Introduction

§ 1. The Dīvāni Shamsi Tabrīz acquaints us with a striking literary phenomenon^[xv.1]. It is true that books have been ascribed by ambition or malice to those who had no hand in producing them. It is true, again, that while the fashion of pseudonymous authorship is everywhere understood and practised, in Persia the poet à la mode cannot dispense with a takhallus, which instead of exciting curiosity and sparing modesty a blush serves to gratify the generous patron, to immortalise a place or event, to unfold some characteristic, and in fine to secure that its owner shall not for all time lie buried under one of those cumbrous family trees that betray alike the poverty and confusion of Mohammedan nomenclature. But here is no question of takhallus^[xv.2], forgery, or composition holding up to ridicule the imagined author. The Dīvān was never attributed to Shamsi Tabrīz, who probably died before it was complete. Why then does his name appear on the title-page and at the end of most of the odes? Who was he, and in what relation did he stand to Jalālu ’ddīn Rūmī? Why should a poet who ranks with Firdausī and Ḥāfiẓ lay on the brow of an unknown dervish his wreath of imperishable lyric song?

§ 2. Jalālu ’ddīn Rūmī was born at Balkh on the 6th of Rabī‘u ’l Awwal, 604 A.H. (30th September, 1207)^[xvi.1]. We may pass lightly over the apocryphal genealogy which connects him with Abū Bekr, the first Caliph. His descent, on the mother’s side, from the royal house of Khwārazm is well established. Jalālu ’ddīn Ḥusain Al-Khaṭībī married a daughter of ‘Alā ’u ’ddīn Muḥammad Khwārazm-Shāh. Their son, Bahā ’u ’ddīn Walad, is the poet’s father. Bahā ’u ’ddīn was a man of great learning and piety, an eloquent preacher and distinguished professor. Unfortunately, not content with ‘declaiming against the philosophers and rationalists of the day,’ he seems to have indulged in political diatribes. According to Aflākī, he attacked the ‘innovations’ of the reigning monarch, Muḥammad Kuṭbu ’ddīn Khwārazm-Shāh, surnamed Takash, who held sway in the north-east of Persia and in Transoxania. Another account depicts the king as jealous of his growing influence and popularity. Whatever may have been the cause, he found it convenient to quit Balkh with his family and a few friends (about 607 A.H.). At Nīshāpūr the travellers were met by the famous Ṣūfī, Farīdu ’ddīn ‘Aṭṭār^[xvii.1], who gave Jalāl, at this time a mere child, his Asrār-nāma (Book of Mysteries), and prophesied that he would attain the highest pitch of spiritual eminence. From Nīshāpūr they went to Baghdād, where they received news of the destruction of Balkh by Jingīz Khān (608 A.H.); then to Mecca, Damascus, and Malaṭiya (Melitene). Four years were spent at Arzanjān in Armenia, and seven at Laranda. Here Jalālu ’ddīn married Jauhar Khātūn^[xvii.2], daughter of the Lālā Sharafu ’ddīn of Samarcand (623 A.H.). Soon afterwards the family settled in Qōniya (Iconium), the capital of the Seljūq prince, ‘Alā ’u ’ddīn Kaikubād, and Bahā ’u ’ddīn resumed his professorial activity under the royal patronage.

If we can believe the stories which are told of him, the poet must indeed have been a ‘marvellous boy.’ When he was six years old, he saw visions, imbued his playmates with philosophy, and performed extraordinary feats of fasting. He was educated first by his father and then by Burhānu ’ddīn Muḥaqqiq Tirmidhī, who was a pupil of Bahā ’u ’ddīn at Balkh. On his father’s death (628 A.H.) Jalāl succeeded to the vacant chair^[xvii.3]. Although the fame of his erudition and the brilliancy of his eloquence brought eager disciples from every quarter to his feet—he had a class of 400—the positive sciences could not, he felt, satisfy the soul’s infinite longing for freedom and rest. He embraced accordingly the pantheistic doctrines which had early taken root in the barren soil of Islam, and sown broadcast over the Mohammedan empire by a long series of wandering saints, sprang up and blossomed with oriental luxuriance.

§ 3. On the 26th of Jumāda ’l Ākhir, 642 A.H. (28th November, 1244)^[xviii.1] Shamsi Tabrīz^[xviii.2], during his travels^[xviii.3], arrived in Qōniya. It will be proper to set down here the few facts preserved by tradition concerning this weird figure, wrapped in coarse black felt, who flits across the stage for a moment and disappears tragically enough.

