,
And meditating vengeance on the head
Of him who robbed him of a father, thus
Impatiently replied:—"'Tis Heaven inspires me;
Led on by Heaven, this arm will quickly bring
The tyrant from his palace, to the dust."
"Imprudent boy!" the anxious mother said;
"Canst thou contend against imperial power?
Must I behold thy ruin? Pause awhile,
And perish not in this wild enterprise."

It is recorded that Zohák's dread of Feridún was so great, that day by day he became more irritable, wasting away in bitterness of spirit, for people of all ranks kept continually talking of the young invader, and were daily expecting his approach. At last he came, and Zohák was subdued, and his power extinguished.

KAVAH, THE BLACKSMITH

Zohák having one day summoned together all the nobles and philosophers of the kingdom, he said to them: "I find that a young enemy has risen up against me; but notwithstanding his tender years, there is no safety even with an apparently insignificant foe. I hear, too, that though young, he is distinguished for his prowess and wisdom; yet I fear not him, but the change of fortune. I wish therefore to assemble a large army, consisting of Men, Demons, and Peris, that this enemy may be surrounded, and conquered. And, further, since a great enterprise is on the eve of being undertaken, it will be proper in future to keep a register or muster-roll of all the people of every age in my dominions, and have it revised annually." The register, including both old and young, was accordingly prepared.

At that period there lived a man named Kavah, a blacksmith, remarkably strong and brave, and who had a large family. Upon the day on which it fell to the lot of two of his children to be killed to feed the serpents, he rose up with indignation in presence of the king, and said:

"Thou art the king, but wherefore on my head
Cast fire and ashes? If thou hast the form
Of hissing dragon, why to me be cruel?
Why give the brains of my beloved children
As serpent-food, and talk of doing justice?"

At this bold speech the monarch was dismayed,
And scarcely knowing what he did, released
The blacksmith's sons. How leapt the father's heart,
How warmly he embraced his darling boys!
But now Zohák directs that Kavah's name
Shall be inscribed upon the register.
Soon as the blacksmith sees it written there,
Wrathful he turns towards the chiefs assembled,
Exclaiming loud: "Are ye then men, or what,
Leagued with a Demon!" All astonished heard,
And saw him tear the hated register,
And cast it under foot with rage and scorn.

Kavah having thus reviled the king bitterly, and destroyed the register of blood, departed from the court, and took his children along with him. After he had gone away, the nobles said to the king:

"Why should reproaches, sovereign of the world,
Be thus permitted? Why the royal scroll
Torn in thy presence, with a look and voice
Of proud defiance, by the rebel blacksmith?
So fierce his bearing, that he seems to be
A bold confederate of this Feridún."
Zohák replied: "I know not what o'ercame me,
But when I saw him with such vehemence
Of grief and wild distraction, strike his forehead,
Lamenting o'er his children, doomed to death,
Amazement seized my heart, and chained my will.
What may become of this, Heaven only knows,
For none can pierce the veil of destiny."

Kavah, meanwhile, with warning voice set forth
What wrongs the nation suffered, and there came
Multitudes round him, who called out aloud
For justice! justice! On his javelin's point
He fixed his leathern apron for a banner,
And lifting it on high, he went abroad
To call the people to a task of vengeance.
Wherever it was seen crowds followed fast,
Tired of the cruel tyranny they suffered.
"Let us unite with Feridún," he cried,
"And from Zohák's oppression we are free!"
And still he called aloud, and all obeyed
Who heard him, high and low. Anxious he sought
For Feridún, not knowing his retreat:
But still he hoped success would crown his search.

The hour arrived, and when he saw the youth,
Instinctively he knew him, and thanked Heaven
For that good fortune. Then the leathern banner
Was splendidly adorned with gold and jewels,
And called the flag of Kavah. From that time
It was a sacred symbol; every king
In future, on succeeding to the throne,
Did honor to that banner, the true sign
Of royalty, in veneration held.

Feridún, aided by the directions and advice of the blacksmith, now proceeded against Zohák. His mother wept to see him depart, and continually implored the blessing of God upon him. He had two elder brothers, whom he took along with him. Desirous of having a mace formed like the head of a cow, he requested Kavah to make one of iron, and it was accordingly made in the shape he described. In his progress, he visited a shrine or place of pilgrimage frequented by the worshippers of God, where he besought inspiration and aid, and where he was taught by a radiant personage the mysteries of the magic art, receiving from him a key to every secret.

Bright beamed his eye, with firmer step he strode,
His smiling cheek with warmer crimson glowed.

When his two brothers saw his altered mien, the pomp and splendor of his appearance, they grew envious of his good fortune, and privately meditated his fall. One day they found him asleep at the foot of a mountain, and they immediately went to the top and rolled down a heavy fragment of rock upon him with the intention of crushing him to death; but the clattering noise of the stone awoke him, and, instantly employing the knowledge of sorcery which had been communicated to him, the stone was suddenly arrested by him in its course. The brothers beheld this with astonishment, and hastening down the mountain, cried aloud: "We know not how the stone was loosened from its place: God forbid that it should have done any injury to Feridún." Feridún, however, was well aware of this being the evil work of his brothers, but he took no notice of the conspiracy, and instead of punishing them, raised them to higher dignity and consequence.

They saw that Kavah directed the route of Feridún over the mountainous tracts and plains which lie contiguous to the banks of the Dijleh, or Tigris, close to the city of Bagdad. Upon reaching that river, they called for boats, but got no answer from the ferryman; at which Feridún was enraged, and immediately plunged, on horseback, into the foaming stream. All his army followed without delay, and with the blessing of God arrived on the other side in safety. He then turned toward the Bait-el-Mukaddus, built by Zohák. In the Pahlavi language it was called Kunuk-duz-mokt. The tower of this edifice was so lofty that it might be seen at the distance of many leagues, and within that tower Zohák had formed a talisman of miraculous virtues. Feridún soon overthrew this talisman, and destroyed or vanquished successively with his mace all the enchanted monsters and hideous shapes which appeared before him. He captured the whole of the building, and released all the black-eyed damsels who were secluded there, and among them Shahrnáz and Arnawáz, the two sisters of Jemshíd before alluded to. He then ascended the empty throne of Zohák, which had been guarded by the talisman, and the Demons under his command; and when he heard that the tyrant had gone with an immense army toward Ind, in quest of his new enemy, and had left his treasury with only a small force at the seat of his government, he rejoiced, and appropriated the throne and the treasure to himself.

