Persian myths, p.25
Persian Myths, page 25
The mountain trembles to the echoing sound
Of falling rocks, that from her sides rebound.
Each day all respite, all repose denied —
No truce, no pause, the thundering strokes are plied;
The mist of night around her summit coils,
But still Ferhad, the lover-artist, toils,
And still – the flashes of his axe between —
He sighs to ev’ry wind, “Alas! Shireen!
Alas! Shireen! – my task is well-nigh done,
The goal in view for which I strive alone.
Love grants me powers that Nature might deny;
And, whatsoe’er my doom, the world shall tell,
Thy lover gave to immortality
Her name he loved – so fatally – so well!
[The enamored sculptor prophesied aright; for the wonderful efforts made by this “slave of love” left imperishable monuments of his devotion, in the carved caverns which, to this day, excite the amazement and admiration of the traveler who visits the Kesr-e-Shireen, or “Villa of Shireen,” and follows the stream called Joui-shur, or “stream of milk,” which flows from the mountain, between Hamadan and Hulwan.
Ferhad first constructed a recess or chamber in the rock, wherein he carved the figure of Shireen, near the front of the opening: she was represented surrounded by attendants and guards; while in the center of the cave was an equestrian statue of Khosru, clothed in armor, the workmanship so exquisite that the nails and buttons of the coat of mail were clearly to be seen, and are still said to be so. An eye-witness says: “Whoso looks on the stone would imagine it to be animated.” The chamber and the statues still remain there. As Ferhad continued to hew away pieces of the rock, which “are like so many columns,” the task was soon performed. The vestiges of the chisel remain, so that the sculptures ap- pear recent. The horse of Khosru was exquisitely carved: it was called Shebdiz.]
The Great Work
A hundred arms were weak one block to move
Of thousands, molded by the hand of Love
Into fantastic shapes and forms of grace,
Which crowd each nook of that majestic place.
The piles give way, the rocky peaks divide,
The stream comes gushing on – a foaming tide!
A mighty work, for ages to remain,
The token of his passion and bis pain.
As flows the milky flood from Allah’s throne
Hushes the torrent from the yielding stone;
And sculptured there, amazed, stern Khosru stands,
And sees, with frowns, obeyed bis harsh commands:
While she, the fair beloved, with being rife,
Awakes the glowing marble into life.
Ah! hapless youth; ah! toil repaid by woe —
A king thy rival and the world thy foe!
Will she wealth, splendor, pomp for thee resign —
And only genius, truth, and passion thine!
Around the pair, lo! groups of courtiers wait,
And slaves and pages crowd in solemn state;
From columns imaged wreaths their garlands throw,
And fretted roofs with stars appear to glow!
Fresh leaves and blossoms seem around to spring,
And feathered throngs their loves are murmuring;
The hands of Peris might have wrought those stems,
Where dewdrops hang their fragile diadems;
And strings of pearl and sharp-cut diamonds shine,
New from the wave, or recent from the mine.
“Alas! Shireen!” at every stroke he cries;
At every stroke fresh miracles arise:
“For thee these glories and these wonders all,
For thee I triumph, or for thee I fall;
For thee my life one ceaseless toil has been,
Inspire my soul anew: Alas! Shireen!”
[The task of the rival of Khosru was at length completed, and the King heard with dismay of his success: all the cour- tiers were terrified at the result of their advice, and saw that some further stratagem was necessary. They therefore engaged an old woman who had been known to Ferhad, and in whom he had confidence, to report to him tidings which would at once destroy his hopes.]
The Messenger
What raven note disturbs his musing mood?
What form comes stealing on his solitude?
Ungentle messenger, whose word of ill
All the warm feelings of his soul can chill!
“Cease, idle youth, to waste thy days,” she said,
“By empty hopes a visionary made;
Why in vain toil thy fleeting life consume
To frame a palace? – rather hew a tomb.
Even like sere leaves that autumn winds have shed,
Perish thy labors, for – Shireen is dead!”
He heard the fatal news – no word, no groan;
He spoke not, moved not, stood transfixed to stone.
Then, with a frenzied start, he raised on high
His arms, and wildly tossed them toward the sky;
Far in the wide expanse his axe he flung
And from the precipice at once he sprung.
The rocks, the sculptured caves, the valleys green,
Sent back his dying cry – “Alas! Shireen!”
[The legend goes on to relate that the handle of the axe flung away by Ferhad, being of pomegranate wood, took root on the spot where it fell, and became a flourishing tree: it possessed healing powers, and was much resorted to by believers long afterward.
Khosru, on learning this catastrophe, did not conceal his satisfaction, but liberally rewarded the old woman who had caused so fatal a termination to the career of his rival; but the gentle-hearted Shireen heard of his fate with grief, and shed many tears on his tomb.
