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The Persian Literature, Comprising The Shah Nameh, The Rubaiyat, The Divan, and The Gulistan, Volume 1

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Title: The Persian Literature, Comprising The Shah Nameh, The Rubaiyat, The Divan, and The Gulistan, Volume 1

Author: Firdawsī
        active 14th century Ḥāfiẓ
        Omar Khayyam

Contributor: Richard J. H. Gottheil

Translator: James Atkinson
        Herman Bicknell
        Edward FitzGerald


        
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10315]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10315

Credits: E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Karen Lofstrom, Tom Allen, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PERSIAN LITERATURE, COMPRISING THE SHAH NAMEH, THE RUBAIYAT, THE DIVAN, AND THE GULISTAN, VOLUME 1 ***

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."

The emissary, however, betrayed nothing; but declared that she was a
dealer in jewels and dresses, and had been only showing her merchandise
to Rúdábeh. Síndokht, in extreme agitation of mind, hastened to her
daughter's apartment to ascertain the particulars of this affair, when
Rúdábeh at once fearlessly acknowledged her unalterable affection for
Zál,

  "I love him so devotedly, all day,
  All night my tears have flowed unceasingly;
  And one hair of his head I prize more dearly
  Than all the world beside; for him I live;
  And we have met, and we have sat together,
  And pledged our mutual love with mutual joy
  And innocence of heart."

Rúdábeh further informed her of Sám's consent to their nuptials, which
in some degree satisfied the mother. But when Mihráb was made acquainted
with the arrangement, his rage was unbounded, for he dreaded the
resentment of Sám and Minúchihr when the circumstances became fully
known to them. Trembling with indignation he drew his dagger, and would
have instantly rushed to Rúdábeh's chamber to destroy her, had not
Síndokht fallen at his feet and restrained him. He insisted, however, on
her being brought before him; and upon his promise not to do her any
harm, Síndokht complied. Rúdábeh disdained to take off her ornaments to
appear as an offender and a supplicant, but, proud of her choice, went
into her father's presence, gayly adorned with jewels, and in splendid
apparel. Mihráb received her with surprise.

  "Why all this glittering finery? Is the devil
  United to an angel? When a snake
  Is met with in Arabia, it is killed!"

But Rúdábeh answered not a word, and was permitted to retire with her
mother.

When Minúchihr was apprised of the proceedings between Zál and Rúdábeh,
he was deeply concerned, anticipating nothing but confusion and ruin to
Persia from the united influence of Zál and Mihráb. Feridún had purified
the world from the abominations of Zohák, and as Mihráb was a descendant
of that merciless tyrant, he feared that some attempt would be made to
resume the enormities of former times; Sám was therefore required to
give his advice on the occasion.

The conqueror of Karugsár and Mázinderán was received on his return with
cordial rejoicings, and he charmed the king with the story of his
triumphant success. The monarch against whom he had fought was
descended, on the mother's side, from Zohák, and his Demon army was more
numerous than ants, or clouds of locusts, covering mountain and plain.
Sám thus proceeded in his description of the conflict.

  "And when he heard my voice, and saw what deeds
  I had performed, approaching me, he threw
  His noose; but downward bending I escaped,
  And with my bow I showered upon his head
  Steel-pointed arrows, piercing through the brain;
  Then did I grasp his loins, and from his horse
  Cast him upon the ground, deprived of life.
  At this, the demons terrified and pale,
  Shrunk back, some flying to the mountain wilds,
  And others, taken on the battle-field,
  Became obedient to the Persian king."

Minúchihr, gratified by this result of the expedition, appointed Sám to
a new enterprise, which was to destroy Kábul by fire and sword,
especially the house of Mihráb; and that ruler, of the serpent-race, and
all his adherents were to be put to death. Sám, before he took leave to
return to his own government at Zábul, tried to dissuade him from this
violent exercise of revenge, but without making any sensible impression
upon him.

Meanwhile the vindictive intentions of Minúchihr, which were soon known
at Kábul, produced the greatest alarm and consternation in the family of
Mihráb. Zál now returned to his father, and Sám sent a letter to
Minúchihr, again to deprecate his wrath, and appointed Zál the
messenger. In this letter Sám enumerates his services at Karugsár and
Mázinderán, and especially dwells upon the destruction of a prodigious
dragon.

  "I am thy servant, and twice sixty years
  Have seen my prowess. Mounted on my steed,
  Wielding my battle-axe, overthrowing heroes,
  Who equals Sám, the warrior? I destroyed
  The mighty monster, whose devouring jaws
  Unpeopled half the land, and spread dismay
  From town to town. The world was full of horror,
  No bird was seen in air, no beast of prey
  In plain or forest; from the stream he drew
  The crocodile; the eagle from the sky.
  The country had no habitant alive,
  And when I found no human being left,
  I cast away all fear, and girt my loins,
  And in the name of God went boldly forth,
  Armed for the strife. I saw him towering rise,
  Huge as a mountain, with his hideous hair
  Dragging upon the ground; his long black tongue
  Shut up the path; his eyes two lakes of blood;
  And, seeing me, so horrible his roar,
  The earth shook with affright, and from his mouth
  A flood of poison issued. Like a lion
  Forward I sprang, and in a moment drove
  A diamond-pointed arrow through his tongue,
  Fixing him to the ground. Another went
  Down his deep throat, and dreadfully he writhed.
  A third passed through his middle. Then I raised
  My battle-axe, cow-headed, and with one
  Tremendous blow, dislodged his venomous brain,
  And deluged all around with blood and poison.
  There lay the monster dead, and soon the world
  Regained its peace and comfort. Now I'm old,
  The vigour of my youth is past and gone,
  And it becomes me to resign my station,
  To Zál, my gallant son."

Mihráb continued in such extreme agitation, that in his own mind he saw
no means of avoiding the threatened desolation of his country but by
putting his wife and daughter to death. Síndokht however had a better
resource, and suggested the expediency of waiting upon Sám herself, to
induce him to forward her own views and the nuptials between Zál and
Rúdábeh. To this Mihráb assented, and she proceeded, mounted on a richly
caparisoned horse, to Zábul with most magnificent presents, consisting
of three hundred thousand dínars; ten horses with golden, and thirty
with silver, housings; sixty richly attired damsels, carrying golden
trays of jewels and musk, and camphor, and wine, and sugar; forty pieces
of figured cloth; a hundred milch camels, and a hundred others for
burden; two hundred Indian swords, a golden crown and throne, and four
elephants. Sám was amazed and embarrassed by the arrival of this
splendid array. If he accepted the presents, he would incur the anger of
Minúchihr; and if he rejected them, Zál would be disappointed and driven
to despair. He at length accepted them, and concurred in the wishes of
Síndokht respecting the union of the two lovers.

When Zál arrived at the court of Minúchihr, he was received with honor,
and the letter of Sám being read, the king was prevailed upon to consent
to the pacific proposals that were made in favor of Mihráb, and the
nuptials. He too consulted his astrologers, and was informed that the
offspring of Zál and Rúdábeh would be a hero of matchless strength and
valor. Zál, on his return through Kábul, had an interview with Rúdábeh,
who welcomed him in the most rapturous terms:--

  Be thou for ever blest, for I adore thee,
  And make the dust of thy fair feet my pillow.