From their dark solitudes the Youth brought forth
The black-haired damsels, lovely as the sun,
And Jemshíd's sisters, long imprisoned there;
And gladly did the inmates of that harem
Pour out their gratitude on being freed
From that terrific monster; thanks to Heaven
Devoutly they expressed, and ardent joy.

Feridún inquired of Arnawáz why Zohák had chosen the route towards Ind; and she replied, "For two reasons: the first is, he expects to encounter thee in that quarter; and if he fails, he will subdue the whole country, which is the seat of sorcery, and thus obtain possession of a renowned magician who can charm thee into his power.

"He wishes to secure within his grasp
That region of enchantment, Hindústán,
And then obtain relief from what he feels;
For night and day the terror of thy name
Oppresses him, his heart is all on fire,
And life is torture to him."

FERIDÚN

Kandrú, the keeper of the talisman, having effected his escape, fled to Zohák, to whom he gave intelligence of the release of his women, the destruction of the talisman, and the conquest of his empire.

"The sign of retribution has appeared,
For sorrow is the fruit of evil deeds."
Thus Kandrú spoke: "Three warriors have advanced
Upon thy kingdom from a distant land,
One of them young, and from his air and mien
He seems to me of the Kaiánian race.
He came, and boldly seized the splendid throne,
And all thy spells, and sorceries, and magic,
Were instantly dissolved by higher power,
And all who dwelt within thy palace walls,
Demon or man, all utterly destroyed,
Their severed heads cast weltering on the ground."
Then was Zohák confounded, and he shrunk
Within himself with terror, thinking now
His doom was sealed; but anxious to appear
In presence of his army, gay and cheerful,
Lest they too should despair, he dressed himself
In rich attire, and with a pleasant look,
Said carelessly: "Perhaps some gamesome guest
Hath in his sport committed this strange act."
"A guest, indeed!" Kandrú replied, "a guest,
In playful mood to batter down thy palace!
If he had been thy guest, why with his mace,
Cow-headed, has he done such violence?
Why did he penetrate thy secret chambers,
And bring to light the beautiful Shahrnáz,
And red-lipped Arnawáz?" At this, Zohák
Trembled with wrath—the words were death to him;
And sternly thus he spoke: "What hast thou fled
Through fear, betraying thy important trust?
No longer shalt thou share my confidence,
No longer share my bounty and regard."
To this the keeper tauntingly replied:
"Thy kingdom is overthrown, and nothing now
Remains for thee to give me; thou art lost."

The tyrant immediately turned towards his army, with the intention of making a strong effort to regain his throne, but he found that as soon as the soldiers and the people were made acquainted with the proceedings and success of Feridún, rebellion arose among them, and shuddering with horror at the cruelty exercised by him in providing food for the accursed serpents, they preferred embracing the cause of the new king. Zohák, seeing that he had lost the affections of the army, and that universal revolt was the consequence, adopted another course, and endeavored alone to be revenged upon his enemy. He proceeded on his journey, and arriving by night at the camp of Feridún, hoped to find him off his guard and put him to death. He ascended a high place, himself unobserved, from which he saw Feridún sitting engaged in soft dalliance with the lovely Shahrnáz. The fire of jealousy and revenge now consumed him more fiercely, and he was attempting to effect his purpose, when Feridún was roused by the noise, and starting up struck a furious blow with his cow-headed mace upon the temples of Zohák, which crushed the bone, and he was on the point of giving him another; but a supernatural voice whispered in his ear,

"Slay him not now—his time is not yet come,
His punishment must be prolonged awhile;
And as he cannot now survive the wound,
Bind him with heavy chains—convey him straight
Upon the mountain, there within a cave,
Deep, dark, and horrible—with none to soothe
His sufferings, let the murderer lingering die."

The work of heaven performing, Feridún
First purified the world from sin and crime.

Yet Feridún was not an angel, nor
Composed of musk or ambergris. By justice
And generosity he gained his fame.
Do thou but exercise these princely virtues,
And thou wilt be renowned as Feridún.

FERIDÚN AND HIS THREE SONS

Feridún had three sons. One of them was named Sílim, the other Túr, and the third Irij. When they had grown up, he called before him a learned person named Chundel, and said to him: "Go thou in quest of three daughters, born of the same father and mother, and adorned with every grace and accomplishment, that I may have my three sons married into one family." Chundel departed accordingly, and travelled through many countries in fruitless search, till he came to the King of Yemen, whose name was Sarú, and found that he had three daughters of the character and qualifications required. He therefore delivered Feridún's proposition to him, to which the King of Yemen agreed. Then Feridún sent his three sons to Yemen, and they married the three daughters of the king, who gave them splendid dowries in treasure and jewels. It is related that Feridún afterwards divided his empire among his sons. To Sílim he gave Rúm and Kháwer; to Túr, Túrán;[2] and to Irij, Irán or Persia. The sons then repaired to their respective kingdoms. Persia was a beautiful country, and the garden of spring, full of freshness and perfume; Túrán, on the contrary, was less cultivated, and the scene of perpetual broils and insurrections. The elder brother, Sílim, was therefore discontented with the unfair partition of the empire, and displeased with his father. He sent to Túr, saying: "Our father has given to Irij the most delightful and productive kingdom, and to us, two wild uncultivated regions. I am the eldest son, and I am not satisfied with this distribution—what sayest thou?" When this message was communicated to Túr, he fully concurred in the sentiments expressed by his brother, and determined to unite with him in any undertaking that might promise the accomplishment of their purpose, which was to deprive Irij of his dominions. But he thought it would be most expedient, in the first instance, to make their father acquainted with the dissatisfaction he had produced; "for," he thought to himself, "in a new distribution, he may assign Persia to me." Then he wrote to Sílim, advising that a messenger should be sent at once to Feridún to inform him of their dissatisfaction, and bring back a reply. The same messenger was dispatched by Sílim accordingly on that mission,

Charged with unfilial language. "Give," he said,
"This stripling Irij a more humble portion,
Or we will, from the mountains of Túrán,
From Rúm, and Chín, bring overwhelming troops,
Inured to war, and shower disgrace and ruin
On him and Persia."