The charms of Shireen were destined to create mischief, for the King had a son by a former marriage, who became enamored of his fatally beautiful step-mother. His father, Khosru, was, in the end, murdered by his hand, and Shireen became the object of his importunities. Wearied, at length, with constant struggles, she feigned to give him a favorable answer, and promised, if he would permit her to visit the grave of her husband, when she returned she would be his. Shireen accordingly went on her melancholy errand, and, true to her affection for her beloved Khosru, stabbed herself, and died upon his tomb.]
Laili and Majnun
Every nation has its favorite romance of love and chivalry. France and Italy have their Abelard and Eloisa, their Petrarch and Laura, while Arabia and Persia have their Laili and Majnun, the record of whose sorrows is constantly referred to throughout the East as an example of the most devoted affection. This story, which has been versified by several Persian authors, is of Arabian origin, and hence it bears the impress of Arabic thought.
The poem contains the mystic lights and shadows of Bedawin life – the fervid loves and passionate yearnings, the hopeless grief and stoical endurance, which belong to the sons of the desert.
Majnun was the son of a haughty chief, while Laili belonged to an humble Arab tribe, but her father carried in his veins the pride of his desert race, and the bitter hatreds of the Moslems. Laili is described as being very beautiful, with the crimson of her cheek flashing through the dark olive shades of her face, and her heavy ringlets, “black as night,” hanging in graceful profusion around her shapely neck.
“When ringlets of a thousand curls
And ruby lips and teeth of pearls,
And dark eyes flashing quick and bright,
Like lightning on the brow of night—
When charms like these their power display
And steal the wildered heart away—
Can man, dissembling, coldly seem
Unmoved as by an idle dream?
Kais saw her beauty, and her grace
The soft expression of her face;
And as he gazed and gazed again
Distraction stung his burning brain;
No rest he found by day or night—
She was forever in his sight.”
But the wandering tribe to which the girl belonged folded their tents and slipped away to the solitudes of the mountains. They had left no trace of their going – no hint of where they might be found, and the luckless maid found herself far from her lover with no possible means of communicating with him, while the frantic boy was wandering through the wilds in the almost hopeless search for his love.
“He sought her in rosy bower and silent glade,
Where the palm trees flung refreshing shade;
Through grove and frowning glen he lonely strayed,
And with his griefs the rocks were vocal made.”
Alarmed by the condition of his son, the old chieftain gathered his men for an organized search, and at last they found the mountain stronghold of the tribe they sought.
They were challenged by a stern voice beyond the rocky barriers, which demanded:
“Come ye hither as friends or foes?
Whatever may your errand be,
That errand must be told to me;
For none, unless a sanctioned friend,
Can pass the line that I defend.”
This challenge touched the chieftain’s pride, and he haughtily responded that he came in friendship, to propose the marriage of his son to the Arab maiden to whom he had taken a silly fancy.
“With shame,
Possess’d of power, and wealth, and fame,
I to his silly humor bend,
And humbly seek his fate to blend
With one inferior. Need I tell
My own high lineage known so well?
If sympathy my heart incline,
Or vengeance, still the means are mine.
Treasure and arms can amply bear
Me through the toils of desert war;
But thou’rt the merchant pedler chief,
And I the buyer; come, sell, be brief!
If thou art wise, accept advice;
Sell and receive a princely price!”
The haughty tone of the applicant was little calculated to call forth a favorable response, and the proud father replied:
“Madness is neither sin nor crime, we know,
But who’d be linked to madness or a foe?
Thy son is mad – his senses first restore;
In constant prayer the aid of heaven implore.
But while portentous gloom pervades his brain
Disturb me not with this vain suit again.
The jewel sense no purchaser can buy,
Nor treachery the place of sense supply.
Thou hast my reasons, and this parley o’er,
Keep them in mind and trouble me no more.”
The scorn of the father’s reply had been, if possible, more bitter than the insulting demand, and Syd Omri turned indignantly to his followers and ordered the homeward march. The desert fates were stern, and
“When Majnun saw his hopes decay,
Their fairest blossoms fade away,
And friends and sire who might have been
Kind intercessors, rush between
Him and the only wish that shed
One ray of comfort round his head,
He beat his hands, his garments tore,
He cast his fetters on the floor
In broken fragments, and in wrath
Sought the dark wilderness’s path,
And there he wept and sobbed aloud,
Unnoticed by the gazing crowd.”
The kinsmen of Laili brought to the encampment the news that a youth, insane and wild, was haunting the desert wastes below the mountain, and the fair Laili blushed when she heard the tidings, but dared not venture forth to meet her maniac lover. The Arab chief swore vengeance against the hapless youth, and ordered his followers to slay him in the desert. The father of Majnun heard of the cruel decree and sent his own followers into the wilderness to rescue his son.... Again and again he was carried to his father’s home, and as frequently he made his escape, always wandering, with unerring instinct, near to his beloved.