Even his parentage is uncertain. Some declare that his father, Khāwand ‘Alā ’u ’ddīn^[xix.1], claimed descent from Kiyā Buzurgumīd^[xix.2]. ‘Alā ’u ’ddīn abandoned his ancestral sect (the Ismā‘īlīs), burned their books and tracts, preached Islām in the strongholds of heresy^[xix.3], and privily sent Shamsu ’ddīn, a youth of rare beauty^[xix.4], to receive his education at Tabrīz. According to others he was born in Tabrīz, where his father carried on the trade of a cloth-merchant ([Persian word omitted])^[xix.5]. He is said to have studied under Bābā Kamāl Jundī, Abū Bakr Sila-bāf, and Ruknu ’ddīn Sanjāsī^[xix.6]. He had travelled much; whence he obtained the sobriquet, Paranda (the Flier). His character was despotic and overbearing; he was extremely bitter in his sermons, and likened his learned auditors to oxen and asses. Perhaps this may be the cause why Dr Sprenger calls him ‘a most disgusting cynic’^[xx.1]. He was comparatively illiterate^[xx.2], but his tremendous spiritual enthusiasm, based on the conviction that he was a chosen organ and mouth-piece of Deity, cast a spell over all who entered the enchanted circle of his power. In this respect, as in many others, for example, in his strong passions, his poverty, and his violent death, Shamsi Tabrīz curiously resembles Socrates; both imposed themselves upon men of genius, who gave their crude ideas artistic expression; both proclaim the futility of external knowledge, the need of illumination, the value of love; but wild raptures and arrogant defiance of every human law can ill atone for the lack of that ‘sweet reasonableness’ and moral grandeur which distinguish the sage from the devotee.

The pretensions of Shamsi Tabrīz himself may be judged by an anecdote in the Manāqibu ’l ‘Ārifīn. One day a person met him in the market-place and exclaimed, ‘There is no god save God; Shamsu ’ddīn is the apostle of God.’ The people, on hearing this, raised a great hubbub, and wished to kill him, but Shams intervened and led him away, remarking: ‘My good friend, my name is Muḥammad. Thou shouldst have shouted, “Muḥammad is the apostle of God.” The rabble will not take gold that is not coined^[xxii.1].’

§ 5. How utter was Jalāl’s self-abandonment, how complete his submission to the glowing faith and imperious will of his new friend, Aflākī informs us: Shamsu ’ddīn demanded and received the obedience due to a sultan from the meanest of his slaves. To quote the vivid words of Riẓā Kulī, ‘he (Jalāl) was so transported and smitten^[xxii.2], that for a time he was thought insane.’ He renounced his teaching, and retired with Shams to solitary and desert places, where in close communion they discussed the deepest arcana of mystical philosophy.

Bitterly resenting what they conceived to be an insidious attempt to seduce their beloved Master from the true religion, Jalāl’s scholars and disciples assailed the unwelcome visitor with abuse, if not with actual violence. Shams fled to Tabrīz. Thither he was followed by his convert, who brought him back in triumph, but soon a fresh outbreak of persecution caused him to undertake a journey to Damascus^[xxiii.1], where he stayed for two years. He was passionately regretted by Jalāl, who bade the musicians chant songs of love and engaged, day and night, in the samā‘. Most of his ghazals were composed during this period of separation. Here the course of events becomes obscure. Apparently Jalāl, unable to forego the society of his dearest friend, sent his son, Sulṭān Walad, to Damascus, charged with the task of finding Shams and recalling him to Qōniya. Soon after his return he vanished mysteriously. Most authorities agree that he was put to death: only the cause and manner of it are disputed^[xxiii.2].

That any of the extant versions is founded on knowledge seems highly improbable; they may be described as legends begotten by the credulous imagination of the dervish, stamped on the floating currency of popular superstition, and accepted by the biographer without scruple. The following is Jāmī’s account: ‘One evening Shaikh Shamsu ’ddīn and Maulānā (Jalālu ’ddīn) were sitting in private, when somebody outside desired the Shaikh to come forth immediately. He rose, saying to Maulānā, ‘I am called to my death.’ After a long pause, ‘Verily,’ said Maulānā, ‘His is the whole creation and the empire thereof. Blessed be God, the lord of all creatures!^[xxiv.1]’ Seven conspirators were lying in ambush and fell upon him with knives, but the Shaikh uttered so terrible a cry that they all were dumbfoundered. One of them was ‘Alā ’u ’ddīn, Maulānā’s son, who bore the brand of ‘He is not of thy people^[xxiv.2].’ When they recovered their senses, they saw nothing except a few drops of blood. From that day to the present time no trace of that spiritual monarch has appeared. This happened in the year 645. Each of the aforementioned villains was speedily involved in calamity and perished. ‘Alā ’u ’ddīn Muḥammad was overtaken by a strange disease and died ere the murder was many days old. Maulānā did not attend his funeral. Some say that Shaikh Shamsu ’ddīn is buried beside Maulānā Bahā ’u ’ddīn Walad, but according to another report these villains threw his blessed body into a well. One night Sulṭān Walad dreamed that Shaikh Shamsu ’ddīn signified to him that he was asleep in this well. When midnight came, he gathered his intimate friends, and they interred Shams in Maulānā’s college by the side of the founder, Amīr Badru ’ddīn. And God knoweth best^[xxv.1].’

