Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/738

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And his claim has been admitted from the first. The muleteers and camel drivers, on their way through the desert, sing snatches of his songs, not so much for the thought, as for their joyful temper and tone and the cultivated Persians know his poems by heart. Yet Hafiz does not appear to have set any great value on his songs, since his scholars colleeted them for the first time after his death.

In the following poem the soul is figured as the Phoenix alighting on the Tree of Life:—

“My phoenix Tong ago securedHis nest in the sky-vault’s cope;In the body’s cage immured,He is weary of life’s hope.

“ Round and round this heap of ashesNow flies the bird amain,But in that odorous niche of heavenNestles the bird again.

“Once flics he upward, he will perchOn Tuba’s golden bough;His home is on that fruited archWhich cools the blest below.

“If over this world of oursHis wings my phoenix spread,How gracious falls on land and seaThe soul-refreshing shade!

“Either world inhabits he,Sees oft below him planets roll;His body is all of air compact,Of Allah’s love his soul.”

Here is an ode which is said to be a favorite with all educated Persians :—

“Come!—the palace of heaven rests on aery pillars,—

Come, and bring me wine; our days aro wind. I declare myself the slave of that masculine

Which ties and alliance on earth once forever renounces.

Told I thee yester-mom how the Iris of heaven Brought to me in my cup a gospel of joy?

O high-flying falcon! the Tree of Life is thy perch;

This nook of grief fits thee ill for a nest. Hearken! they call to thee down from the ramparts of heaven;

I cannot divine what holds thee here in a net. I, too, have a counsel for thee; oh, mark it and keep it,

Since I received the same from the Masterabove:Seek not for faith or for truth in a world oflight-minded girls;A thousand suitors reckons this dangerousbride.This jest [of the world], which tickles me,leave to my vagabond self.Accept whatever befalls; uncover thy browfrom thy locks;Neither to me nor to thee was option imparted;Neither endurance nor truth belongs to thelaugh of the rose. The loving nightingale mourns;-—cause enowfor mourning;—Why envies the bird the streaming verses ofHafiz?Know that a god bestowed on him eloquent speech.”

Here is a little epitaph that might have come from Simonides :—

“Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jestMad Destiny this tender stripling played:For a warm breast of ivory to his breast, She laid a slab of marble on his head.”

The cedar, the cypress, the palm, the olive, and fig-tree, and the birds that inhabit them, and the garden flowers, are never wanting in these musky verses, and aro always named with effect. “ The willows,” he says, “ bow themselves to every wind, out of shame for their unfruitful ness.” We may open anywhere on a floral catalogue.

“By breath of beds of roses drawn, I found the grove in the morning pure. In the concert of the nightingales My drunken brain to cure.

“With unrelated glanceI looked the rose in the eye; The rose in the hour of gloamingFlamed like a lamp lmrd-by.

“She was of her beauty proud,And prouder of her youth,The while unto her flaming heartThe bulbul gave his truth.

“The sweet narcissus closedIts eye, with passion pressed;The tulips out of envy burnedMoles In their scarlet breast.

“The lilies white prolongedTheir sworded tongue to the smell;The clustering anemonesTheir pretty secrets tell.”