When the messenger arrived at the court of Feridún, and had obtained permission to appear in the presence of the king, he kissed the ground respectfully, and by command related the purpose of his journey. Feridún was surprised and displeased, and said, in reply:

"Have I done wrong, done evil? None, but good.
I gave ye kingdoms, that was not a crime;
But if ye fear not me, at least fear God.
My ebbing life approaches to an end,
And the possessions of this fleeting world
Will soon pass from me. I am grown too old
To have my passions roused by this rebellion;
All I can do is, with paternal love,
To counsel peace. Be with your lot contented;
Seek not unnatural strife, but cherish peace."

After the departure of the messenger Feridún called Irij before him, and said: "Thy two brothers, who are older than thou art, have confederated together and threaten to bring a large army against thee for the purpose of seizing thy kingdom, and putting thee to death. I have received this information from a messenger, who further says, that if I take thy part they will also wage war upon me." And after Irij had declared that in this extremity he was anxious to do whatever his father might advise, Feridún continued: "My son, thou art unable to resist the invasion of even one brother; it will, therefore, be impossible for thee to oppose both. I am now aged and infirm, and my only wish is to pass the remainder of my days in retirement and repose. Better, then, will it be for thee to pursue the path of peace and friendship, and like me throw away all desire for dominion.

"For if the sword of anger is unsheathed,
And war comes on, thy head will soon be freed
From all the cares of government and life.
There is no cause for thee to quit the world,
The path of peace and amity is thine."

Irij agreed with his father, and declared that he would willingly sacrifice his throne and diadem rather than go to war with his brothers.

"Look at the Heavens, how they roll on;
And look at man, how soon he's gone.
A breath of wind, and then no more;
A world like this, should man deplore?"

With these sentiments Irij determined to repair immediately to his brothers, and place his kingdom at their disposal, hoping by this means to merit their favor and affection, and he said:

"I feel no resentment, I seek not for strife,
I wish not for thrones and the glories of life;
What is glory to man?—an illusion, a cheat;
What did it for Jemshíd, the world at his feet?
When I go to my brothers their anger may cease,
Though vengeance were fitter than offers of peace."

Feridún observed to him: "It is well that thy desire is for reconciliation, as thy brothers are preparing for war." He then wrote a letter to his sons, in which he said: "Your younger brother considers your friendship and esteem of more consequence to him than his crown and throne. He has banished from his heart every feeling of resentment against you; do you, in the like manner, cast away hostility from your hearts against him. Be kind to him, for it is incumbent upon the eldest born to be indulgent and affectionate to their younger brothers. Although your consideration for my happiness has passed away, I still wish to please you." As soon as the letter was finished, Irij mounted his horse, and set off on his journey, accompanied by several of his friends, but not in such a manner, and with such an equipment, as might betray his rank or character. When he arrived with his attendants in Turkistán, he found that the armies of his two brothers were ready to march against him. Sílim and Túr, being apprised of the approach of Irij, went out of the city, according to ancient usage, to meet the deputation which was conveying to them their father's letter. Irij was kindly received by them, and accommodated in the royal residence.

It is said that Irij was in person extremely prepossessing, and that when the troops first beheld him, they exclaimed: "He is indeed fit to be a king!" In every place all eyes were fixed upon him, and wherever he moved he was followed and surrounded by the admiring army and crowds of people.

In numerous groups the soldiers met, and blessed
The name of Irij, saying in their hearts,
This is the man to lead an armed host,
And worthy of the diadem and throne.

The courtiers of the two brothers, alarmed by these demonstrations of attachment to Irij continually before their eyes, represented to Sílim and Túr that the army was disaffected towards them, and that Irij alone was considered deserving of the supreme authority. This intimation exasperated the malignant spirit of the two brothers: for although at first determined to put Irij to death, his youth and prepossessing appearance had in some degree subdued their animosity. They were therefore pleased with the intelligence, because it afforded a new and powerful reason for getting rid of him. "Look at our troops," said Sílim to Túr, "how they assemble in circles together, and betray their admiration of him. I fear they will never march against Persia. Indeed it is not improbable that even the kingdom of Túrán may fall into his hands, since the hearts of our soldiers have become so attached to him.

"No time is this to deviate from our course,
We must rush on; our armies plainly show
Their love for Irij, and if we should fail
To root up from its place this flourishing tree,
Our cause is lost for ever."

Again, Sílim said to Túr: "Thou must put Irij to death, and then his kingdom will be thine." Túr readily undertook to commit that crime, and, on the following day, at an interview with Irij, he said to him: "Why didst thou consent to be the ruler of Persia, and fail in showing a proper regard for the interests of thy elder brothers? Whilst our barren kingdoms are constantly in a state of warfare with the Turks, thou art enjoying peace and tranquillity upon the throne of a fruitful country? Must we, thy elder brothers, remain thus under thy commands, and in subordinate stations?

"Must thou have gold and treasure,
And thy heart be wrapt in pleasure,
Whilst we, thy elder born,
Of our heritage are shorn?
Must the youngest still be nursed,
And the elder branches cursed?
And condemned, by stern command,
To a wild and sterile land?"

When Irij heard these words from Túr, he immediately replied, saying:

"I only seek tranquillity and peace;
I look not on the crown of sovereignty.
Nor seek a name among the Persian host;
And though the throne and diadem are mine,
I here renounce them, satisfied to lead
A private life. For what hath ever been
The end of earthly power and pomp, but darkness?
I seek not to contend against my brothers;
Why should I grieve their hearts, or give distress
To any human being? I am young,
And Heaven forbid that I should prove unkind!"

Notwithstanding, however, these declarations of submission, and repeated assurances of his resolution to resign the monarchy of Persia, Túr would not believe one word. In a moment he sprung up, and furiously seizing the golden chair from which he had just risen, struck a violent blow with it on the head of Irij, calling aloud, "Bind him, bind him!" The youth, struggling on the ground, exclaimed: "O, think of thy father, and pity me! Have compassion on thy own soul! I came for thy protection, therefore do not take my life: if thou dost, my blood will call out for vengeance to the Almighty. I ask only for peace and retirement. Think of my father, and pity me!