In short, with the approbation of all parties the marriage at length
took place, and was celebrated at the beautiful summer-house where first
the lovers met. Sám was present at Kábul on the happy occasion, and soon
afterwards returned to Sístán, preparatory to resuming his martial
labors in Karugsár and Mázinderán.

As the time drew near that Rúdábeh should become a mother, she suffered
extremely from constant indisposition, and both Zál and Síndokht were in
the deepest distress on account of her precarious state.

  The cypress leaf was withering; pale she lay,
  Unsoothed by rest or sleep, death seemed approaching.

At last Zál recollected the feather of the Símúrgh, and followed the
instructions which he had received, by placing it on the fire. In a
moment darkness surrounded them, which was, however, immediately
dispersed by the sudden appearance of the Símúrgh. "Why," said the
Símúrgh, "do I see all this grief and sorrow? Why are the tear-drops in
the warrior's eyes? A child will be born of mighty power, who will
become the wonder of the world."

The Símúrgh then gave some advice which was implicitly attended to, and
the result was that Rúdábeh was soon out of danger. Never was beheld so
prodigious a child. The father and mother were equally amazed. They
called the boy Rustem. On the first day he looked a year old, and he
required the milk of ten nurses. A likeness of him was immediately
worked in silk, representing him upon a horse, and armed like a warrior,
which was sent to Sám, who was then fighting in Mázinderán, and it made
the old champion almost delirious with joy. At Kábul and Zábul there was
nothing but feasting and rejoicing, as soon as the tidings were known,
and thousands of dínars were given away in charity to the poor. When
Rustem was five years of age, he ate as much as a man, and some say that
even in his third year he rode on horseback. In his eighth year he was
as powerful as any hero of the time.

  In beauty of form and in vigour of limb,
  No mortal was ever seen equal to him.

Both Sám and Mihráb, though far distant from the scene of felicity, were
equally anxious to proceed to Zábulistán to behold their wonderful
grandson. Both set off, but Mihráb arrived first with great pomp, and a
whole army for his suite, and went forth with Zál to meet Sám, and give
him an honorable welcome. The boy Rustem was mounted on an elephant,
wearing a splendid crown, and wanted to join them, but his father kindly
prevented him undergoing the inconvenience of alighting. Zál and Mihráb
dismounted as soon as Sám was seen at a distance, and performed the
ceremonies of an affectionate reception. Sám was indeed amazed when he
did see the boy, and showered blessings on his head.

Afterwards Sám placed Mihráb on his right hand, and Zál on his left, and
Rustem before him, and began to converse with his grandson, who thus
manifested to him his martial disposition.

  "Thou art the champion of the world, and I
  The branch of that fair tree of which thou art
  The glorious root: to thee I am devoted,
  But ease and leisure have no charms for me;
  Nor music, nor the songs of festive joy.
  Mounted and armed, a helmet on my brow,
  A javelin in my grasp, I long to meet
  The foe, and cast his severed head before thee."

Then Sám made a royal feast, and every apartment in his palace was
richly decorated, and resounded with mirth and rejoicing. Mihráb was the
merriest, and drank the most, and in his cups saw nothing but himself,
so vain had he become from the countenance he had received. He kept
saying:--

  "Now I feel no alarm about Sám or Zál-zer,
  Nor the splendour and power of the great Minúchihr;
  Whilst aided by Rustem, his sword, and his mace,
  Not a cloud of misfortune can shadow my face.
  All the laws of Zohák I will quickly restore,
  And the world shall be fragrant and blest as before."

This exultation plainly betrayed the disposition of his race; and though
Sám smiled at the extravagance of Mihráb, he looked up towards Heaven,
and prayed that Rustem might not prove a tyrant, but be continually
active in doing good, and humble before God.

Upon Sám departing, on his return to Karugsár and Mázinderán, Zál went
with Rustem to Sístán, a province dependent on his government, and
settled him there. The white elephant, belonging to Minúchihr, was kept
at Sístán. One night Rustem was awakened out of his sleep by a great
noise, and cries of distress when starting up and inquiring the cause,
he was told that the white elephant had got loose, and was trampling and
crushing the people to death. In a moment he issued from his apartment,
brandishing his mace; but was soon stopped by the servants, who were
anxious to expostulate with him against venturing out in the darkness of
night to encounter a ferocious elephant. Impatient at being thus
interrupted he knocked down one of the watchmen, who fell dead at his
feet, and the others running away, he broke the lock of the gate, and
escaped. He immediately opposed himself to the enormous animal, which
looked like a mountain, and kept roaring like the River Nil. Regarding
him with a cautious and steady eye, he gave a loud shout, and fearlessly
struck him a blow, with such strength and vigor, that the iron mace was
bent almost double. The elephant trembled, and soon fell exhausted and
lifeless in the dust. When it was communicated to Zál that Rustem had
killed the animal with one blow, he was amazed, and fervently returned
thanks to heaven. He called him to him, and kissed him, and said: "My
darling boy, thou art indeed unequalled in valor and magnanimity."

Then it occurred to Zál that Rustem, after such an achievement, would be
a proper person to take vengeance on the enemies of his grandfather
Narímán, who was sent by Feridún with a large army against an enchanted
fort situated upon the mountain Sipund, and who whilst endeavoring to
effect his object, was killed by a piece of rock thrown down from above
by the besieged. The fort[7], which was many miles high, inclosed
beautiful lawns of the freshest verdure, and delightful gardens
abounding with fruit and flowers; it was also full of treasure. Sám, on
hearing of the fate of his father, was deeply afflicted, and in a short
time proceeded against the fort himself; but he was surrounded by a
trackless desert. He knew not what course to pursue; not a being was
ever seen to enter or come out of the gates, and, after spending months
and years in fruitless endeavors, he was compelled to retire from the
appalling enterprise in despair. "Now," said Zál to Rustem, "the time is
come, and the remedy is at hand; thou art yet unknown, and may easily
accomplish our purpose." Rustem agreed to the proposed adventure, and
according to his father's advice, assumed the dress and character of a
salt-merchant, prepared a caravan of camels, and secreted arms for
himself and companions among the loads of salt. Everything being ready
they set off, and it was not long before they reached the fort on the
mountain Sipund. Salt being a precious article, and much wanted, as soon
as the garrison knew that it was for sale, the gates were opened; and
then was Rustem seen, together with his warriors, surrounded by men,
women, and children, anxiously making their purchases, some giving
clothes in exchange, some gold, and some silver, without fear or
suspicion.