In memory of his teacher Jalāl is said to have instituted the order of Maulavī dervishes ‘with their special dress, the Indian garb of mourning,’ and their whirling dance ([Persian term omitted]). Riẓā Kulī implies that the Dīvān itself was written in memoriam^[xxv.2]. The Mas̤navī was commenced later at the instigation of Chelebī Ḥusāmu ’ddīn^[xxv.3]. Jalāl is also the author of a treatise in prose, entitled Fīhi mā fīhi, ‘which runs to three thousand beyts and is addressed for the most part to Mu‘īnu ’ddīn^[xxv.4], the Parwāna of Rūm. Manuscripts of this work are rare^[xxv.5].’

Jalāl died at Qōniya on the 5th of Jumāda ’l Ākhir, 672 A.H. (16th December, 1273).

§ 6. The great poets of Persia, with few exceptions, have borrowed the ideas and speak the language of Ṣūfiism. These again fall into two classes. Some, like Ḥāfiẓ, make the mystic terminology, ‘adopté par une secte pour cacher aux profanes la connaissance de ses dogmes,’ serve the function of a mask or a lady’s fan in the last century. By tantalising the reader, by keeping him, as it were, suspended between matter and spirit, they pique his ingenuity and double his pleasure. Nearly every line is a play of wit. Love, Wine, and Beauty are painted in the warmest, the most alluring colours, but with such nicety of phrase that often the same ode will entrance the sinner and evoke sublime raptures in the saint. The majority, however, are themselves Ṣūfīs by profession or conviction. ‘The real basis of their poetry is a loftily inculcated ethical system, which recognises in purity of heart, charity, self-renunciation, and bridling of the passions, the necessary conditions of eternal happiness. Attached to this we find a pantheistic theory of the emanation of all things from God, and their ultimate reunion with Him. Although on the surface Islām is not directly assailed, it sustains many indirect attacks, and frequently the thought flashes out, that all religions and revelations are only the rays of a single eternal Sun; that all Prophets have only delivered and proclaimed in different tongues the same principles of eternal goodness and eternal truth which flow from the divine Soul of the world^[xxvi.1].’ Among these, the genuine Ṣūfī poets, Jalālu ’ddīn Rūmī is without a rival.

While the vexed problem as to the origin of Ṣūfiism does not call for discussion here, a few remarks concerning its historical development and the various elements of which it is composed may be helpful to the student, who will find an admirable summary of the doctrine in Whinfield’s editions of the Mas̤navī and Gulshani Rāz^[xxvii.1].

The early Ṣūfīs—they were not yet distinguished by this name—showed, perhaps under Jewish and Christian influence, a strong tendency to asceticism. Self-control, self-sacrifice, patience, boundless trust in God, all the virtues of a Bernard and a Thomas à Kempis, animate their zealous and devout, if somewhat narrow and practical, aspiration. They were not in opposition to Islām, but formed an extreme wing of the orthodox party. The pantheistic extravagances in which full-blown Ṣūfiism delights are foreign or at least unfamiliar to them. With Rābi‘a, a pious woman who died at Jerusalem (135 A.H.), Love, the unquenchable flame smouldering in the ashes of ceremonial religion and kindling the torch of mysticism through the darkest ages, began its conquest of Mohammedan hearts. The first who bore the name of Ṣūfī was Abū Hāshim (ob. 150 A.H.), and in his lifetime or soon afterwards the first convent for Ṣūfīs ([Persian term omitted]) was founded at Ramla, in Palestine, by a Christian Amīr.