"Wouldst thou, with life endowed, take life away?
Torture not the poor ant, which drags the grain
Along the dust; it has a life, and life
Is sweet and precious. Did the innocent ant
Offend thee ever? Cruel must he be
Who would destroy a living thing so harmless!
And wilt thou, reckless, shed thy brother's blood,
And agonize the feelings of a father?
Pause, and avoid the wrath of righteous Heaven!"

But Túr was not to be softened by the supplications of his brother. Without giving any reply, he drew his dagger, and instantly dissevered the head of the youth from his body.

With musk and ambergris he first embalmed
The head of Irij, then to his old father
Dispatched the present with these cruel words:
"Here is the head of thy beloved son,
Thy darling favourite, dress it with a crown
As thou wert wont; and mark the goodly fruit
Thou hast produced. Adorn thy ivory throne,
In all its splendour, for this worthy head,
And place it in full majesty before thee!"

In the meantime, Feridún had prepared a magnificent reception for his son. The period of his return had arrived, and he was in anxious expectation of seeing him, when suddenly he received intelligence that Irij had been put to death by his brothers. The mournful spectacle soon reached his father's house.

A scream of agony burst from his heart,
As wildly in his arms he clasped the face
Of his poor slaughtered son; then down he sank
Senseless upon the earth. The soldiers round
Bemoaned the sad catastrophe, and rent
Their garments in their grief. The souls of all
Were filled with gloom, their eyes with flowing tears,
For hope had promised a far different scene;
A day of heart-felt mirth and joyfulness,
When Irij to his father's house returned.

After the extreme agitation of Feridún had subsided, he directed all his people to wear black apparel, in honor of the murdered youth, and all his drums and banners to be torn to pieces. They say that subsequent to this dreadful calamity he always wore black clothes. The head of Irij was buried in a favorite garden, where he had been accustomed to hold weekly a rural entertainment. Feridún, in performing the last ceremony, pressed it to his bosom, and with streaming eyes exclaimed:

"O Heaven, look down upon my murdered boy;
His severed head before me, but his body
Torn by those hungry wolves! O grant my prayer,
That I may see, before I die, the seed
Of Irij hurl just vengeance on the heads
Of his assassins; hear, O hear my prayer."
—Thus he in sorrow for his favourite son
Obscured the light which might have sparkled still,
Withering the jasmine flower of happy days;
So that his pale existence looked like death.

MINÚCHIHR

Feridún continued to cherish with the fondest affection the memory of his murdered son, and still looked forward with anxiety to the anticipated hour of retribution. He fervently hoped that a son might be born to take vengeance for his father's death. But it so happened that Mahafríd, the wife of Irij, gave birth to a daughter. When this daughter grew up, Feridún gave her in marriage to Pishung, and from that union an heir was born who in form and feature resembled Irij and Feridún. He was called Minúchihr, and great rejoicings took place on the occasion of his birth.

The old man's lips, with smiles apart,
Bespoke the gladness of his heart.
And in his arms he took the boy
The harbinger of future joy;
Delighted that indulgent Heaven
To his fond hopes this pledge had given,
It seemed as if, to bless his reign,
Irij had come to life again.

The child was nourished with great tenderness during his infancy, and when he grew up he was sedulously instructed in every art necessary to form the character, and acquire the accomplishments of a warrior. Feridún was accustomed to place him on the throne, and decorate his brows with the crown of sovereignty; and the soldiers enthusiastically acknowledged him as their king, urging him to rouse himself and take vengeance of his enemies for the murder of his grandfather. Having opened his treasury, Feridún distributed abundance of gold among the people, so that Minúchihr was in a short time enabled to embody an immense army, by whom he was looked upon with attachment and admiration.

When Sílim and Túr were informed of the preparations that were making against them, that Minúchihr, having grown to manhood, was distinguished for his valor and intrepidity, and that multitudes flocked to his standard with the intention of forwarding his purpose of revenge, they were seized with inexpressible terror, and anticipated an immediate invasion of their kingdoms. Thus alarmed, they counselled together upon the course it would be wisest to adopt.

"Should he advance, his cause is just,
And blood will mingle with the dust,
But heaven forbid our power should be
O'erwhelmed to give him victory;
Though strong his arm, and wild his ire,
And vengeance keen his heart inspire."

They determined, at length, to pursue pacific measures, and endeavor by splendid presents and conciliatory language to regain the good-will of Feridún. The elephants were immediately loaded with treasure, a crown of gold, and other articles of value, and a messenger was dispatched, charged with an acknowledgment of guilt and abundant expressions of repentance. "It was Iblís," they said, "who led us astray, and our destiny has been such that we are in every way criminal. But thou art the ocean of mercy; pardon our offences. Though manifold, they were involuntary, and forgiveness will cleanse our hearts and restore us to ourselves. Let our tears wash away the faults we have committed. To Minúchihr and to thyself we offer obedience and fealty, and we wait your commands, being but the dust of your feet."

When the messenger arrived at the court of Feridún he first delivered the magnificent presents, and the king, having placed Minúchihr on a golden chair by his side, observed to him, "These presents are to thee a prosperous and blessed omen—they show that thy enemy is afraid of thee." Then the messenger was permitted to communicate the object of his mission.

He spoke with studied phrase, intent to hide,
Or mitigate the horror of their crime;
And with excuses plausible and bland
His speech was dressed. The brothers, he observed,
Desired to see their kinsman Minúchihr,
And with the costliest gems they sought to pay
The price of kindred blood unjustly shed—
And they would willingly to him resign
Their kingdoms for the sake of peace and friendship.

The monarch marked him scornfully, and said:
"Canst thou conceal the sun? It is in vain
Truth to disguise with words of shallow meaning.
Now hear my answer. Ask thy cruel masters,
Who talk of their affection for the prince,
Where lies the body of the gentle Irij?
Him they have slain, the fierce, unnatural brothers,
And now they thirst to gain another victim.
They long to see the face of Minúchihr!
Yes, and they shall, surrounded by his soldiers,
And clad in steel, and they shall feel the edge
Of life-destroying swords. Yes, they shall see him!"

