Persian myths, p.29
Persian Myths, page 29
“There countless roses their pavilions kept,
The grass moved wakeful, while the waters slept,
The roses painted with a thousand hues,
Their heavenly fragrance each a league diffuse.”
The setting sun was bathing the hills with its glory when the weary pigeon reached the lovely spot, and he nestled gratefully down amidst the green grass and fragrant flowers to spend the night in peace and happiness; with his head tucked under his wing, he did not see that a shadow had darkened the fair sunset; he did not see that its glory was shaded by an angry storm-cloud. But soon the restless wind was tossing the canopy of clouds into the high court of the air, and Bazindah’s heart was quaking with terror as the fiery lightnings flashed around him, consuming the hearts of the tulips beside him; the pitiless hail dashed the bright narcissus to the earth, while the thunderbolts seemed to tear the very heart of the mountain.
“In pieces was the mountain’s breast, by the lightning’s arrows riven,
And earth to its foundations shook, at the fearful voice of heaven.”
Bazindah had no shelter from the storm – no refuge from the pitiless hail and searching wind; in vain he tried to hide beneath some friendly branch or amidst the leaves and grass, still the cruel hail pelted him like some remorseless foe, and the cold rain still poured upon him.
“Night! gloomy night! – Heaven’s awful voice—
What tempest shower so fierce as this?
What care the gay in banquet halls?
Our perils do not mar their bliss.”
In terror and peril, the traveler passed the night thinking of the home-nest, and the gentle mate who would so gladly shield him from the storm with her own pinions, and who was even now grieving her life away in loneliness, because he came not.
But whatever feelings of penitence may have been cherished during the perils of the night, were quickly dissipated by the beauty of the morning light.
“From the east then drew the sun,
His golden poniard bright,
And through the earth’s dark regions
Spread a flood of yellow light.”
Bazindah again arose upon his faithful wings, and pursued his journey; but a royal white falcon was abroad looking for prey, – a falcon which descends upon the head of its quarry, swifter than the rays of the sun, and when soaring on high he reaches heaven quicker than the sight of man.
“Attacking now, it left the thunderbolt behind,
And soared more swiftly than the chilling wind.”
For the pitiless bird had marked the pigeon for his prey, and the victim’s heart began to flutter, while his wings, paralyzed with fear, seemed to lose all power of motion.
“When on the dove the rapid falcon swoops,
The helpless quarry unresisting droops.”
In that moment of helpless terror, Bazindah thought again of his faithful mate, and quickly resolved that could he but escape this deadly peril, he would be content at home in her downy nest. He was already beneath the claw of the falcon, when the flashing eye of an eagle fell upon them, – an eagle whose talons were so sharp that the sign of Aquila was not safe in the nest of the sky, and who, when hungry, carried off from the meadows of heaven the signs of Aries and Capricorn.
“Aries itself, through fear of him
Would gaze not on the sky,
Save that Bahram, the blood drinker
Each day stood watchful by.”
This fearful bird was on the wing searching for food, and seeing the falcon and the pigeon, he said to himself, “Although this pigeon is only a mouthful, nevertheless one may break one’s fast upon it,” and quickly he dashed at the falcon:
“The feathered rivals then to fight began,
The quarry, dodging, from between them ran.”
While the fight went fiercely on, Bazindah threw himself under a stone, and crowded himself into a hole hardly large enough for a sparrow, and here he passed the day and another night, quivering with terror and distress. But the morning light again illumined the mountain peaks, for the white-pinioned dove of the dawn began to fly from the nest of heaven, and the black raven of night went to his rest like the Simurgh, behind the shades of the distant mountains. Bazindah began to flutter his weary wings, and look hungrily around him, when he gladly spied another pigeon, with a little grain scattered before him. Rejoicing to see one of his own species, he fluttered eagerly to the grain, but alas! his foot was caught in a snare.
“Satan’s the net, the world’s the grain,
Our lusts the enticements are,
Our hearts, the fowl which greediness
Soon lures within the snare.”
With bitter reproaches upon the captive pigeon who had thus lured him to destruction, he trembled and struggled, until he broke the decayed net, and turned his tired face toward the home-nest, and flew as rapidly as his forlorn condition would permit. Fearing to attempt again to satisfy his hunger, he was nevertheless compelled to rest, at last, on a wall near a field of corn. A thoughtless boy sent an arrow toward him, and wounded he fell, but he lay so quietly that the young hunter failed to find his game, and at last, weak and wounded, hungry and discouraged, he fluttered by short flights homeward. Nawazindah heard the flutter of his wings, and flew joyously out to meet him saying:
“‘Tis I whose eyes expand, my love to find—
How shall I thank thee – thou so true and kind.”
But when she had caressed him, she saw that he was weak and thin, and she exclaimed, “Oh, beloved, where hast thou been?”
Bazindah replied:
“Ask me not what woes, my love,—
What pangs have been my lot,
All the grief that parting brings,
I’ve tasted – ask me not.