This ascetic type belongs especially to the Arab race,

Hand in hand with the Persian revival under the ‘Abbasids came a new current of ideas. Speculation takes a bolder flight and essays to reconcile the creature with his Creator, to bridge the chasm between the finite and the Infinite. Dhū ’l Nūn (ob. 245 A.H.) is said to have introduced the doctrine of ecstasies ([Arabic term omitted]) and mystical stages ([Arabic term omitted]), and Sirrī Saqaṭī (ob. 253 A.H.) that of unification ([Arabic term omitted]). According to Jāmī (Nafaḥātu ’l Uns, p. 36, ll. 2–6): ‘Dhū ’l Nūn is the head of this sect; they all are derived from, and connected with, him^[xxviii.1]. There were eminent spiritualists before him, but he was the first to interpret symbolic expressions ([Persian words omitted]) and to discourse on Ṣūfiism. Junaid (ob. 297 A.H.) systematised and developed this knowledge, and composed writings on the subject. Shiblī (ob. 334 A.H.) carried it to the pulpit and proclaimed it openly.’ In 309 A.H. Manṣūr Ḥallāj was executed for asserting his identity with God^[xxviii.2]. But the word had been spoken. Henceforth Ṣūfiism is frankly pantheistic. The terms [Arabic term omitted] and [Arabic term omitted] have now scarce anything in common; the [Arabic term omitted] is succeeded by the [Arabic term omitted]. There survives, indeed, a small group of moderates who, in outward conformity with Islām, are none the less effectually undermining its foundations. The main body, grasping at a glorious phantom, follow their principles to the logical issue. For these free-thinkers Islām, however they might lean upon it, was a broken reed. Scorning the barren virtues of the cloister, ‘the base degrees by which they did ascend,’ admitting no guidance but the pole-star of divine illumination, they press in wild career to the very brink of madness. As citizens they are undeniably a grave scandal and a useless burden to the state; they sap the national prosperity^[xxix.1] and demoralise the national character; but if a country’s literature is rightly reckoned among its noblest heirlooms, the debt which Persia owes to the Ṣūfīs may balance, and perhaps overpay, these injuries.

Ṣūfiism, then, is no exotic growth, but shoots up like a tender plant in the desert. It is a child of the soil, called into being by the deeper and truer religious spirit which the dry monotheism and stubborn dogmas of the Kor’ān had stifled. We have seen how in the 3rd century it began to take a wider range. The rapid expansion of the Mohammedan empire brought about a corresponding diffusion of culture. Greek philosophy was introduced^[xxix.2]; Aristotle, coloured by Alexandrian commentators, appeared in Arabic. Ṣūfiism, moreover, had its organised mendicants, who travelled to every part of the eastern world. Often these wanderers were men of active and ingenious minds. They gathered much besides their daily alms: their mysterious lore would be eagerly communicated and in due course would swell the public stock of unrecorded tradition. In this way Zoroastrian, Buddhistic, Christian, and other elements may have gained entrance. Probably the Shī‘ite sects, e.g. the Ismā‘īlīs, with their fantastic notions of a hidden Imām, their theories of incarnation and emanation, and their abuse of allegory, contributed something in return for what they borrowed. Ṣūfiism, pure in its origin, became eclectic ere reaching its prime.

§ 7. Our data are not yet sufficient to let us trace with certainty the derivation of Ṣūfī doctrine. Such an attempt would in any case be accompanied by almost insuperable difficulties. The identity of two beliefs does not prove that one is generated by the other: they may be results of a like cause. Even where connexion is assured, it may be impossible to show which is the ancestor and which the descendant. Moreover, since all manifestations of the mystical spirit are fundamentally the same, in so far as each is not modified by its peculiar environment and by the positive religion to which it clings for support, we shall not be astonished to encounter in remote lands and different ages of the world ‘one set of principles variously combined.’ I propose to illustrate this parallelism with regard to the chief doctrines of Jalālu ’ddīn and Plotinus. Although the name of Plotinus was unknown in the East^[xxx.1], his philosophy, made popular by his immediate successors and reflected in Aristotelian commentaries, had considerable influence upon the kindred oriental system. The idea of emanation, or rather the particular form of it exhibited in Ṣūfiism, proceeded, if we are not mistaken, from the Neoplatonic mint. Ṣūfī metaphysics—naturally the product of mature speculation—are cast throughout in the mould which Alexandria aptly contrived to satisfy at once the despairing credulity and devotional enthusiasm of the time. This resemblance, extending also to practical ethics, would be still more striking, were it not disguised by a total contrast of expression. What Plotinus states tersely and baldly Jalālu ’ddīn throws into an obscure allegory: he ‘implies things,’ but seldom utters them. It has already been remarked that Jalālu ’ddīn approaches his subject on the moral side, and while he makes no pretence to logical and coherent exposition, in his brief metaphysical flights he is so vague, fanciful, and allusive, that the depth of his acquaintance with Greek and Arabian philosophy cannot be definitely fixed. Nevertheless, if we fairly interpret these oracular deliverances in the light afforded by Ṣūfī authors and commentators, the following sketch of Neoplatonism will be found to contain little or nothing that Jalālu ’ddīn has not presented, after his own fashion, to readers of the Mas̤navī and Dīvān^[xxxi.1].