After uttering this indignant speech, Feridún showed to the messenger his great warriors, one by one. He showed him Kavah and his two sons, Shahpúr, and Shírúeh, and Kárun, and Sám,[3] and Narímán, and other chiefs—all of admirable courage and valor in war—and thus resumed:

"Hence with your presents, hence, away,
Can gold or gems turn night to day?
Must kingly heads be bought and sold,
And shall I barter blood for gold?
Shall gold a father's heart entice,
Blood to redeem beyond all price?
Hence, hence with treachery; I have heard
Their glozing falsehoods, every word;
But human feelings guide my will,
And keep my honour sacred still.
True is the oracle we read:
'Those who have sown oppression's seed
Reap bitter fruit; their souls, perplext,
Joy not in this world or the next.'
The brothers of my murdered boy,
Who could a father's hopes destroy,
An equal punishment will reap,
And lasting vengeance o'er them sweep.
They rooted up my favourite tree,
But yet a branch remains to me.
Now the young lion comes apace,
The glory of his glorious race;
He comes apace, to punish guilt,
Where brother's blood was basely spilt;
And blood alone for blood must pay;
Hence with your gold, depart, away!"

When the messenger heard these reproaches, mingled with poison, he immediately took leave, and trembling with fear, returned to Sílim and Túr with the utmost speed. He described to them in strong and alarming terms the appearance and character of Minúchihr, and his warriors; of that noble youth who with frowning eyebrows was only anxious for battle. He then communicated to them in what manner he had been received, and repeated the denunciations of Feridún, at which the brothers were exceedingly grieved and disappointed. But Sílim said to Túr:

"Let us be first upon the field, before
He marshals his array. It follows not,
That he should be a hero bold and valiant,
Because he is descended from the brave;
But it becomes us well to try our power,—
For speed, in war, is better than delay."

In this spirit the two brothers rapidly collected from both their kingdoms a large army, and proceeded towards Irán. On hearing of their progress, Feridún said: "This is well—they come of themselves. The forest game surrenders itself voluntarily at the foot of the sportsman." Then he commanded his army to wait quietly till they arrived; for skill and patience, he observed, will draw the lion's head into your toils.

As soon as the enemy had approached within a short distance, Minúchihr solicited Feridún to commence the engagement—and the king having summoned his chief warriors before him, appointed them all, one by one, to their proper places.

The warriors of renown assembled straight
With ponderous clubs; each like a lion fierce,
Girded his loins impatient. In their front
The sacred banner of the blacksmith waved;
Bright scimitars were brandished in the air;
Beneath them pranced their steeds, all armed for fight,
And so incased in iron were the chiefs
From top to toe, their eyes were only seen.

When Kárun drew his hundred thousand troops
Upon the field, the battle-word was given,
And Minúchihr was, like the cypress tall,
Engaged along the centre of the hosts;
And like the moon he shone, amid the groups
Of congregated clouds, or as the sun
Glittering upon the mountain of Alberz.
The squadrons in advance Kabád commanded,
Garshásp the left, and Sám upon the right.

The shedders of a brother's blood had now
Brought their innumerous legions to the strife,
And formed them in magnificent array:
The picket guards were almost thrown together,
When Túr sprung forward, and with sharp reproach,
And haughty gesture, thus addressed Kabád:
"Ask this new king, this Minúchihr, since Heaven
To Irij gave a daughter, who on him
Bestowed the mail, the battle-axe, and sword?"
To this insulting speech, Kabád replied:
"The message shall be given, and I will bring
The answer, too. Ye know what ye have done;
Have ye not murdered him who, trusting, sought
Protection from ye? All mankind for this
Must curse your memory till the day of doom;
If savage monsters were to fly your presence,
It would not be surprising. Those who die
In this most righteous cause will go to Heaven,
With all their sins forgotten!" Then Kabád
Went to the king, and told the speech of Túr:
A smile played o'er the cheek of Minúchihr
As thus he spoke: "A boaster he must be,
Or a vain fool, for when engaged in battle,
Vigour of arm and the enduring soul,
Will best be proved. I ask but for revenge—
Vengeance for Irij slain. Meanwhile, return;
We shall not fight to-day."

He too retired,
And in his tent upon the sandy plain,
Ordered the festive board to be prepared,
And wine and music whiled the hours away.

When morning dawned the battle commenced, and multitudes were slain on both sides.

The spacious plain became a sea of blood;
It seemed as if the earth was covered o'er
With crimson tulips; slippery was the ground,
And all in dire confusion.

The army of Minúchihr was victorious, owing to the bravery and skill of the commander. But Heaven was in his favor.

In the evening Sílim and Túr consulted together, and came to the resolution of effecting a formidable night attack on the enemy. The spies of Minúchihr, however, obtained information of this intention, and communicated the secret to the king. Minúchihr immediately placed the army in charge of Kárun, and took himself thirty thousand men to wait in ambuscade for the enemy, and frustrate his views. Túr advanced with a hundred thousand men; but as he advanced, he found every one on the alert, and aware of his approach. He had gone too far to retreat in the dark without fighting, and therefore began a vigorous conflict. Minúchihr sprung up from his ambuscade, and with his thirty thousand men rushed upon the centre of the enemy's troops, and in the end encountered Túr. The struggle was not long. Minúchihr dexterously using his javelin, hurled him from his saddle precipitately to the ground, and then with his dagger severed the head from his body. The body he left to be devoured by the beasts of the field, and the head he sent as a trophy to Feridún; after which, he proceeded in search of Sílim.

The army of the confederates, however, having suffered such a signal defeat, Sílim thought it prudent to fall back and take refuge in a fort. But Minúchihr went in pursuit, and besieged the castle. One day a warrior named Kakú made a sally out of the fort, and approaching the centre of the besieging army, threw a javelin at Minúchihr, which, however, fell harmless before it reached its aim. Then Minúchihr seized the enemy by the girdle, raised him up in air, and flung him from his saddle to the ground.

He grasped the foe-man by the girth,
And thundering drove him to the earth;
By wound of spear, and gory brand,
He died upon the burning sand.

