We are told in the Persian histories that when Tamerlane, on his victorious progress through the East, had reached Shiraz, he halted before the gates of the city and sent two of his followers to search in the bazar for a certain dervish Muhammad Shams-ad-din, better known to the world by the name of Hafiz. And when this man of religion, wearing the simple woollen garment of a Sufi, was brought into the presence of the great conqueror, he was nothing abashed at the blaze of silks and jewelry which decorated the pavilion where Tamerlane sat in state. And Tamerlane, meeting the poet with a frown of anger, said, "Art not thou the insolent verse-monger who didst offer my two great cities Samarkand and Bokhara for the black mole upon thy lady's cheek?" "It is true,"

replied Hafiz calmly, smiling, "and indeed my munificence has been so great throughout my life, that it has left me dest.i.tute, so that I shall be hereafter dependent upon thy generosity for a livelihood." The reply of the poet, as well as his imperturbable self-possession, pleased the Asiatic Alexander, and he dismissed Hafiz with a liberal present.

This story, we are told, cannot be true, for Tamerlane did not reach Shiraz until after the death of the greatest of Persian lyric poets; but if it is not true in fact, it is true in spirit, and gives the real key to the character of Hafiz. For we must look upon Hafiz as one of the few poets in the world who utters an unbroken strain of joy and contentment.

His poverty was to him a constant fountain of satisfaction, and he frankly took the natural joys of life as they came, supported under every vicissitude by his religious sense of the goodness and kindliness of the One G.o.d, manifested in everything in the world that was sweet and genial, and beautiful to behold. It is strange that we have to go to the literature of Persia to find a poet whose deep religious convictions were fully reconciled with the theory of human existence which was nothing more or less than an optimistic hedonism. There is nothing parallel to this in cla.s.sic literature. The greatest of Roman Epicureans, the materialist, whose maxim was: enjoy the present for there is no G.o.d, and no to-morrow, speaks despairingly of that drop of bitterness, which rises in the fountain of Delight and brings torture, even amid the roses of the feast. It is with mocking irony that Dante places Epicurus in the furnace-tombs of his Inferno amid those heresiarchs who denied the immortality of the soul. Hafiz was an Epicurean without the atheism or the despair of Epicurus. The roses in his feast are ever fresh and sweet and there is nothing of bitterness in the perennial fountain of his Delight. This unruffled serenity, this joyful acceptance of material existence and its pleasures are not in the Persian poet the result of the carelessness and shallowness of Horace, or the cold-blooded worldliness and sensuality of Martial. The theory of life which Hafiz entertained was founded upon the relation of the human soul to G.o.d. The one G.o.d of Sufism was a being of exuberant benignity, from whose creative essence proceeded the human soul, whose experiences on earth were intended to fit it for re-entrance into the circle of light and re-absorption into the primeval fountain of being. In accordance with the beautiful and pathetic imagery of the Mystic, life was merely a journey of many stages, and every manifestation of life which the traveller met on the high road was a manifestation and a gift of G.o.d Himself. Every stage on the journey towards G.o.d which the soul made in its religious experience was like a wayside inn in which to rest awhile before resuming the onward course. The pleasures of life, all that charmed the eye, all that gratified the senses, every draught that intoxicated, and every fruit that pleased the palate, were, in the pantheistic doctrine of the Sufi considered as equally good, because G.o.d was in each of them, and to partake of them was therefore to be united more closely with G.o.d. Never was a theology so well calculated to put to rest the stings of doubt or the misgivings of the pleasure-seeker. This theology is of the very essence of Hafiz's poetry. It is in full reliance on this interpretation of the significance of human existence that Hafiz faces the fierce Tamerlane with a placid smile, plunges without a qualm into the deepest abysses of pleasure, finds in the love-song of the nightingale the voice of G.o.d, and in the bright eyes of women and the beaker br.i.m.m.i.n.g with crimson wine the choicest sacraments of life, the holiest and the most sublime intermediaries between divine and human life.

It is this that makes Hafiz almost the only poet of unadulterated gladsomeness that the world has ever known. There is no shadow in his sky, no discord in his music, no bitterness in his cup. He pa.s.ses through life like a happy pilgrim, singing all the way, mounting in his own way from strength to strength, sure of a welcome when he reaches the goal, contented with himself, because every manifestation of life of which he is conscious must be the stirrings within him of that divinity of which he is a portion. When we have thus spoken of Hafiz we have said almost all that is known of the Persian lyric poet, for to know Hafiz we must read his verses, whose magic charm is as great for Europeans as for Asiatics. The endless variety of his expressions, the deep earnestness of his convictions, the persistent gayety of his tone, are qualities of irresistible attractiveness. Even to this day his tomb is visited as the Mecca of literary pilgrims, and his numbers are cherished in the memory and uttered on the tongue of all educated Persians. The particulars of his life may be briefly epitomized as follows: He was born at Shiraz in the early part of the fourteenth century, dying in the year 1388. The name Hafiz means, literally, the man who remembers, and was applied to himself by Hafiz from the fact that he became a professor of the Mohammedan scriptures, and for this purpose had committed to memory the text of the Koran. His manner of life was not approved of by the dervishes of the monastic college in which he taught, and he satirizes his colleagues in revenge for their animadversions. The whole Mohammedan world hailed with delight the lyrics which Hafiz published to the world, and kings and rulers vied with each other in making offers to him of honors and hospitality. At one time he started for India on the invitation of a great Southern Prince, who sent a vessel to meet him on the way, but the hardships of the sea were too severe for him, and he made his way back to Shiraz without finishing his journey.