For travel’s conflict I’ll not lust again,
With home and friends perpetual pleasures reign.
The truth of the matter is, that I have had much experience, and as long as I live, I will not make another journey, nor go forth until compelled from the corner of our nest.” Then the gentle wife flew out and brought him the daintiest food she could find, and tenderly she caressed the wounded wing with her loving bill, and no thought of reproaches entered her grateful heart. Gently she nursed him back to health and strength, and together they cooed and nestled in their quiet home.
The Blind Man and His Whip
A sage, who was discoursing to a king upon lessons of wisdom and morality, gave him the following illustration of an important principle:
“Once upon a time a blind man and his friend were making a journey together, and they halted in a wild place for the night; the morning found them cold and little rested, for the weather had suddenly grown severe. In searching for his whip the blind man picked up a frozen snake, which he found smoother and more nicely polished than his whip, and greatly pleased he mounted his horse, forgetting the faithful old whip which he had lost. His friend, however, could see, and when he beheld the snake in the hand of the blind man, he cried out: ‘Oh, my friend! what thou takest for a whip is a poisonous snake, fling it away before it makes a wound upon thy hand.’ But the blind man fancied that his friend was jealous of his great success in finding so beautiful a whip, and he answered: ‘Oh, friend! it is owing to my good luck, that I have found a better one, and I am not going to be wheedled out of my good fortune by idle tales.’ His friend continued to plead, but the man was obstinate and conceited, as well as blind, and he became angry and frowned upon his faithful friend, while he clung closely to what he believed to be a beautiful thing. After a time the sun rose higher in the heavens, and the air grew more balmy, the snake was also comforted by the warmth of the blind man’s body, and recovering from her torpor, she turned backward, and bit the poor fool who had, clung to her because he fancied she was beautiful; he died of the venom given in the wound.” Then said the sage, “I have adduced this story that thou mayst not be deceived by appearances or fascinated with outward charms, which are as deceitful as the beauties of a snake. Be not attracted by the softness and delicacy of flattery and hypocrisy, for their poison is deadly and their wound is fatal; it is far better to listen to the admonitions of a faithful friend, even though his advice may not always be agreeable, than to be led into the snare of the flatterer, by the poison of her honeyed words.
‘Think not sweet sherbert from the world to drink,
Honey with poison is mingled there,
That which thou, fondly, dost sweet honey think,
Is but the deadly potion of despair.’”
Amicable Instruction
It is said that there lived a wise and virtuous prince, who was greatly afflicted with the conduct of his sons. The young princes “knew no books and were continually working in evil ways,” therefore the raja asked himself, “Of what use is it that a son should be born who has neither learning nor virtue? Of what use is a blind eye except to give pain? Of a child unborn, dead or ignorant, the two first are preferable, since they make us unhappy but once, and the last by continual degrees. A numerous family under such circumstances is poison, as is a young wife to an old man.”
Considering these things, the king gave orders for a council of learned men to be called, in order that they might study the solution of his problem, and devise, if possible, some method by which his sons might be taught the lessons of morality and wisdom.
Among the wise men who were thus called together, there was a great philosopher named Vishnu-sarman who understood the principles of ethics. He declared that as these young princes were born of good family there was still a hope of their reformation, and he offered to give them the necessary instruction.
His proposition was gladly accepted by the anxious father, and soon the class was called together on the roof of the palace to receive the instruction of the sage. The teacher decided to interest his listeners, and also to convey the lessons of morality by repeating fables. Therefore, with many wise admonitions, and carefully pointing the moral of each lesson, he told them the following stories:
The Pigeons and the Rat
Near the GodAvarI river there stood a large Salmali tree, on which the birds found their nightly rest. One morning, when the darkness had just departed, leaving the moon – friend of the night flowers – still in his mansion, a raven who sat in the tree saw a fowler approaching like the genius of death, and he said to himself, “This morning an enemy appears, and I know not what poisonous fruit is ripening.” The fowler went on, however, fixing his net and scattering grains of rice. Soon a flock of pigeons, led by their prince Citagriva, or painted neck, came flying that way. They saw the rice and were eagerly descending, when the leader counseled caution, for he feared a snare; but led away by their appetites, they all flew downward upon the rice, being followed, even by the leader, who was unwilling to desert the flock. In a moment more they were snared. But although covetousness had brought them into trouble, the leader counseled that a wise unity of action might even yet deliver them from it. He ordered that they should all fly together, and doing so, they raised the net and carried it along with them. They were followed by the fowler, who expected to see them soon fall into his power.
In a wood near by dwelt a rat, who was a friend of Citagriva’s, and to him they directed their flight, coming down near his hole. The prisoned birds then besought him to gnaw the strings that held them. The rat replied that “to abandon our own is not the conduct of moralists. Let a man for the sake of relieving his distresses preserve his wealth; by his wealth let him preserve his wife, and by both wife and riches let him preserve himself.” “I am but weak,” said he, “and my teeth are small, but as long as they remain unbroken will I continue to cut thy strings.” And gnawing diligently away, he severed their bonds and received them as guests.