The siege was continued for some time with the view of weakening the power of Sílim; at last Minúchihr sent a message to him, saying: "Let the battle be decided between us. Quit the fort, and boldly meet me here, that it may be seen to whom God gives the victory." Sílim could not, without disgrace, refuse this challenge: he descended from the fort, and met Minúchihr. A desperate conflict ensued, and he was slain on the spot. Minúchihr's keen sword severed the royal head from the body, and thus quickly ended the career of Sílim. After that, the whole of the enemy's troops were defeated and put to flight in every direction.

The leading warriors of the routed army now sought protection from Minúchihr, who immediately complied with their solicitation, and by their influence all the forces of Sílim and Túr united under him. To each he gave rank according to his merits. After the victory, Minúchihr hastened to pay his respects to Feridún, who received him with praises and thanksgivings, and the customary honors. Returning from the battle, Feridún met him on foot; and the moment Minúchihr beheld the venerable monarch, he alighted and kissed the ground. They then, seated in the palace together, congratulated themselves on the success of their arms. In a short time after, the end of Feridún approached; when recommending Minúchihr to the care of Sám and Narímán, he said: "My hour of departure has arrived, and I place the prince under your protection." He then directed Minúchihr to be seated on the throne;

And put himself the crown upon his head,
And stored his mind with counsel good and wise.

Upon the death of Feridún, Minúchihr accordingly succeeded to the government of the empire, and continued to observe strictly all the laws and regulations of his great grandfather. He commanded his subjects to be constant in the worship of God.

The army and the people gave him praise,
Prayed for his happiness and length of days;
Our hearts, they said, are ever bound to thee;
Our hearts, inspired by love and loyalty.

ZÁL, THE SON OF SÁM

According to the traditionary histories from which Firdusi has derived his legends, the warrior Sám had a son born to him whose hair was perfectly white. On his birth the nurse went to Sám and told him that God had blessed him with a wonderful child, without a single blemish, excepting that his hair was white; but when Sám saw him he was grieved:

His hair was white as goose's wing,
His cheek was like the rose of spring
His form was straight as cypress tree—
But when the sire was brought to see
That child with hair so silvery white,
His heart revolted at the sight.

His mother gave him the name of Zál and the people said to Sám, "This is an ominous event, and will be to thee productive of nothing but calamity; it would be better if thou couldst remove him out of sight.

"No human being of this earth
Could give to such a monster birth;
He must be of the Demon race,
Though human still in form and face.
If not a Demon, he, at least,
Appears a party-coloured beast."

When Sám was made acquainted with these reproaches and sneers of the people, he determined, though with a sorrowful heart, to take him up to the mountain Alberz, and abandon him there to be destroyed by beasts of prey. Alberz was the abode of the Símúrgh or Griffin,[4] and, whilst flying about in quest of food for his hungry young ones, that surprising animal discovered the child lying alone upon the hard rock, crying and sucking its fingers. The Símúrgh, however, felt no inclination to devour him, but compassionately took him up in the air, and conveyed him to his own habitation.

He who is blest with Heaven's grace
Will never want a dwelling-place
And he who bears the curse of Fate
Can never change his wretched state.
A voice, not earthly, thus addressed
The Símúrgh in his mountain nest—
"To thee this mortal I resign,
Protected by the power divine;
Let him thy fostering kindness share,
Nourish him with paternal care;
For from his loins, in time, will spring
The champion of the world, and bring
Honour on earth, and to thy name;
The heir of everlasting fame."

The young ones were also kind and affectionate to the infant, which was thus nourished and protected by the Símúrgh for several years.

THE DREAM OF SÁM

It is said that one night, after melancholy musings and reflecting on the miseries of this life, Sám was visited by a dream, and when the particulars of it were communicated to the interpreters of mysterious warnings and omens, they declared that Zál was certainly still alive, although he had been long exposed on Alberz, and left there to be torn to pieces by wild animals. Upon this interpretation being given, the natural feelings of the father returned, and he sent his people to the mountain in search of Zál, but without success. On another night Sám dreamt a second time, when he beheld a young man of a beautiful countenance at the head of an immense army, with a banner flying before him, and a Múbid on his left hand. One of them addressed Sám, and reproached him thus:—

Unfeeling mortal, hast thou from thy eyes
Washed out all sense of shame? Dost thou believe
That to have silvery tresses is a crime?
If so, thy head is covered with white hair;
And were not both spontaneous gifts from Heaven?
Although the boy was hateful to thy sight,
The grace of God has been bestowed upon him;
And what is human tenderness and love
To Heaven's protection? Thou to him wert cruel,
But Heaven has blest him, shielding him from harm.

Sám screamed aloud in his sleep, and awoke greatly terrified. Without delay he went himself to Alberz, and ascended the mountain, and wept and prayed before the throne of the Almighty, saying:—

"If that forsaken child be truly mine,
And not the progeny of Demon fell,
O pity me! forgive the wicked deed,
And to my eyes, my injured son restore."

His prayer was accepted. The Símúrgh, hearing the lamentations of Sám among his people, knew that he had come in quest of his son, and thus said to Zál:—"I have fed and protected thee like a kind nurse, and I have given thee the name of Dustán, like a father. Sám, the warrior, has just come upon the mountain in search of his child, and I must restore thee to him, and we must part." Zál wept when he heard of this unexpected separation, and in strong terms expressed his gratitude to his benefactor; for the Wonderful Bird had not omitted to teach him the language of the country, and to cultivate his understanding, removed as they were to such a distance from the haunts of mankind. The Símúrgh soothed him by assuring him that he was not going to abandon him to misfortune, but to increase his prosperity; and, as a striking proof of affection, gave him a feather from his own wing, with these instructions:—"Whenever thou art involved in difficulty or danger, put this feather on the fire, and I will instantly appear to thee to ensure thy safety. Never cease to remember me.

"I have watched thee with fondness by day and by night,
And supplied all thy wants with a father's delight;
O forget not thy nurse—still be faithful to me—
And my heart will be ever devoted to thee."

Zál immediately replied in a strain of gratitude and admiration; and then the Símúrgh conveyed him to Sám, and said to him: "Receive thy son—he is of wonderful promise, and will be worthy of the throne and the diadem."

