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.