  But when the night came on, and it was dark,
  Rustem impatient drew his warriors forth,
  And moved towards the mansion of the chief--
  But not unheard. The unaccustomed noise,
  Announcing warlike menace and attack,
  Awoke the Kotwál, who sprung up to meet
  The peril threatened by the invading foe.
  Rustem meanwhile uplifts his ponderous mace,
  And cleaves his head, and scatters on the ground
  The reeking brains. And now the garrison
  Are on the alert, all hastening to the spot
  Where battle rages; midst the deepened gloom
  Flash sparkling swords, which show the crimson earth
  Bright as the ruby.

Rustem continued fighting with the people of the fort all night, and
just as morning dawned, he discovered the chief and slew him. Those who
survived, then escaped, and not one of the inhabitants remained within
the walls alive. Rustem's next object was to enter the governor's
mansion. It was built of stone, and the gate, which was made of iron, he
burst open with his battle-axe, and advancing onward, he discovered a
temple, constructed with infinite skill and science, beyond the power of
mortal man, and which contained amazing wealth, in jewels and gold. All
the warriors gathered for themselves as much treasure as they could
carry away, and more than imagination can conceive; and Rustem wrote to
Zál to know his further commands on the subject of the capture. Zál,
overjoyed at the result of the enterprise, replied:

  Thou hast illumed the soul of Narímán,
  Now in the blissful bowers of Paradise,
  By punishing his foes with fire and sword.

He then recommended him to load all the camels with as much of the
invaluable property as could be removed, and bring it away, and then
burn and destroy the whole place, leaving not a single vestige; and the
command having been strictly complied with, Rustem retraced his steps to
Zábulistán.

  On his return Zál pressed him to his heart,
  And paid him public honors. The fond mother
  Kissed and embraced her darling son, and all
  Uniting, showered their blessings on his head.



DEATH OF MINÚCHIHR

  To Minúchihr we now must turn again,
  And mark the close of his illustrious reign.

The king had flourished one hundred and twenty years, when now the
astrologers ascertained that the period of his departure from this life
was at hand.

  They told him of that day of bitterness,
  Which would obscure the splendour of his throne;
  And said--"The time approaches, thou must go,
  Doubtless to Heaven. Think what thou hast to do;
  And be it done before the damp cold earth
  Inshrine thy body. Let not sudden death
  O'ertake thee, ere thou art prepared to die!"
  Warned by the wise, he called his courtiers round him,
  And thus he counselled Nauder:--"O, my son!
  Fix not thy heart upon a regal crown,
  For this vain world is fleeting as the wind;
  The pain and sorrows of twice sixty years
  Have I endured, though happiness and joy
  Have also been my portion. I have fought
  In many a battle, vanquished many a foe;
  By Feridún's commands I girt my loins,
  And his advice has ever been my guide.
  I hurled just vengeance on the tyrant-brothers
  Sílim and Túr, who slew the gentle Irij;
  And cities have I built, and made the tree
  Which yielded poison, teem with wholesome fruit.
  And now to thee the kingdom I resign,
  That kingdom which belonged to Feridún,
  And thou wilt be the sovereign of the world!
  But turn not from the worship of thy God,
  That sacred worship Moses taught, the best
  Of all the prophets; turn not from the path
  Of purest holiness, thy father's choice.

  "My son, events of peril are before thee;
  Thy enemy will come in fierce array,
  From the wild mountains of Túrán, the son
  Of Poshang, the invader. In that hour
  Of danger, seek the aid of Sám and Zál,
  And that young branch just blossoming; Túrán
  Will then have no safe buckler of defence,
  None to protect it from their conquering arms."

  Thus spoke the sire prophetic to his son,
  And both were moved to tears. Again the king
  Resumed his warning voice: "Nauder, I charge thee
  Place not thy trust upon a world like this,
  Where nothing fixed remains. The caravan
  Goes to another city, one to-day,
  The next, to-morrow, each observes its turn
  And time appointed--mine has come at last,
  And I must travel on the destined road."

At the period Minúchihr uttered this exhortation, he was entirely free
from indisposition, but he shortly afterwards closed his eyes in death.



NAUDER

Upon the demise of Minúchihr, Nauder ascended the throne, and commenced
his reign in the most promising manner; but before two months had
passed, he neglected the counsels of his father, and betrayed the
despotic character of his heart. To such an extreme did he carry his
oppression, that to escape from his violence, the people were induced to
solicit other princes to come and take possession of the empire. The
courtiers labored under the greatest embarrassment, their monarch being
solely occupied in extorting money from his subjects, and amassing
wealth for his own coffers. Nauder was not long in perceiving the
dissatisfaction that universally prevailed, and, anticipating, not only
an immediate revolt, but an invading army, solicited, according to his
father's advice, the assistance of Sám, then at Mázinderán. The
complaints of the people, however, reached Sám before the arrival of the
messenger, and when he received the letter, he was greatly distressed on
account of the extreme severity exercised by the new king. The champion,
in consequence, proceeded forthwith from Mázinderán to Persia, and when
he entered the capital, he was joyously welcomed, and at once entreated
by the people to take the sovereignty upon himself. It was said of
Nauder:

  The gloom of tyranny has hid
    The light his father's counsel gave;
  The hope of life is lost amid
    The desolation of the grave.
  The world is withering in his thrall,
    Exhausted by his iron sway;
  Do thou ascend the throne, and all
    Will cheerfully thy will obey.

But Sám said, "No; I should then be ungrateful to Minúchihr, a traitor,
and deservedly offensive in the eyes of God. Nauder is the king, and I
am bound to do him service, although he has deplorably departed from the
advice of his father." He then soothed the alarm and irritation of the
chiefs, and engaging to be a mediator upon the unhappy occasion, brought
them to a more pacific tone of thinking. After this he immediately
repaired to Nauder, who received him with great favor and kindness. "O
king," said he, "only keep Feridún in remembrance, and govern the empire
in such a manner that thy name may be honored by thy subjects; for, be
well assured, that he who has a just estimate of the world, will never
look upon it as his place of rest. It is but an inn, where all
travellers meet on their way to eternity, but must not remain. The wise
consider those who fix their affections on this life, as utterly devoid
of reason and reflection:

 "Pleasure, and pomp, and wealth may be obtained--
  And every want luxuriously supplied:
  But suddenly, without a moment's warning,
  Death comes, and hurls the monarch from his throne,
  His crown and sceptre scattering in the dust.
  He who is satisfied with earthly joys,
  Can never know the blessedness of Heaven;
  His soul must still be dark. Why do the good
  Suffer in this world, but to be prepared
  For future rest and happiness? The name
  Of Feridún is honoured among men,
  Whilst curses load the memory of Zohák."

This intercession of Sám produced an entire change in the government of
Nauder, who promised, in future, to rule his people according to the
principles of Húsheng, and Feridún, and Minúchihr. The chiefs and
captains of the army were, in consequence, contented, and the kingdom
reunited itself under his sway.