The aim of Plotinus is to achieve perfect union with God. Assuming the reality of a supernatural over against the material world, he has to show (a) the relation existing between them, (b) the means whereby he may ascend.

(a) ‘The one watchword in the new Platonic philosophy is continuity^[xxxii.1].’ There shall be no impassable gulf dividing God from Man, spirit from matter: they shall be the first and last links of a single chain.

Thus we have, according to Plotinus,

(1) Absolute Unity (τὸ ἕν)^[xxxii.2], the ground of all being, the highest Thought, the highest Good, the highest Beauty. Nay, it is something above all these. It is inconceivable, and therefore ineffable; it can only be expressed by negation^[xxxii.3].

(2) Universal Mind (νοῦς)^[xxxii.4], the eldest offspring of the One, which it eternally contemplates. It is inferior to the One, for thought involves duality. It is the home of the Ideas^[xxxii.5] and the true archetype of the phenomenal world^[xxxii.6].

(3) Universal Soul (ψυχή)^[xxxii.7], begotten by νοῦς and connecting it with the world of sense. She has thus a double nature. As the heavenly Aphrodite^[xxxiii.1], she receives the overflowing radiance of νοῦς, which, as an earthly goddess, she communicates to the region below.

This region is the material world. Matter (ὕλη) is absence of Form (εἶδος)^[xxxiii.2], mere defect and privation (στέρησις)^[xxxiii.3]. Nothing in itself, it is yet the mirror of all things^[xxxiii.4]. It is also Evil, being utterly devoid of the Good (ἔλλειψις τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ)^[xxxiii.5].

But why, we may ask, should plurality issue from the inmost seclusion of the One? Plotinus answers that every perfect being desires to create another^[xxxiii.6]. The One remains, indeed, unmoved and undiminished: its substance suffers no change, but its redundant energy streams over (οἷον ὑπερρύη). He compares this process to the sap coursing through a tree, or to the sunbeams which illumine the atmosphere^[xxxiv.1]. Thus all things partake of God in proportion as they approximate to the divine centre; all strive upward to that Unity without which they would not exist^[xxxiv.2], and of this strife the Universe is born^[xxxiv.3].

(b) The soul in her primeval state belongs to the World-Soul^[xxxiv.4]. Going forth from Eternity and passing the frontiers of the Intelligible, she enters the realm of Matter, not by an act of will, but in obedience to an instinctive necessity^[xxxiv.5]. As embodied she is a part of Nature, as spiritual she still firmly plants her foot in the ideal world^[xxxv.1]. She is fallen, but not irretrievably: ‘the ancient track’ lies open, if she will tread it. Return (ἐπιστροφή) sums up the whole duty of Man.

As the imperfection of the soul is due to nothing except the contaminating influence of the body, it follows that she again becomes perfect when this tie is dissolved. By purifying herself from lusts, passions, and worldly imaginations, from whatever is alien to the divine element, she wins back the Paradise that she had lost awhile. Yet even the sensible may serve as a bridge to the spiritual, and love of earthly beauty kindle a holier flame^[xxxv.2], for what is love but a yearning to the Good and Fair^[xxxv.3]? The soul travels homeward by a series of ascending stages, which correspond to those of descent^[xxxv.4]. In the last stage she rises beyond reason and knowledge to a state of unconscious rapture (ἔκστασις)^[xxxvi.1], where seer and Seen are no more distinct, seeker is one with Sought, lover with Beloved. Putting off her humanity, she ‘assumes the god^[xxxvi.2].’

§ 8. Before considering the general character of Jalāl’s lyric poetry, what traces can we discover, either in his writings or in the biographies and traditions concerning him, of any external influences that may have helped to form his style?

(1) When Jalāl was passing through Nīshāpūr on the way from Balkh, he met Farīdu ’ddīn ‘Aṭṭār, who gave him the Asrār-nāma^[xxxvi.3].

(2) He was well acquainted with the poems of Sanā’ī^[xxxvi.4], to whom he pays a tribute in one of his odes (XXII. in this selection).

(3) His meeting with Sa‘dī is mentioned by Aflākī (Redhouse, Mas̤navī, p. 29) and Riẓā Kulī (T. 4. 12ᵃ).

(4) Niz̤āmī is referred to (X. 10, in this selection).

(5) We find what seem to be echoes of ‘Omar Khayyām^[xxxvi.5].