The soul of Sám rejoiced to hear
Applause so sweet to a parent's ear;
And blessed them both in thought and word,
The lovely boy, and the Wondrous Bird.

He also declared to Zál that he was ashamed of the crime of which he had been guilty, and that he would endeavor to obliterate the recollection of the past by treating him in future with the utmost respect and honor.

When Minúchihr heard from Zábul of these things, and of Sám's return, he was exceedingly pleased, and ordered his son, Nauder, with a splendid istakbál,[5] to meet the father and son on their approach to the city. They were surrounded by warriors and great men, and Sám embraced the first moment to introduce Zál to the king.

Zál humbly kissed the earth before the king,
And from the hands of Minúchihr received
A golden mace and helm. Then those who knew
The stars and planetary signs, were told
To calculate the stripling's destiny;
And all proclaimed him of exalted fortune,
That he would be prodigious in his might,
Outshining every warrior of the age.

Delighted with this information, Minúchihr, seated upon his throne, with Kárun on one side and Sám on the other, presented Zál with Arabian horses, and armor, and gold, and splendid garments, and appointed Sám to the government of Kábul, Zábul, and Ind. Zál accompanied his father on his return; and when they arrived at Zábulistán, the most renowned instructors in every art and science were collected together to cultivate and enrich his young mind.

In the meantime Sám was commanded by the king to invade and subdue the Demon provinces of Karugsár and Mázinderán;[6] and Zál was in consequence left by his father in charge of Zábulistán. The young nursling of the Símúrgh is said to have performed the duties of sovereignty with admirable wisdom and discretion, during the absence of his father. He did not pass his time in idle exercises, but with zealous delight in the society of accomplished and learned men, for the purpose of becoming familiar with every species of knowledge and acquirement. The city of Zábul, however, as a constant residence, did not entirely satisfy him, and he wished to see more of the world; he therefore visited several other places, and proceeded as far as Kábul, where he pitched his tents, and remained for some time.

RÚDÁBEH

The chief of Kábul was descended from the family of Zohák. He was named Mihráb, and to secure the safety of his state, paid annual tribute to Sám. Mihráb, on the arrival of Zál, went out of the city to see him, and was hospitably entertained by the young hero, who soon discovered that he had a daughter of wonderful attractions.

Her name Rúdábeh; screened from public view,
Her countenance is brilliant as the sun;
From head to foot her lovely form is fair
As polished ivory. Like the spring, her cheek
Presents a radiant bloom,—in stature tall,
And o'er her silvery brightness, richly flow
Dark musky ringlets clustering to her feet.
She blushes like the rich pomegranate flower;
Her eyes are soft and sweet as the narcissus,
Her lashes from the raven's jetty plume
Have stolen their blackness, and her brows are bent
Like archer's bow. Ask ye to see the moon?
Look at her face. Seek ye for musky fragrance?
She is all sweetness. Her long fingers seem
Pencils of silver, and so beautiful
Her presence, that she breathes of Heaven and love.

Such was the description of Rúdábeh, which inspired the heart of Zál with the most violent affection, and imagination added to her charms.

Mihráb again waited on Zál, who received him graciously, and asked him in what manner he could promote his wishes. Mihráb said that he only desired him to become his guest at a banquet he intended to invite him to; but Zál thought proper to refuse, because he well knew, if he accepted an invitation of the kind from a relation of Zohák, that his father Sám and the King of Persia would be offended. Mihráb returned to Kábul disappointed, and having gone into his harem, his wife, Síndokht, inquired after the stranger from Zábul, the white-headed son of Sám. She wished to know what he was like, in form and feature, and what account he gave of his sojourn with the Símúrgh. Mihráb described him in the warmest terms of admiration—he was valiant, he said, accomplished and handsome, with no other defect than that of white hair. And so boundless was his praise, that Rúdábeh, who was present, drank every word with avidity, and felt her own heart warmed into admiration and love. Full of emotion, she afterwards said privately to her attendants:

"To you alone the secret of my heart
I now unfold; to you alone confess
The deep sensations of my captive soul.
I love, I love; all day and night of him
I think alone—I see him in my dreams—
You only know my secret—aid me now,
And soothe the sorrows of my bursting heart."

The attendants were startled with this confession and entreaty, and ventured to remonstrate against so preposterous an attachment.

"What! hast thou lost all sense of shame,
All value for thy honored name!
That thou, in loveliness supreme,
Of every tongue the constant theme,
Should choose, and on another's word.
The nursling of a Mountain Bird!
A being never seen before,
Which human mother never bore!
And can the hoary locks of age,
A youthful heart like thine engage?
Must thy enchanting form be prest
To such a dubious monster's breast?
And all thy beauty's rich array,
Thy peerless charms be thrown away?"

This violent remonstrance was more calculated to rouse the indignation of Rúdábeh than to induce her to change her mind. It did so. But she subdued her resentment, and again dwelt upon the ardor of her passion.

"My attachment is fixed, my election is made,
And when hearts are enchained 'tis in vain to upbraid.
Neither Kízar nor Faghfúr I wish to behold,
Nor the monarch of Persia with jewels and gold;
All, all I despise, save the choice of my heart,
And from his beloved image I never can part.
Call him aged, or young, 'tis a fruitless endeavour
To uproot a desire I must cherish for ever;
Call him old, call him young, who can passion control?
Ever present, and loved, he entrances my soul.
'Tis for him I exist—him I worship alone,
And my heart it must bleed till I call him my own."

As soon as the attendants found that Rúdábeh's attachment was deeply fixed, and not to be removed, they changed their purpose, and became obedient to her wishes, anxious to pursue any measure that might bring Zál and their mistress together. Rúdábeh was delighted with this proof of their regard.