In the meantime, however, the news of the death of Minúchihr, together
with Nauder's injustice and seventy, and the disaffection of his people,
had reached Túrán, of which country Poshang, a descendant from Túr, was
then the sovereign. Poshang, who had been unable to make a single
successful hostile movement during the life of Minúchihr, at once
conceived this to be a fit opportunity of taking revenge for the blood
of Sílim and Túr, and every appearance seeming to be in his favor, he
called before him his heroic son Afrásiyáb, and explained to him his
purpose and views. It was not difficult to inspire the youthful mind of
Afrásiyáb with the sentiments he himself cherished, and a large army was
immediately collected to take the field against Nauder. Poshang was
proud of the chivalrous spirit and promptitude displayed by his son, who
is said to have been as strong as a lion, or an elephant, and whose
shadow extended miles. His tongue was like a bright sword, and his heart
as bounteous as the ocean, and his hands like the clouds when rain falls
to gladden the thirsty earth. Aghríras, the brother of Afrásiyáb,
however, was not so precipitate. He cautioned his father to be prudent,
for though Persia could no longer boast of the presence of Minúchihr,
still the great warrior Sám, and Kárun, and Garshásp, were living, and
Poshang had only to look at the result of the wars in which Sílim and
Túr were involved, to be convinced that the existing conjuncture
required mature deliberation. "It would be better," said he, "not to
begin the contest at all, than to bring ruin and desolation on our own
country." Poshang, on the contrary, thought the time peculiarly fit and
inviting, and contended that, as Minúchihr took vengeance for the blood
of his grandfather, so ought Afrásiyáb to take vengeance for his. "The
grandson," he said, "who refuses to do this act of justice, is unworthy
of his family. There is nothing to apprehend from the efforts of Nauder,
who is an inexperienced youth, nor from the valor of his warriors.
Afrásiyáb is brave and powerful in war, and thou must accompany him and
share the glory." After this no further observation was offered, and the
martial preparations were completed.



AFRÁSIYÁB MARCHES AGAINST NAUDER

The brazen drums on the elephants were sounded as the signal of
departure, and the army proceeded rapidly to its destination,
overshadowing the earth in its progress. Afrásiyáb had penetrated as far
as the Jihún before Nauder was aware of his approach. Upon receiving
this intelligence of the activity of the enemy, the warriors of the
Persian army immediately moved in that direction, and on their arrival
at Dehstán, prepared for battle.

Afrásiyáb despatched thirty thousand of his troops under the command of
Shimasás and Khazerván to Zábulistán, to act against Zál, having heard
on his march of the death of the illustrious Sám, and advanced himself
upon Dehstán with four hundred thousand soldiers, covering the ground
like swarms of ants and locusts. He soon discovered that Nauder's forces
did not exceed one hundred and forty thousand men, and wrote to Poshang,
his father, in high spirits, especially on account of not having to
contend against Sám, the warrior, and informed him that he had detached
Shimasás against Zábulistán. When the armies had approached to within
two leagues of each other, Bármán, one of the Túránian chiefs, offered
to challenge any one of the enemy to single combat: but Aghríras
objected to it, not wishing that so valuable a hero should run the
hazard of discomfiture. At this Afrásiyáb was very indignant and
directed Bármán to follow the bent of his own inclinations.

  "'Tis not for us to shrink from Persian foe,
  Put on thy armour, and prepare thy bow."

Accordingly the challenge was given. Kárun looked round, and the only
person who answered the call was the aged Kobád, his brother. Kárun and
Kobád were both sons of Kavah, the blacksmith, and both leaders in the
Persian army. No persuasion could restrain Kobád from the unequal
conflict. He resisted all the entreaties of Kárun, who said to him--

  "O, should thy hoary locks be stained with blood,
  Thy legions will be overwhelmed with grief,
  And, in despair, decline the coming battle."
  But what was the reply of brave Kobád?
  "Brother, this body, this frail tenement,
  Belongs to death. No living man has ever
  Gone up to Heaven--for all are doomed to die.--
  Some by the sword, the dagger, or the spear,
  And some, devoured by roaring beasts of prey;
  Some peacefully upon their beds, and others
  Snatched suddenly from life, endure the lot
  Ordained by the Creator. If I perish,
  Does not my brother live, my noble brother,
  To bury me beneath a warrior's tomb,
  And bless my memory?"

Saying this, he rushed forward, and the two warriors met in desperate
conflict. The struggle lasted all day; at last Bármán threw a stone at
his antagonist with such force, that Kobád in receiving the blow fell
lifeless from his horse. When Kárun saw that his brother was slain, he
brought forward his whole army to be revenged for the death of Kobád.
Afrásiyáb himself advanced to the charge, and the encounter was
dreadful. The soldiers who fell among the Túránians could not be
numbered, but the Persians lost fifty thousand men.

  Loud neighed the steeds, and their resounding hoofs.
  Shook the deep caverns of the earth; the dust
  Rose up in clouds and hid the azure heavens--
  Bright beamed the swords, and in that carnage wide,
  Blood flowed like water. Night alone divided
  The hostile armies.

When the battle ceased Kárun fell back upon Dehstán, and communicated
his misfortune to Nauder, who lamented the loss of Kobád, even more than
that of Sám. In the morning Kárun again took the field against
Afrásiyáb, and the conflict was again terrible. Nauder boldly opposed
himself to the enemy, and singling out Afrásiyáb, the two heroes fought
with great bravery till night again put an end to the engagement. The
Persian army had suffered most, and Nauder retired to his tent
disappointed, fatigued, and sorrowful. He then called to mind the words
of Minúchihr, and called for his two sons, Tús and Gustahem. With
melancholy forebodings he directed them to return to Irán, with his
shubistán, or domestic establishment, and take refuge on the mountain
Alberz, in the hope that some one of the race of Feridún might survive
the general ruin which seemed to be approaching.

The armies rested two days. On the third the reverberating noise of
drums and trumpets announced the recommencement of the battle. On the
Persian side Shahpúr had been appointed in the room of Kobád, and Bármán
and Shíwáz led the right and left of the Túránians under Afrásiyáb.

  From dawn to sunset, mountain, plain, and stream,
  Were hid from view; the earth, beneath the tread
  Of myriads, groaned; and when the javelins cast
  Long shadows on the plain at even-tide,
  The Tartar host had won the victory;
  And many a Persian chief fell on that day:--
  Shahpúr himself was slain.

When Nauder and Kárun saw the unfortunate result of the battle, they
again fell back upon Dehstán, and secured themselves in the fort.
Afrásiyáb in the meantime despatched Karúkhán to Irán, through the
desert, with a body of horsemen, for the purpose of intercepting and
capturing the shubistán of Nauder. As soon as Kárun heard of this
expedition he was all on fire, and proposed to pursue the squadron under
Karúkhán, and frustrate at once the object which the enemy had in view;
and though Nauder was unfavorable to this movement, Kárun, supported by
several of the chiefs and a strong volunteer force, set off at midnight,
without permission, on this important enterprise. It was not long before
they reached the Duz-i-Supêd, or white fort, of which Gustahem was the
governor, and falling in with Bármán, who was also pushing forward to
Persia, Kárun, in revenge for his brother Kobád, sought him out, and
dared him to single combat. He threw his javelin with such might, that
his antagonist was driven furiously from his horse; and then,
dismounting, he cut off his head, and hung it at his saddle-bow. After
this he attacked and defeated the Tartar troops, and continued his march
towards Irán.