Compare (T. 161. 2ᵃ) with (Quatrain 401) and (T. 289. 8) with (Quatrain 392).

We shall be safe in asserting that none of the last three made a deep impression on his mind. Sa‘dī with his practical morality, his heart-felt piety, and half-hearted mysticism, could never have appealed to a sensitive God-intoxicated nature like Jalāl’s. The distinction comes out plainly enough in their writings. ‘The ghazals of Sa‘dī,’ says the Tabrīz editor (T. 3. 11ᵃ), ‘are extremely elegant and exceedingly beautiful, but the thoughts will prove to be mostly profane ([Persian word omitted])^[xxxvii.1] and the diction full of amatory conceits ([Persian words omitted]): no revelation of the Truth or explanation of the mystic Path will be found there; the discerning critic and intelligent reader knows that in the utterances of Janābi Maulavī Ma‘navī ’tis another story.’

Nor can he have been attracted by the extant compositions of Niz̤āmī except, possibly, the Makhzanu ’l Asrār, while ‘Omar Khayyām’s negation and instability were even less calculated to lay hold of him.

With ‘Aṭṭār and Sanā’ī, on the contrary, he was in full accord. We may conjecture that the first impulse in his mind towards Ṣūfiism arose from the perusal of their celebrated poems, the Manṭiqu ’ṭṭair and the Ḥadīqa. They were always his leaders, the soul and eyes of Taṣawwuf:^[xxxviii.1]

We have seen that Ṣūfiistic theosophy is the fountain-head of Jalāl’s inspiration. From this the Mas̤navī and Dīvān descend by separate channels. The one is a majestic river, calm and deep, meandering through many a rich and varied landscape to the immeasurable ocean; the other a foaming torrent that leaps and plunges in the ethereal solitude of the hills. It may be doubted whether the vast reputation of the Mas̤navī has not injured the poet’s fame. He has even been denied a place in ‘the notable succession of Oriental singers about whom the world is willing to hear^[xxxviii.2].’ And perhaps this estimate is not altogether surprising. Had Wordsworth never written anything besides the Excursion, he would still be read by Wordsworthians and neglected by his countrymen. ‘The Mas̤navī contains a wealth of delightful poetry. But its readers must pick their way through apologues, dialogues, interpretations of Kor’anic texts, metaphysical subtleties and moral exhortations, ere all at once they chance upon a passage of pure and exquisite song.

Now in the Dīvān we have the poet with his singing-robes about him. Thus equipped he can hardly fail to be recognised.

For him the world is non-existent, and he will not study the unreal; like the compass he circles ever round a point, on which his thoughts, actions, and very being depend: he cannot stray from his course any more than a star can leave its orbit. Hence all mystical writings are the record of one spiritual experience and are pervaded by a single overpowering emotion. The language of all mystics is the same. How often do Law, Emerson, and Shelley remind us of the Mas̤navī! Juan de la Cruz has indited lyrics which it would be easy to mistake for translations from the Dīvān.

To continue our criticism, the marks of haste and occasional roughnesses, that cannot escape any one accustomed to the elaborate technique of Ḥāfiẓ and Jāmī, are doubtless due to the circumstances in which the Dīvān was composed. ‘For the most part,’ says Riẓā Kulī (T. 3. 1), ‘they are poems inspired in divers states of reason and love and ecstasy and intoxication and effacement and mystic dance. Consequently they will not be to all classes dear nor acceptable to every ear, as a famous one hath said, “We are known by those of our own kind, but other men deny us.”’ According to Daulat Shāh, ‘There was a pillar in the Maulavī’s house, and when he was drowned in the ocean of love he used to take hold of that pillar and set himself turning round it. Meanwhile he versified and dictated and people wrote down the verses.’

Again, we have certain words and phrases run to death, as the saying goes. To some extent this fault is common to all Persian poetry. They did not cultivate ‘the art to blot’ at Shīrāz and Bokhārā, whose laureate, Rūdagī, is credited with nearly three million lines. Naturally an improvisateur, pouring forth his thoughts as fast as they come to his lips and wrought by sphere-music to a pitch of transport where all conscious sense of polish and style has long ago been annihilated—naturally such a one will offend in this point more conspicuously than self-contained and soberer spirits.

Tyrannous he and mighty, and oft he sweptAlong in proud magnificence to mockAt lovers, love he deemed an idle play.

Lo, a besotted fool like thee to scornThe votaries of love! God’s wine has drownedThy wits and bidden thee wrestle with thy Lord.

As when a bird his airy flight resumesExultingly, nor dreads the distant lure:Fate to his bosom speeds the shaft of woe.

(T. 15. 1).