“Laili in beauty, softness, grace,
Surpassed the loveliest of her race.
The killing witchery that lies
In her soft, black, delicious eyes—
Her lashes speak a thousand blisses
Her lips of ruby ask for kisses;
Her cheeks, so beautiful and bright,
Have caught the moon’s refulgent light;
Her form the Cypress tree expresses,
And full and plump, invites caresses.
With all these charms, the heart to win,
There was a ceaseless grief within,—
Yet none beheld her grief, or heard,
She droop’d like broken-winged bird.
Her secret thoughts, her love concealing,
But softly to the terrace stealing
From morn to eve, she gazed around
In hopes her Majnun might be found.”
An oasis with its cooling streams was near the rocky fortress of the Bedawin encampment, and here the tall palms seemed to lean against the sky, while the doves cooed in the thickets of foliage. Here the gentle Laili came day after day, hoping that her lover might venture near. She gathered the lilies that bloomed around her feet, as she wandered through the fragrant grove, but her dark eyes were heavy with unshed tears, when she reclined beneath a mournful cypress tree and softly chanted her song of faithfulness:
“Oh, faithful friend and lover true,
Still distant from thy Laili’s view;
Still absent, still beyond her power,
To bring thee to her fragrant bower;
Oh noble youth! still thou art mine,
And Laili, Laili still is thine.”
As she pensively sat one day beneath the cypress tree, a youth of kingly mien passed that way. His eyes rested a moment upon her crimson lips, and the flowing tresses which were dark as the plume of a raven’s wing – he saw too the full form with its shapely curves and the beaming softness of the dark eyes, with their heavy lashes. Ibn Salam was the honored name of this young prince, who with his suite had sought for a moment the cooling shades of the palm-tree grove, and he it was who hastened to her father with a plea for his daughter’s hand. Dazzled by the gold and position of the suitor, the father of Laili gave a cordial consent to the proposed union.
A Friend
The chief of the domain where Majnun wandered in his pitiful loneliness, looked with compassion upon him, for one day, while in pursuit of a bounding deer, he saw the wasted frame and wild look of the despairing lover. Dismounting from his splendid steed, Noufal, the Arab chief, came kindly to him and listened to the story so constantly told of love and suffering. With kindly words the chieftain soothed the restless spirit, and gently drawing the tortured mind away from its painful thought he offered nourishment to the sinking body. A change for the better came over him, and he took the proffered cup and drank, although he drank to Laili’s name. Refreshed by Noufal’s kindly ministry and drawn by gentle urging, Majnun went with his new friend to his home, and there received the best of care and hopeful cheer.
“An altered man, his mind at rest,
In customary robes he dressed;
A turban shades his forehead pale,
No more is heard the lover’s wail,
His dungeon gloom exchanged for day,
His cheeks a rosy tint display;
He revels midst the garden sweets,
And still his lip the goblet meets;
But so intense his constant flame
Each cup is quaffed in Laili’s name.”
The generous Noufal was not content with the change so nearly wrought, but he gathered his bravest men in battle array, and marched at their head to the mountain fortress of the Bedawin encampment. The troops of Arabian horsemen were halted and sword and helmet glittered in the sun, while Noufal sent his messenger forward with a demand for the hand of the coveted bride. His request was haughtily refused, and when the messenger was again sent forward with a threat of revenge if his wishes were not complied with, his power and vengeance were alike defied. Then the word of command rang along the glittering lines. There was a rattling of helmets and spears, a twanging of the bowstring and a gallant charge was made upon the foe that was so well entrenched in the mountain fastnesses. Amidst the clangor of brazen drums and trumpets, the fearful fight went on and
“Arrows, like birds, on either foeman stood,
Drinking with open beak the vital flood;
The shining daggers in the battle’s heat
Rolled many a head beneath the horse’s feet;
And lightnings hurled by death’s unsparing hand
Spread consternation through the weeping land.”
There was no pause in the sound of the trumpets, no stay in the wild flight of the arrows, as the dreadful work went on, and the dripping swords were bathed with the crimson tide of shame.
The shades of night came down ere the fate of the battle was decided, but the assaulting party had suffered most, and in another hour of conflict the friends of Majnun had been undone. With the coming of the morning light the assault was renewed, and the desert rang again with the sounds of war; all along the long line glittered the sword and buckler, the helmet and spear; swords clashed and the desert sands were wet again with the blood of the fallen. At last the tribe of Laili’s sire gave way, and Noufal won the bitter fight, though many of his bravest men lay bleeding on the burning sand.
“And now the elders of that tribe appear,
And thus implore the victor. Chieftain, hear!
The work of slaughter is complete;
Thou seest our power destroyed; allow
Us wretched suppliants at thy feet
To humbly ask for mercy now.