Nauder having found that Kárun had departed, immediately followed, and
Afrásiyáb was not long in pursuing him. The Túránians at length came up
with Nauder, and attacked him with great vigor. The unfortunate king,
unable to parry the onset, fell into the hands of his enemies, together
with upwards of one thousand of his famous warriors.

  Long fought they, Nauder and the Tartar-chief,
  And the thick dust which rose from either host,
  Darkened the rolling Heavens. Afrásiyáb
  Seized by the girdle-belt the Persian king,
  And furious, dragged him from his foaming horse.
  With him a thousand warriors, high in name,
  Were taken on the field; and every legion,
  Captured whilst flying from the victor's brand.

  Such are the freaks of Fortune: friend and foe
  Alternate wear the crown. The world itself
  Is an ingenious juggler--every moment
  Playing some novel trick; exalting one
  In pomp and splendour, crushing down another,
  As if in sport,--and death the end of all!

After the achievement of this victory Afrásiyáb directed that Kárun
should be pursued and attacked wherever he might be found; but when he
heard that he had hurried on for the protection of the shubistán, and
had conquered and slain Bármán, he gnawed his hands with rage. The reign
of Nauder lasted only seven years. After him Afrásiyáb was the master of
Persia.



AFRÁSIYÁB

It has already been said that Shimasás and Khazerván were sent by
Afrásiyáb with thirty thousand men against Kábul and Zábul, and when Zál
heard of this movement he forthwith united with Mihráb the chief of
Kábul, and having first collected a large army in Sístán, had a conflict
with the two Tartar generals.

  Zál promptly donned himself in war attire,
  And, mounted like a hero, to the field
  Hastened, his soldiers frowning on their steeds.
  Now Khazerván grasps his huge battle-axe,
  And, his broad shield extending, at one blow
  Shivers the mail of Zál, who calls aloud
  As, like a lion, to the fight he springs,
  Armed with his father's mace. Sternly he looks
  And with the fury of a dragon, drives
  The weapon through his adversary's head,
  Staining the ground with streaks of blood, resembling
  The waving stripes upon a tiger's back.

At this time Rustem was confined at home with the smallpox. Upon the
death of Khazerván, Shimasás thirsted to be revenged; but when Zál
meeting him raised his mace, and began to close, the chief became
alarmed and turned back, and all his squadrons followed his example.

  Fled Shimasás, and all his fighting train,
  Like herds by tempests scattered o'er the plain.

Zál set off in pursuit, and slew a great number of the enemy; but when
Afrásiyáb was made acquainted with this defeat, he immediately released
Nauder from his fetters, and in his rage instantly deprived him of life.

  He struck him and so deadly was the blow,
  Breath left the body in a moment's space.

After this Afrásiyáb turned his views towards Tús and Gustahem in the
hope of getting them into his hands; but as soon as they received
intimation of his object, the two brothers retired from Irán, and went
to Sístán to live under the protection of Zál. The champion received
them with due respect and honor. Kárun also went, with all the warriors
and people who had been supported by Nauder, and co-operated with Zál,
who encouraged them with the hopes of future success. Zál, however,
considered that both Tús and Gustahem were still of a tender age--that a
monarch of extraordinary wisdom and energy was required to oppose
Afrásiyáb--that he himself was not of the blood of the Kais, nor fit for
the duties of sovereignty, and, therefore, he turned his thoughts
towards Aghríras, the younger brother of Afrásiyáb, distinguished as he
was for his valor, prudence, and humanity, and to whom Poshang, his
father, had given the government of Raí. To him Zál sent an envoy,
saying, that if he would proceed to Sístán, he should be supplied with
ample resources to place him on the throne of Persia; that by the
co-operation of Zál and all his warriors the conquest would be easy, and
that there would be no difficulty in destroying the power of Afrásiyáb.
Aghríras accepted the offer, and immediately proceeded from his kingdom
of Raí towards Sístán. On his arrival at Bábel, Afrásiyáb heard of his
ambitious plans, and lost no time in assembling his army and marching to
arrest the progress of his brother. Aghríras, unable to sustain a
battle, had recourse to negotiation and a conference, in which Afrásiyáb
said to him, "What rebellious conduct is this, of which thou art guilty?
Is not the country of Raí sufficient for thee, that thou art thus
aspiring to be a great king?" Aghríras replied: "Why reproach and insult
me thus? Art thou not ashamed to accuse another of rebellious conduct?

 "Shame might have held thy tongue; reprove not me
  In bitterness; God did not give thee power
  To injure man, and surely not thy kin."
  Afrásiyáb, enraged at this reproof,
  Replied by a foul deed--he grasped his sword,
  And with remorseless fury slew his brother!

When intelligence of this cruel catastrophe came to Zál's ears, he
exclaimed: "Now indeed has the empire of Afrásiyáb arrived at its
crisis:

  "Yes, yes, the tyrant's throne is tottering now,
  And past is all his glory."

Then Zál bound his loins in hostility against Afrásiyáb, and gathering
together all his warriors, resolved upon taking revenge for the death of
Nauder, and expelling the tyrant from Persia. Neither Tús nor Gustahem
being yet capable of sustaining the cares and duties of the throne, his
anxiety was to obtain the assistance of some one of the race of Feridún.

  These youths were for imperial rule unfit:
  A king of royal lineage and worth
  The state required, and none could he remember
  Save Tahmasp's son, descended from the blood
  Of Feridún.



ZAU

At the time when Sílim and Túr were killed, Tahmasp, the son of Sílim,
fled from the country and took refuge in an island, where he died, and
left a son named Zau. Zál sent Kárun, the son of Kavah, attended by a
proper escort, with overtures to Zau, who readily complied, and was
under favorable circumstances seated upon the throne:

                           Speedily, in arms,
  He led his troops to Persia, fought, and won
  A kingdom, by his power and bravery--
  And happy was the day when princely Zau
  Was placed upon that throne of sovereignty;
  All breathed their prayers upon his future reign,
  And o'er his head (the customary rite)
  Shower'd gold and jewels.

When he had subdued the country, he turned his arms against Afrásiyáb,
who in consequence of losing the co-operation of the Persians, and not
being in a state to encounter a superior force, thought it prudent to
retreat, and return to his father. The reign of Zau lasted five years,
after which he died, and was succeeded by his son Garshásp.



GARSHÁSP

Garshásp, whilst in his minority, being unacquainted with the affairs of
government, abided in all things by the judgment and counsels of Zál.
When Afrásiyáb arrived at Túrán, his father was in great distress and
anger on account of the inhuman murder of Aghríras; and so exceedingly
did he grieve, that he would not endure his presence.

  And when Afrásiyáb returned, his sire,
  Poshang, in grief, refused to see his face.
  To him the day of happiness and joy
  Had been obscured by the dark clouds of night;
  And thus he said: "Why didst thou, why didst _thou_
  In power supreme, without pretence of guilt,
  With thy own hand his precious life destroy?
  Why hast thou shed thy innocent brother's blood?
  In this life thou art nothing now to me;
  Away, I must not see thy face again."