It was spring-time, and the attendants repaired towards the halting-place of Zál, in the neighborhood of the city. Their occupation seemed to be gathering roses along the romantic banks of a pellucid streamlet, and when they purposely strayed opposite the tent of Zál, he observed them, and asked his friends—why they presumed to gather roses in his garden. He was told that they were damsels sent by the moon of Kábulistán from the palace of Mihráb to gather roses, and upon hearing this his heart was touched with emotion. He rose up and rambled about for amusement, keeping the direction of the river, followed by a servant with a bow. He was not far from the damsels, when a bird sprung up from the water, which he shot, upon the wing, with an arrow. The bird happened to fall near the rose-gatherers, and Zál ordered his servant to bring it to him. The attendants of Rúdábeh lost not the opportunity, as he approached them, to inquire who the archer was. "Know ye not," answered the servant, "that this is Ním-rúz, the son of Sám, and also called Dustán, the greatest warrior ever known." At this the damsels smiled, and said that they too belonged to a person of distinction—and not of inferior worth—to a star in the palace of Mihráb. "We have come from Kábul to the King of Zábulistán, and should Zál and Rúdábeh be of equal rank, her ruby lips may become acquainted with his, and their wished-for union be effected." When the servant returned, Zál was immediately informed of the conversation that had taken place, and in consequence presents were prepared.

They who to gather roses came—went back
With precious gems—and honorary robes;
And two bright finger-rings were secretly
Sent to the princess.

Then did the attendants of Rúdábeh exult in the success of their artifice, and say that the lion had come into their toils. Rúdábeh herself, however, had some fears on the subject. She anxiously sought to know exactly the personal appearance of Zál, and happily her warmest hopes were realized by the description she received. But one difficulty remained—how were they to meet? How was she to see with her own eyes the man whom her fancy had depicted in such glowing colors? Her attendants, sufficiently expert at intrigue, soon contrived the means of gratifying her wishes. There was a beautiful rural retreat in a sequestered situation, the apartments of which were adorned with pictures of great men, and ornamented in the most splendid manner. To this favorite place Rúdábeh retired, and most magnificently dressed, awaiting the coming of Zál, whom her attendants had previously invited to repair thither as soon as the sun had gone down. The shadows of evening were falling as he approached, and the enamoured princess thus addressed him from her balcony:—

"May happiness attend thee ever, thou,
Whose lucid features make this gloomy night
Clear as the day; whose perfume scents the breeze;
Thou who, regardless of fatigue, hast come
On foot too, thus to see me—"

Hearing a sweet voice, he looked up, and beheld a bright face in the balcony, and he said to the beautiful vision:—

"How often have I hoped that Heaven
Would, in some secret place display
Thy charms to me, and thou hast given
My heart the wish of many a day;
For now thy gentle voice I hear,
And now I see thee—speak again!
Speak freely in a willing ear,
And every wish thou hast obtain."

Not a word was lost upon Rúdábeh, and she soon accomplished her object. Her hair was so luxuriant, and of such a length, that casting it loose it flowed down from the balcony; and, after fastening the upper part to a ring, she requested Zál to take hold of the other end and mount up. He ardently kissed the musky tresses, and by them quickly ascended.

Then hand in hand within the chambers they
Gracefully passed.—Attractive was the scene,
The walls embellished by the painter's skill,
And every object exquisitely formed,
Sculpture, and architectural ornament,
Fit for a king. Zál with amazement gazed
Upon what art had done, but more he gazed
Upon the witching radiance of his love,
Upon her tulip cheeks, her musky locks,
Breathing the sweetness of a summer garden;
Upon the sparkling brightness of her rings,
Necklace, and bracelets, glittering on her arms.
His mien too was majestic—on his head
He wore a ruby crown, and near his breast
Was seen a belted dagger. Fondly she
With side-long glances marked his noble aspect,
The fine proportions of his graceful limbs,
His strength and beauty. Her enamoured heart
Suffused her cheek with blushes, every glance
Increased the ardent transports of her soul.
So mild was his demeanour, he appeared
A gentle lion toying with his prey.
Long they remained rapt in admiration
Of each other. At length the warrior rose,
And thus addressed her: "It becomes not us
To be forgetful of the path of prudence,
Though love would dictate a more ardent course,
How oft has Sám, my father, counselled me,
Against unseeming thoughts,—unseemly deeds,—
Always to choose the right, and shun the wrong.
How will he burn with anger when he hears
This new adventure; how will Minúchihr
Indignantly reproach me for this dream!
This waking dream of rapture! but I call
High Heaven to witness what I now declare—
Whoever may oppose my sacred vows,
I still am thine, affianced thine, for ever."

And thus Rúdábeh: "Thou hast won my heart,
And kings may sue in vain; to thee devoted,
Thou art alone my warrior and my love."
Thus they exclaimed,—then Zál with fond adieus
Softly descended from the balcony,
And hastened to his tent.

As speedily as possible he assembled together his counsellors and Múbids to obtain their advice on the present extraordinary occasion, and he represented to them the sacred importance of encouraging matrimonial alliances.

For marriage is a contract sealed by Heaven—
How happy is the Warrior's lot, amidst
His smiling children; when he dies, his son
Succeeds him, and enjoys his rank and name.
And is it not a glorious thing to say—
This is the son of Zál, or this of Sám,
The heir of his renowned progenitor?

He then related to them the story of his love and affection for the daughter of Mihráb; but the Múbids, well knowing that the chief of Kábul was of the family of Zohák, the serpent-king, did not approve the union desired, which excited the indignation of Zál. They, however, recommended his writing a letter to Sám, who might, if he thought proper, refer the matter to Minúchihr. The letter was accordingly written and despatched, and when Sám received it, he immediately referred the question to his astrologers, to know whether the nuptials, if solemnized between Zál and Rúdábeh, would be prosperous or not. They foretold that the nuptials would be prosperous, and that the issue would be a son of wonderful strength and power, the conqueror of the world. This announcement delighted the heart of the old warrior, and he sent the messenger back with the assurance of his approbation of the proposed union, but requested that the subject might be kept concealed till he returned with his army from the expedition to Karugsár, and was able to consult with Minúchihr.

Zál, exulting at his success, communicated the glad tidings to Rúdábeh by their female emissary, who had hitherto carried on successfully the correspondence between them. But as she was conveying an answer to this welcome news, and some presents to Zál, Síndokht, the mother of Rúdábeh, detected her, and, examining the contents of the packet, she found sufficient evidence, she thought, of something wrong.

"What treachery is this? What have we here!
Sirbund and male attire? Thou, wretch, confess!
Disclose thy secret doings."