To this holy parrot in the cage of existenceThankfully give sugar to peck, ere it soars aloft.

When thou art grown drunk with eternity future, take the sword of eternity past;Plunder, like a Turk, the wretched Hindoo, Life.

(T. 280. 2ᵃ).

The wine of God’s grace hath no brim:If it appear to have a brim, ’tis the fault of the cup.

(T. 161. 8).

All these ‘patines of bright gold’ on the table of heavenAre in order that one day we may be bidden to the feast.

(T. 192. 12).

I was snow and melted away, so that the earth drank me up,Till I became one mist of soul and mounted to the sky.

(T. 236. 2ᵃ).

The soul is a flashing mirror, wherein God reveals his beauty; in the hour of separation it becomes a glowing furnace. Now it is a falcon summoned by the fowler’s whistle to perch again upon his wrist^[xliv.3], now a lonely dove that seeks her mate and ceases not to moan^[xlv.1]. The poet likens it also to a lute thrilling at the lightest touch of the musician^[xlv.2], or to a voice that echoes on the hillside^[xlv.3]. To Nature he never appeals in vain^[xlv.4]. The stork’s cry bids him think on God, ‘to whom is the kingdom and the glory^[xlv.5]’; in autumn the pale vine-leaves mourn the loss of his Beloved^[xlv.6].

To conclude this somewhat desultory review, let me state briefly the merits and defects of the Dīvān.

Jalālu ’ddīn lacks the colour and perfume of Ḥāfiẓ, who is by turns grave and gay, blasphemous and devout, serious and ironic; his music is rich and full, but for the most part he plays on one string; he has no sense of humour; his allegory is often grotesque and his execution careless.

In sublimity of thought and grandeur of expression he challenges the greatest masters of song; time after time he strikes a lofty note without effort; the clearness of his vision gives a wonderful exaltation to his verse, which beats against the sky; his odes throb with passion and rapture-enkindling power^[xlvi.1]; his diction is choice and unartificial; at intervals we meet with some splendidly imaginative figure,

‘A bracelet of bright hair about the bone.’

As a mystic, he was too much in earnest to care for, even if he observed, the incongruities which draw upon him the censure of fastidious critics. As a poet, he sought to invest the Ṣūfī doctrine with every charm that his genius could inspire. The traces of this conflict are not wholly obliterated. Apparet adhuc vetus inde cicatrix. But in higher moments the opposing characters are swept away and overwhelmed in a flood of celestial harmony, for of Jalālu ’ddīn as of Shelley it may be truly said: ‘This is not poetry borrowing the forms of pantheistic speculation, but pantheism assuming to itself the faith and passion which transmutes speculative thought into religion^[xlvi.2].’

§ 9. There are three editions of the Dīvān. (1) Tabrīz Ed. (T), published in 1280 A.H., 378 pp., divided as follows: Preface, 2—5; first Dīvān, entitled [Persian title omitted] 6–110; second Dīvān, with the heading [Persian heading omitted], 112–361; rubā‘īs, 361–376; note by the editor, 376–378.

This edition does not pretend to completeness^[xlvii.1]. It contains about 9000 beyts, exclusive of rubā‘īs, and the text is remarkably good. The editor, Riẓā Kulī Khān, with the nom de plume Hidāyat, is an authority on Persian history and literature. He wrote a supplement to Mīrkhwānd’s Rauẓatu ’ṣṣafā, bringing it down to his own time (see Browne, Episode of the Bāb, Vol. ii. p. 188).

(2) Lakhnau Ed. (Lakh.), published in 1295 A.H., 378 pp, containing over 12,000 beyts. Like most Persian texts printed in India, it is disfigured by numerous errors, while the readings are often inferior. Its value depends on the large quantity of new matter which it embodies.

(3) Rosenzweig’s Auswahl (R)^[xlvii.2], published at Vienna in 1838, 236 pp. The selected poems are 75 in number. The author commands a flow of easy and musical verse: it is his highest praise that we are occasionally reminded of Rückert. On the other hand his scholarship is far from exact and his knowledge of Persian prosody quite inadequate. E.g. on p. 88 (beyts 6–7) we read:

In the second line the metre requires [Persian form omitted] for [Persian form omitted], and in the third [Persian form omitted], not [Persian form omitted], as Rosenzweig has translated it. [Persian words omitted] is nonsense. What Jalālu ’ddīn wrote was:

Shall I give thanks for his countenance or for his nature?

Blunders of this kind are too frequent. The ‘elucidating remarks’ do not invite serious criticism: they fill five pages and seem designed to spare the reader the trouble of using his dictionary. Apart from the literary merit of the translation, we cannot speak favourably of the work as a whole, though perhaps it fairly represents the level reached by oriental learning in Europe sixty years ago.