His out-and-out pantheism, as well as his manner of life, caused him at his death to be denied burial in consecrated ground. The ecclesiastical authorities were, however, induced to relent in their plan of excommunication at the dictates of a pa.s.sage from the poet's writings, which was come upon by opening the book at random. The pa.s.sage ran as follows: "Turn not thy feet from the bier of Hafiz, for though immersed in sin, he will be admitted into Paradise." And so he rests in the cemetery at Shiraz, where the nightingales are singing and the roses bloom the year through, and the doves gather with low murmurs amid the white stones of the sacred enclosure. The poets of nature, the mystical pantheist, the joyous troubadour of life, Hafiz, in the naturalness and spontaneity of his poetry, and in the winning sweetness of his imagery, occupies a unique place in the literature of the world, and has no rival in his special domain.

FRAGMENT BY HaFIZ

_In Praise of His Verses_.

The beauty of these verses baffles praise: What guide is needed to the solar blaze?

Extol that artist by whose pencil's aid The virgin, Thought, so richly is arrayed.

For her no subst.i.tute can reason show, Nor any like her human judgment know.

This verse, a miracle, or magic white-- Brought down some voice from Heaven, or Gabriel bright?

By me as by none else are secrets sung, No pearls of poesy like mine are strung.

THE DIVAN

I

"Ala ya ayyuha's-Saki!"--pa.s.s round and offer thou the bowl, For love, which seemed at first so easy, has now brought trouble to my soul.

With yearning for the pod's aroma, which by the East that lock shall spread From that crisp curl of musky odor, how plenteously our hearts have bled!

Stain with the tinge of wine thy prayer-mat, if thus the aged Magian bid, For from the traveller from the Pathway[1] no stage nor usage can be hid.

Shall my beloved one's house delight me, when issues ever and anon From the relentless bell the mandate: "'Tis time to bind thy litters on"?

The waves are wild, the whirlpool dreadful, the shadow of the night steals o'er, How can my fate excite compa.s.sion in the light-burdened of the sh.o.r.e?

Each action of my froward spirit has won me an opprobrious name; Can any one conceal the secret which the a.s.sembled crowds proclaim?

If Joy be thy desire, O Hafiz, From Him far distant never dwell.

"As soon as thou hast found thy Loved one, Bid to the world a last farewell."

II

Thou whose features clearly-beaming make the moon of Beauty bright, Thou whose chin contains a well-pit[2] which to Loveliness gives light.

When, O Lord! shall kindly Fortune, sating my ambition, pair This my heart of tranquil nature and thy wild and ruffled hair?

Pining for thy sight my spirit trembling on my lip doth wait: Forth to speed it, back to lead it, speak the sentence of its fate.

Pa.s.s me with thy skirt uplifted from the dusty b.l.o.o.d.y ground: Many who have been thy victims dead upon this path are found.

How this heart is anguish-wasted let my heart's possessor know: Friends, your souls and mine contemplate, equal by their common woe.

Aught of good accrues to no one witched by thy Narcissus eye: Ne'er let braggarts vaunt their virtue, if thy drunken orbs are nigh.

Soon my Fortune sunk in slumber shall her limbs with vigor brace: Dashed upon her eye is water, sprinkled by thy shining face.

Gather from thy cheek a posy, speed it by the flying East; Sent be perfume to refresh me from thy garden's dust at least.

Hafiz offers a pet.i.tion, listen, and "Amen" reply: "On thy sugar-dropping rubies let me for life's food rely."

Many a year live on and prosper, Sakis of the court of Jem,[3]

E'en though I, to fill my wine-cup, never to your circle come.

East wind, when to Yazd thou wingest, say thou to its sons from me: "May the head of every ingrate ball-like 'neath your mall-bat be!"

"What though from your dais distant, near it by my wish I seem; Homage to your Ring I render, and I make your praise my theme."

Shah of Shahs, of lofty planet, Grant for G.o.d what I implore; Let me, as the sky above thee, Kiss the dust which strews thy floor.

V

Up, Saki!--let the goblet flow; Strew with dust the head of our earthly woe!

Give me thy cup; that, joy-possessed, I may tear this azure cowl from my breast,[4]

The wise may deem me lost to shame, But no care have I for renown or name.

Bring wine!--how many a witless head By the wind of pride has with dust been spread!

My bosom's fumes, my sighs so warm, Have inflamed yon crude and unfeeling swarm.[5]

This mad heart's secret, well I know, Is beyond the thoughts of both high and low.

E'en by that sweetheart charmed am I, Who once from my heart made sweetness fly.

Who that my Silvern Tree hath seen, Would regard the cypress that decks the green?[6]

In grief be patient, Night and day, Till thy fortune, Hafiz, Thy wish obey.