Afrásiyáb continued offensive and despicable in the mind of his father
till he heard that Garshásp was unequal to rule over Persia, and then
thinking he could turn the warlike spirit of Afrásiyáb to advantage, he
forgave the crime of his son. He forthwith collected an immense army,
and sent him again to effect the conquest of Irán, under the pretext of
avenging the death of Sílim and Túr.

  Afrásiyáb a mighty army raised,
  And passing plain and river, mountain high,
  And desert wild, filled all the Persian realm
  With consternation, universal dread.

The chief authorities of the country applied to Zál as their only remedy
against the invasion of Afrásiyáb.

  They said to Zál, "How easy is the task
  For thee to grasp the world--then, since thou canst
  Afford us succour, yield the blessing now;
  For, lo! the King Afrásiyáb has come,
  In all his power and overwhelming might."

Zál replied that he had on this occasion appointed Rustem to command the
army, and to oppose the invasion of Afrásiyáb.

  And thus the warrior Zál to Rustem spoke--
  "Strong as an elephant thou art, my son,
  Surpassing thy companions, and I now
  Forewarn thee that a difficult emprize,
  Hostile to ease or sleep, demands thy care.
  'Tis true, of battles thou canst nothing know,
  But what am I to do? This is no time
  For banquetting, and yet thy lips still breathe
  The scent of milk, a proof of infancy;
  Thy heart pants after gladness and the sweet
  Endearments of domestic life; can I
  Then send thee to the war to cope with heroes
  Burning with wrath and vengeance?" Rustem said--
  "Mistake me not, I have no wish, not I,
  For soft endearments, nor domestic life,
  Nor home-felt joys. This chest, these nervous limbs,
  Denote far other objects of pursuit,
  Than a luxurious life of ease and pleasure."

Zál having taken great pains in the instruction of Rustem in warlike
exercises, and the rules of battle, found infinite aptitude in the boy,
and his activity and skill seemed to be superior to his own. He thanked
God for the comfort it gave him, and was glad. Then Rustem asked his
father for a suitable mace; and seeing the huge weapon which was borne
by the great Sám, he took it up, and it answered his purpose exactly.

  When the young hero saw the mace of Sám
  He smiled with pleasure, and his heart rejoiced;
  And paying homage to his father Zál,
  The champion of the age, asked for a steed
  Of corresponding power, that he might use
  That famous club with added force and vigor.

Zál showed him all the horses in his possession, and Rustem tried many,
but found not one of sufficient strength to suit him. At last his eyes
fell upon a mare followed by a foal of great promise, beauty, and
strength.

  Seeing that foal, whose bright and glossy skin
  Was dappled o'er, like blossoms of the rose
  Upon a saffron lawn, Rustem prepared
  His noose, and held it ready in his hand.

The groom recommended him to secure the foal, as it was the offspring of
Abresh, born of a Díw, or Demon, and called Rakush. The dam had killed
several persons who attempted to seize her young one.

  Now Rustem flings the noose, and suddenly
  Rakush secures. Meanwhile the furious mare
  Attacks him, eager with her pointed teeth
  To crush his brain--but, stunned by his loud cry,
  She stops in wonder. Then with clenched hand
  He smites her on the head and neck, and down
  She tumbles, struggling in the pangs of death.

Rakush, however, though with the noose round his neck, was not so easily
subdued; but kept dragging and pulling Rustem, as if by a tether, and it
was a considerable time before the animal could be reduced to
subjection. At last, Rustem thanked Heaven that he had obtained the very
horse he wanted.

  "Now am I with my horse prepared to join
  The field of warriors!" Thus the hero said,
  And placed the saddle on his charger. Zál
  Beheld him with delight,--his withered heart
  Glowing with summer freshness. Open then
  He threw his treasury--thoughtless of the past
  Or future--present joy absorbing all
  His faculties, and thrilling every nerve.

In a short time Zál sent Rustem with a prodigious army against
Afrásiyáb, and two days afterwards set off himself and joined his son.
Afrásiyáb said, "The son is but a boy, and the father is old; I shall
have no difficulty in recovering the empire of Persia." These
observations having reached Zál, he pondered deeply, considering that
Garshásp would not be able to contend against Afrásiyáb, and that no
other prince of the race of Feridún was known to be in existence.
However, he despatched people in every quarter to gather information on
the subject, and at length Kai-kobád was understood to be residing in
obscurity on the mountain Alberz, distinguished for his wisdom and
valor, and his qualifications for the exercise of sovereign power. Zál
therefore recommended Rustem to proceed to Alberz, and bring him from
his concealment.

  Thus Zál to Rustem spoke, "Go forth, my son,
  And speedily perform this pressing duty,
  To linger would be dangerous. Say to him,
  'The army is prepared--the throne is ready,
  And thou alone, of the Kaiánian race,
  Deemed fit for sovereign rule.'"

Rustem accordingly mounted Rakush, and accompanied by a powerful force,
pursued his way towards the mountain Alberz; and though the road was
infested by the troops of Afrásiyáb, he valiantly overcame every
difficulty that was opposed to his progress. On reaching the vicinity of
Alberz, he observed a beautiful spot of ground studded with luxuriant
trees, and watered by glittering rills. There too, sitting upon a
throne, placed in the shade on the flowery margin of a stream, he saw a
young man, surrounded by a company of friends and attendants, and
engaged at a gorgeous entertainment. Rustem, when he came near, was
hospitably invited to partake of the feast: but this he declined,
saying, that he was on an important mission to Alberz, which forbade the
enjoyment of any pleasure till his task was accomplished; in short, that
he was in search of Kai-kobád: but upon being told that he would there
receive intelligence of him, he alighted and approached the bank of the
stream where the company was assembled. The young man who was seated
upon the golden throne took hold of the hand of Rustem, and filling up a
goblet with wine, gave another to his guest, and asked him at whose
command or suggestion he was in search of Kai-kobád. Rustem replied,
that he was sent by his father Zál, and frankly communicated to him the
special object they had in view. The young man, delighted with the
information, immediately discovered himself, acknowledged that he was
Kai-kobád, and then Rustem respectfully hailed him as the sovereign of
Persia.

  The banquet was resumed again--
  And, hark, the softly warbled strain,
  As harp and flute, in union sweet,
  The voices of the singers meet.
  The black-eyed damsels now display
  Their art in many an amorous lay;
  And now the song is loud and clear,
  And speaks of Rustem's welcome here.
  "This is a day, a glorious day,
  That drives ungenial thoughts away;
  This is a day to make us glad,
  Since Rustem comes for Kai-kobád;
  O, let us pass our time in glee,
  And talk of Jemshíd's majesty,
  The pomp and glory of his reign,
  And still the sparkling goblet drain.--
  Come, Sakí, fill the wine-cup high,
  And let not even its brim be dry;
  For wine alone has power to part
  The rust of sorrow from the heart.
  Drink to the king, in merry mood,
  Since fortune smiles, and wine is good;
  Quaffing red wine is better far
  Than shedding blood in strife, or war;
  Man is but dust, and why should he
  Become a fire of enmity?
  Drink deep, all other cares resign.
  For what can vie with ruby wine?"

