Shah Nameh/The Story of Jemshíd Resumed


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[2] 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,[3]
    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[4] 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.

notes (from the original)Edit


  1. Love at first sight, and of the most enthusiastic kind, is the passion described in all Persian poems, as if a whole life of love were condensed into one moment. It is all wild and rapturous. It has nothing of a rational cast. A casual glance from an unknown beauty often affords the subject of a poem. The poets whom Dr. Johnson has denominated metaphysical, such as Donne, Jonson, and Cowley, bear a strong resemblance to the Persians on the subject of love.

    Now, sure, within this twelvemonth past,
    I've loved at least some twenty years or more;
    Th' account of love runs much more fast,
    Than that with which our life does score:
    So, though my life be short, yet I may prove,
    The Great Methusalem of love!!!
    "Love and Life."--Cowley.

    The odes of Háfiz also, with all their spirit and richness of
    expression, abound in conceit and extravagant metaphor. There is,
    however, something very beautiful in the passage which may be
    paraphrased thus:

    Zephyr thro' thy locks is straying,
    Stealing fragrance, charms displaying;
    Should it pass where Háfiz lies,
    From his conscious dust would rise,
    Flowrets of a thousand dyes!

    Sir W. Jones, in quoting this distich, seems to have neglected the peculiar turn of the thought, and has translated the second line, a hundred thousand flowers will spring from the earth that HIDES his corse! But the passage implies that even the ashes of the Poet will still retain enough sensibility to be affected by the presence, or by any token, of his beloved. Cowley has a similar nothion, but he pursues and amplifies it till it becomes ridiculous.

    'Tis well, 'tis well with them, say I,
    Whose short-lived passions with themselves die;
    Whatever parts of me remain,
    Those parts will still the love of thee retain;
    My affection no more perish can,
    Than the first matter that compounds a man!
    Hereafter, if one dust of me,
    Mix'd with another's substance be;
    'Twill leacen that whole lump with love of thee!
    Let nature if she please, disperse
    My atoms over all the universe;
    At last they easily shall
    Thenselves know, and together call;
    For thy love, like a mark, is stampt on all!
    ALL-OVER LOVE
  2. Zábul, or Zábulistán, the name of a province, bordering on Hindústan, which some place in the number of those now composing the country Sind. It abounds in rivers, forests, lakes, and mountains. It was also called Rustemdar. The ancient Persians conquered Zábulistán and Sístán, or Segestán, as one principalitity, where Rustem usually resided with his family, and which they held appanage from the Kings of Persia. Segestan is the Drangiana of the Greeks. It was formerly the residence of any Persina Kings. One of its cities, Ghizni, poduced the celebrated Mahmúd, the patron of Firdausí.
  3. It is not unusual for Firdausí to say "they were all intoxicated!" Homer's heroes are more celebrated for eating than drinking, and the bravest always had the largest share! The ancient as well as modern Persians, it appears, were passionately devoted to wine. Some lines which I have paraphrased from the Sakí-nameh of Hafiz, will show their adoration of it, defended by their notions of the uncertainty of life:

    Sakí! ere our life decline,
    Bring the ruby-tinted wine;
    Sorrow on my bosom preys,
    Wine alone delights my days!
    Bring it, let its sweets impart
    Rapture to my fainting heart;
    Sakí! fill the bunper high--
    Why should man unhappy sigh?
    Mark the glittering bubbles swim,
    Round the goblet's smiling brim;
    Now they burst, the charm is gone!
    Fretful life will soon be done;
    Jemshíd's regal sway is o'er,
    Kai-kobád is now no more.
    Fill the goblet, all must sever,
    Drink the liquid gem for ever!
    Thou shalt sill, in bowers divine,
    Quaff the soul-expanding wine!
  4. Alberz is the chain of mountains which divide Ghilán and Mazinderán from Irák. Kai-kobad was the first king of the dynasty called Kaianidess and the race of Feridún. Alberz is also famous for a number of temples of the Magi.