Thus the sage taught the princes that “covetousness leads to lust, to anger, to fraud and illusion.” He taught also that the union, even of the small and the weak, is beneficial, and also that the humble friend who stands by us faithfully, in the hour of adversity, is of more value than the flatterers, who are watching for our prosperity, in order that they may absorb our gain.
The Antelope and the Crow
In the country of Magadha there was a forest, in which an antelope and crow had long dwelt in friendship. The antelope was fat, and his flesh was greatly desired by a jackal, who sought to obtain it by gaining his confidence. Going to him, therefore, she pleaded for his friendship, saying, “I am friendless and alone like a dead creature, but having gained thy friendship I shall live again, and I will ever be thy servant,” and saying this, she slipped into his home under the branches of a tree, where dwelt the friendly crow. Then the crow inquired of the antelope, “Who is this comrade of thine?” And the antelope replied, “It is a jackal who is my chosen friend.” “O my beloved,” said the crow, “it is not right to place thy confidence with too much celerity.” But in vain the faithful bird pleaded with the infatuated antelope, who still listened eagerly to the flatteries of the jackal, until the aggrieved and disgusted friend flew away to another part of the wood.
“My beloved antelope,” said the jackal one day in her softest and sweetest tones, “at one side of the wood is a field of corn, I will take thee there.” The antelope found the corn rich and tender, and going there he fed freely. The owner of the corn perceived his loss as the wily jackal had anticipated, and he spread a strong net there, wherein the antelope was captured. The jackal crept softly near, saying to herself, “It has befallen as I wished, and soon I shall satisfy my appetite on his tender flesh.” As soon as the antelope perceived his false friend he was glad, for he anticipated deliverance by the gnawing of his bonds. The jackal examined the net, and congratulating herself that it was strong, she said, “Oh, my beloved, I cannot do it to-day, but to-morrow I will come and deliver thee,” and going away, a short distance she awaited for him to die in order that she might regale herself upon his flesh. The crow, however, in flying over the wood, saw the condition of his imprudent friend, and hastened to his side. “This,” said the antelope “is the consequence of rejecting friendly counsel. The man who listens not to the words of affectionate friends, will give joy in the moment of distress to his enemies.”
“Where is the jackal?” inquired the crow. “She is near by,” answered the antelope, “waiting to feed upon my flesh.” “This I predicted,” said the crow. “I escape such calamities because I place no such trust; the wise are continually in dread of wicked associations. A pretended friend who flatters thee should be shunned as a dish of milk with poison at its brim. Contract no friendship with flatterers; at first they fall at your feet in their anxiety to drink your blood; they hum strange tunes in your ears with soft murmurs, and, having found an opening, they will ruin you without remorse.”
The faithful crow watched until he saw the farmer approaching, then he said to the antelope, “Feign to be dead and remain motionless until thou hearest me make a noise, then run swiftly away.”
The owner of the corn, with his eyes flooded with joy, saw the antelope who pretended to be dead, so he took away the snare, and was busily engaged in taking care of his net, when the crow cried out, and the antelope hearing the signal, bounded to his feet and ran away with great speed. The disappointed farmer threw a club after him, and struck the deceitful jackal, who was hidden in a bush, for thus it is written: “In three years, in three months, in three days, the fruit of great vices may be reaped, even in this world.”
The Brahman and the Ichneumon
There was a Brahman named Modeva, who lived alone with his wife and their infant daughter. One day the mother went away to perform her ablutions and acts of adoration. She therefore left the child in the father’s care. Soon after the mother left home a great raja sent for the Brahman to perform a religious ceremony called the Sraddha, or offerings to the ghosts of his ancestors. It is customary upon these occasions to bestow rich presents upon the officiating Brahman or priest, and this was an opportunity that ought not to be lost.
Knowing that if he did not go promptly another would be called in his place, he committed the care of his child to a faithful ichneumon, which he had long cherished, and having done so, he hastened away to obey the call of the raja. Soon after he went away a terrible serpent crawled into the little home and approached the child. He was attacked, however, by the faithful ichneumon, who killed him and cut him in pieces; then seeing his master returning the animal ran to meet him, even while his mouth and paws were still wet with the blood of the serpent. Seeing him thus, the Brahman promptly decided that he had killed the child, and in his rage he slew the ichneumon. Then going to his house he found the babe sleeping peacefully with the mangled body of the snake beside it. Then, indeed, he knew that, in his haste and unreasonable anger, he had slain the faithful protector of his child. Therefore, he who knows not the first principle, and the first cause, and who is in subjection to his wrath, is tormented like a fool. Let not a man perform an act hastily. Want of circumspection is a great cause of danger.
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