The renderings by Von Hammer in his Schöne Redekünste Persiens (pp. 173–195) are superior to Rosenzweig’s in point of accuracy, but ‘they are so deficient in poetical feeling and beauty of form, that the reader is repelled rather than attracted^[xlix.1].’ Of the seventy pieces which he has translated only four occur in the present anthology^[xlix.2].

I have consulted the following manuscripts:

(L) A MS. in the Leyden University Library, dated 851 A.H. and described in the Catalogue of Oriental Manuscripts, Vol. ii. p. 110. It contains the Mas̤navī as well as the Dīvān.

(V) A MS. in the Hofbibliothek at Vienna, dated 4th Muḥarram, 845 A.H., and described in Flügel’s Handschriften der Wiener Hofbibliothek, Vol. i. p. 522.

(B) A MS. in the British Museum (Or. 2866), dated 1st Jumādā ’l Ākhir, 774 A.H., and described in Rieu’s Supplement to the Persian Catalogue, p. 163.

(B²) A MS. in the British Museum (Add. 16,779), apparently of the 16th century. It is described in Rieu’s Persian Catalogue, p. 825.

(B³) A MS. in the British Museum (Or. 289), dated Dhū ’l Qa‘da, 824 A.H., and described in Rieu’s Persian Catalogue, p. 593. This MS. contains ghazals from [Persian letter omitted] to [Persian letter omitted] only.

(C) A MS. in the possession of Professor E. B. Cowell, 523 pp. written partly in good Nasta‘līq and partly in a very illegible modern hand.

(C²) A MS. belonging to Prof. Cowell, written in clear Nasta‘līq, apparently in the 17th century. It consists of about 330 pp. The ghazals from [Persian letter omitted] to [Persian letter omitted] are wanting.

There is no textus receptus of the Dīvān. The MSS. differ not only in the number and order of the beyts in each ghazal, but in the number and order of the ghazals themselves. Three of the finest poems in this selection (XII. XVII. and XXXI.) occur in a single manuscript. We can hardly doubt that several spurious pieces are included. According to Riẓā Kulī (T. 4. 24ᵃ seq.) the Dīvān consists of about 50,000 beyts. Sprenger mentions a copy in the Moty Mahall at Lucknow, which contains ghazals, 1200 pp. of 34 beyts, tarjī‘-bands, 46 pp., and about 4000 rubā‘īs (nearly 60,000 beyts in all)^[l.1].

Though I have collated the text of the selected poems in the various MSS., I have not exhibited the complete results of this collation, as it seemed undesirable to increase largely the bulk of a book already swollen beyond its original design. Moreover, little was to be gained by presenting to the reader a confused mass of discrepancies without any possibility of determining what the poet actually wrote. In preparing the text of each ghazal I have followed one MS., which is signified by the capital letter placed opposite the first line. All important deviations from this MS. are noted below, and a few trivial errors have been tacitly corrected. At the foot of each ghazal I give a list of the MSS. and editions in which it is found. Unfortunately, the references to L and V are somewhat defective, as a number of poems have been added to the text since I last had an opportunity of examining these valuable manuscripts. I have not, as a rule, resorted to B² except in difficult passages. Prof. Cowell’s second MS. (C²) did not come into my hands until the greater portion of the book was in type.

A word as to the orthography. In the first place, there are some inconsistencies of spelling mainly due to the plan, which I have adopted, of compiling a text from separate MSS. These are unimportant. Now and then I have abandoned the MSS. spelling for metrical reasons: e.g. my text gives [Persian and metrical example omitted], [Persian and metrical example omitted], [Persian and metrical example omitted]^[li.1], [Persian and metrical example omitted], while the MSS. have [Persian form omitted] and [Persian form omitted] indifferently. As regards the vowel-points, which are very seldom marked in the MSS., my intention was to insert kasra and ḍamma throughout, but fatḥa only in doubtful cases. This method, though not indefensible, is perhaps too liberal in a work addressed to those who have mastered more than the rudiments of Persian, and I do not regret that my practice has fallen short of the principle. Were I commencing anew, I should mark the iẓāfat and omit everything else. The pointing, [Persian form omitted] (khvad) and [Persian form omitted] (khvash), is authorised by Salemann and Shukovski in their Persische Grammatik. A few words have been wrongly pointed, e.g. [Persian form omitted], which ought to be written [Persian form omitted], as is shown by its occurrence in rhyme. Most of these, I think, will be found in the list of Addenda and Corrigenda.

Footnotes