In this manner ran the song of the revellers. After which, and being
rather merry with wine, Kai-kobád told Rustem of the dream that had
induced him to descend from his place of refuge on Alberz, and to
prepare a banquet on the occasion. He dreamt the night before that two
white falcons from Persia placed a splendid crown upon his head, and
this vision was interpreted by Rustem as symbolical of his father and
himself, who at that moment were engaged in investing him with kingly
power. The hero then solicited the young sovereign to hasten his
departure for Persia, and preparations were made without delay. They
travelled night and day, and fell in with several detachments of the
enemy, which were easily repulsed by the valor of Rustem. The fiercest
attack proceeded from Kelún, one of Afrásiyáb's warriors, near the
confines of Persia, who in the encounter used his spear with great
dexterity and address.

  But Rustem with his javelin soon transfixed
  The Tartar knight--who in the eyes of all
  Looked like a spitted chicken--down he sunk,
  And all his soldiers fled in wild dismay.
  Then Rustem turned aside, and found a spot
  Where verdant meadows smiled, and streamlets flowed,
  Inviting weary travellers to rest.
  There they awhile remained--and when the sun
  Went down, and night had darkened all the sky,
  The champion joyfully pursued his way,
  And brought the monarch to his father's house.
  --Seven days they sat in council--on the eighth
  Young Kai-kobád was crowned--and placed upon
  The ivory throne in presence of his warriors,
  Who all besought him to commence the war
  Against the Tartar prince, Afrásiyáb.



KAI-KOBÁD

Kai-kobád having been raised to the throne at a council of the warriors,
and advised to oppose the progress of Afrásiyáb, immediately assembled
his army. Mihráb, the ruler of Kábul, was appointed to one wing, and
Gustahem to the other--the centre was given to Kárun and Kishwád, and
Rustem was placed in front, Zál with Kai-kobád remaining in the rear.
The glorious standard of Kavah streamed upon the breeze.

On the other side, Afrásiyáb prepared for battle, assisted by his heroes
Akbás, Wísah, Shimasás, and Gersíwaz; and so great was the clamor and
confusion which proceeded from both armies, that earth and sky seemed
blended together.[8] The clattering of hoofs, the shrill roar of
trumpets, the rattle of brazen drums, and the vivid glittering of spear
and shield, produced indescribable tumult and splendor.

Kárun was the first in action, and he brought many a hero to the ground.
He singled out Shimasás; and after a desperate struggle, laid him
breathless on the field. Rustem, stimulated by these exploits, requested
his father, Zál, to point out Afrásiyáb, that he might encounter him;
but Zál endeavored to dissuade him from so hopeless an effort, saying,

  "My son, be wise, and peril not thyself;
  Black is his banner, and his cuirass black--
  His limbs are cased in iron--on his head
  He wears an iron helm--and high before him
  Floats the black ensign; equal in his might
  To ten strong men, he never in one place
  Remains, but everywhere displays his power.
  The crocodile has in the rolling stream
  No safety; and a mountain, formed of steel,
  Even at the mention of Afrásiyáb,
  Melts into water. Then, beware of him."
  Rustem replied:--"Be not alarmed for me--
  My heart, my arm, my dagger, are my castle,
  And Heaven befriends me--let him but appear,
  Dragon or Demon, and the field is mine."

Then Rustem valiantly urged Rakush towards the Túránian army, and called
out aloud. As soon as Afrásiyáb beheld him, he inquired who he could be,
and he was told, "This is Rustem, the son of Zál. Seest thou not in his
hand the battle-axe of Sám? The youth has come in search of renown."
When the combatants closed, they struggled for some time together, and
at length Rustem seized the girdle-belt of his antagonist, and threw him
from his saddle. He wished to drag the captive as a trophy to Kai-kobád,
that his first great victory might be remembered, but unfortunately the
belt gave way, and Afrásiyáb fell on the ground. Immediately the fallen
chief was surrounded and rescued by his own warriors, but not before
Rustem had snatched off his crown, and carried it away with the broken
girdle which was left in his hand. And now a general engagement took
place. Rustem being reinforced by the advance of the king, with Zál and
Mihráb at his side--

  Both armies seemed so closely waging war,
  Thou wouldst have said, that they were mixed together.
  The earth shook with the tramping of the steeds,
  Rattled the drums; loud clamours from the troops
  Echoed around, and from the iron grasp
  Of warriors, many a life was spent in air.
  With his huge mace, cow-headed, Rustem dyed
  The ground with crimson--and wherever seen,
  Urging impatiently his fiery horse,
  Heads severed fell like withered leaves in autumn.
  If, brandishing his sword, he struck the head,
  Horseman and steed were downward cleft in twain--
  And if his side-long blow was on the loins,
  The sword passed through, as easily as the blade
  Slices a cucumber. The blood of heroes
  Deluged the plain. On that tremendous day,
  With sword and dagger, battle-axe and noose,[9]
  He cut, and tore, and broke, and bound the brave,
  Slaying and making captive. At one swoop
  More than a thousand fell by his own hand.

Zál beheld his son with amazement and delight. The Túránians left the
fire-worshippers in possession of the field, and retreated towards the
Jihún with precipitation, not a sound of drum or trumpet denoting their
track. After halting three days in a state of deep dejection and misery,
they continued their retreat along the banks of the Jihún. The Persian
army, upon the flight of the enemy, fell back with their prisoners of
war, and Rustem was received by the king with distinguished honor. When
Afrásiyáb returned to his father, he communicated to him, with a heavy
heart, the misfortunes of the battle, and the power that had been
arrayed against him, dwelling with wonder and admiration on the
stupendous valor of Rustem.

                    Seeing my sable banner,
  He to the fight came like a crocodile,
  Thou wouldst have said his breath scorched up the plain;
  He seized my girdle with such mighty force
  As if he would have torn my joints asunder;
  And raised me from my saddle--that I seemed
  An insect in his grasp--but presently
  The golden girdle broke, and down I fell
  Ingloriously upon the dusty ground;
  But I was rescued by my warrior train!
  Thou knowest my valour, how my nerves are strung,
  And may conceive the wondrous strength, which thus
  Sunk me to nothing. Iron is his frame,
  And marvellous his power; peace, peace, alone
  Can save us and our country from destruction.

Poshang, considering the luckless state of affairs, and the loss of so
many valiant warriors, thought it prudent to acquiesce in the wishes of
Afrásiyáb, and sue for peace. To this end Wísah was intrusted with
magnificent presents, and the overtures which in substance ran thus:
"Minúchihr was revenged upon Túr and Sílim for the death of Irij.
Afrásiyáb again has revenged their death upon Nauder, the son of
Minúchihr, and now Rustem has conquered Afrásiyáb. But why should we any
longer keep the world in confusion--Why should we not be satisfied with
what Feridún, in his wisdom, decreed? Continue in the empire which he
appropriated to Irij, and let the Jihún be the boundary between us, for
are we not connected by blood, and of one family? Let our kingdoms be
gladdened with the blessings of peace."

When these proposals of peace reached Kai-kobád, the following answer was
returned:

  "Well dost thou know that I was not the first
  To wage this war. From Túr, thy ancestor,
  The strife began. Bethink thee how he slew
  The gentle Irij--his own brother;--how,
  In these our days, thy son, Afrásiyáb,
  Crossing the Jihún, with a numerous force
  Invaded Persia--think how Nauder died!
  Not in the field of battle, like a hero,
  But murdered by thy son--who, ever cruel,
  Afterwards stabbed his brother, young Aghríras,
  So deeply mourned by thee. Yet do I thirst not
  For vengeance, or for strife. I yield the realm
  Beyond the Jihún--let that river be
  The boundary between us; but thy son,
  Afrásiyáb, must take his solemn oath
  Never to cross that limit, or disturb
  The Persian throne again; thus pledged, I grant
  The peace solicited."

The messenger without delay conveyed this welcome intelligence to
Poshang, and the Túránian army was in consequence immediately withdrawn
within the prescribed line of division, Rustem, however, expostulated
with the king against making peace at a time the most advantageous for
war, and especially when he had just commenced his victorious career;
but Kai-kobád thought differently, and considered nothing equal to
justice and tranquillity. Peace was accordingly concluded, and upon
Rustem and Zál he conferred the highest honors, and his other warriors
engaged in the late conflict also experienced the effects of his bounty
and gratitude in an eminent degree.

Kai-kobád then moved towards Persia, and establishing his throne at
Istakhar,[10] he administered the affairs of his government with
admirable benevolence and clemency, and with unceasing solicitude for
the welfare of his subjects. In his eyes every one had an equal claim to
consideration and justice. The strong had no power to oppress the weak.
After he had continued ten years at Istakhar, building towns and cities,
and diffusing improvement and happiness over the land, he removed his
throne into Irán. His reign lasted one hundred years, which were passed
in the continued exercise of the most princely virtues, and the most
munificent liberality. He had four sons: Kai-káús, Arish, Poshín and
Aramín; and when the period of his dissolution drew nigh, he solemnly
enjoined the eldest, whom he appointed his successor, to pursue steadily
the path of integrity and justice, and to be kind and merciful in the
administration of the empire left to his charge.



KAI-KÁÚS

When Kai-káús[11] ascended the throne of his father, the whole world was
obedient to his will; but he soon began to deviate from the wise customs
and rules which had been recommended as essential to his prosperity and
happiness. He feasted and drank wine continually with his warriors and
chiefs, so that in the midst of his luxurious enjoyments he looked upon
himself as superior to every being upon the face of the earth, and thus
astonished the people, high and low, by his extravagance and pride.

One day a Demon, disguised as a musician, waited upon the monarch, and
playing sweetly on his harp, sung a song in praise of Mázinderán.

  And thus he warbled to the king--
  "Mázinderán is the bower of spring,
  My native home; the balmy air
  Diffuses health and fragrance there;
  So tempered is the genial glow,
  Nor heat nor cold we ever know;
  Tulips and hyacinths abound
  On every lawn; and all around
  Blooms like a garden in its prime,
  Fostered by that delicious clime.
  The bulbul sits on every spray,
  And pours his soft melodious lay;
  Each rural spot its sweets discloses,
  Each streamlet is the dew of roses;
  And damsels, idols of the heart,
  Sustain a more bewitching part.
  And mark me, that untravelled man
  Who never saw Mázinderán,
  And all the charms its bowers possess,
  Has never tasted happiness!"

No sooner had Kai-káús heard this description of the country of
Mázinderán than he determined to lead an army thither, declaring to his
warriors that the splendor and glory of his reign should exceed that of
either Jemshíd, Zohák, or Kai-kobád. The warriors, however, were alarmed
at this precipitate resolution, thinking it certain destruction to make
war against the Demons; but they had not courage or confidence enough to
disclose their real sentiments. They only ventured to suggest, that if
his majesty reflected a little on the subject, he might not ultimately
consider the enterprise so advisable as he had at first imagined. But
this produced no impression, and they then deemed it expedient to
despatch a messenger to Zál, to inform him of the wild notions which the
Evil One had put into the head of Kai-káús to effect his ruin, imploring
Zál to allow of no delay, otherwise the eminent services so lately
performed by him and Rustem for the state would be rendered utterly
useless and vain. Upon this summons, Zál immediately set off from Sístán
to Irán; and having arrived at the royal court, and been received with
customary respect and consideration, he endeavored to dissuade the king
from the contemplated expedition into Mázinderán.

  "O, could I wash the darkness from thy mind,
  And show thee all the perils that surround
  This undertaking! Jemshíd, high in power,
  Whose diadem was brilliant as the sun,
  Who ruled the demons--never in his pride
  Dreamt of the conquest of Mázinderán!
  Remember Feridún, he overthrew
  Zohák--destroyed the tyrant, but he never
  Thought of the conquest of Mázinderán!
  This strange ambition never fired the souls
  Of by-gone monarchs--mighty Minúchihr,
  Always victorious, boundless in his wealth,
  Nor Zau, nor Nauder, nor even Kai-kobád,
  With all their pomp, and all their grandeur, ever
  Dreamt of the conquest of Mázinderán!
  It is the place of demon-sorcerers,
  And all enchanted. Swords are useless there,
  Nor bribery nor wisdom can obtain
  Possession of that charm-defended land,
  Then throw not men and treasure to the winds;
  Waste not the precious blood of warriors brave,
  In trying to subdue Mázinderán!"

Kai-káús, however, was not to be diverted from his purpose; and with
respect to what his predecessors had not done, he considered himself
superior in might and influence to either Feridún, Jemshíd, Minúchihr,
or Kai-kobád, who had never aspired to the conquest of Mázinderán. He
further observed, that he had a bolder heart, a larger army, and a
fuller treasury than any of them, and the whole world was under his
sway--

  And what are all these Demon-charms,
  That they excite such dread alarms?
  What is a Demon-host to me,
  Their magic spells and sorcery?
  One effort, and the field is won;
  Then why should I the battle shun?
  Be thou and Rustem (whilst afar
  I wage the soul-appalling war),
  The guardians of the kingdom; Heaven
  To me hath its protection given;
  And, when I reach the Demon's fort,
  Their severed heads shall be my sport!

When Zál became convinced of the unalterable resolution of Kai-káús, he
ceased to oppose his views, and expressed his readiness to comply with
whatever commands he might receive for the safety of the state.

  May all thy actions prosper--may'st thou never
  Have cause to recollect my warning voice,
  With sorrow or repentance. Heaven protect thee!

Zál then took leave of the king and his warrior friends, and returned to
Sístán, not without melancholy forebodings respecting the issue of the
war against Mázinderán.

As soon as morning dawned,

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