The Persian writers frequently compare their poets to nightingales; and, indeed, Hafez has acquired the constant appellation of the Persian Nightingale;' to this the bard alludes in his sixth ode, as has been noticed in the Introduction to our ne (p. xliv); Hafez, speaking of our eagernjoy the pleasures of the Spring, beautierves, We drop, like nightingales, into the The rose. Again, in his seventh ode, he Hafez, thou desirest, like the nightingales, nce of the rose: let thy very soul be a ranthe earth, where the keeper of the rosealks!' In the eighth ode, also, we have the The youthful season's wonted bloom Glad welcome from its darling flow'r. sixth stanza of the ninth ode, the bard again co this favourite fiction, which, literally transould stand thus:- When the rose rides in like Solomon', the bird of morn comes forth melody of David.' In Ode XIII, on the f Spring, we are presented with the following 1 stanza on the same subject: The love-struck nightingale's delightful strain, William Ouseley, who resided for some time az in the year 1811, says that he passed many n listening to the melody of the nightingales pounded in the gardens in the vicinity of this and he was assured by persons of credit that of these birds had expired while contending musicians in the loudness or variety of their Sir William Jones2 records a similar conot mortal, but of extraordinary result. An = comparison of the beauty of a flower to the richness of King 's attire, was, perhaps, a favourite figure among the Eastern and may be found in holy writ. (Luke xii, 27.) atic Researches, vol. iii, p. 57. Lond. 1801, 8vo. intelligent Persian, who repeated his story again and again, and permitted Sir William to write it down from his lips, declared, that he had more than once been present when a celebrated lutanist, Mirza Mohammed, surnamed Bulbul (nightingale), was playing to a large company in a grove near Shiraz, where he distinctly saw the nightingales trying to vie with the musician; sometimes warbling on the trees, sometimes fluttering from branch to branch, as if they wished to approach the instrument whence the melody proceeded; and, at length, dropping on the ground in a kind of ecstasy from which they were soon raised, by a change of the mode. In confirmation of the Persian report given by Sir William Ouseley, it may be mentioned, that, according to Pliny (Nat. Hist. lib. xc, 29), in vocal trials among nightingales, the vanquished bird terminated its song only with its life; and Strada (lib. ii, prolus. vi) supposes the spirit of emulation so powerful in the nightingale, that, having strained her little throat, vainly endeavouring to excel the musician, she breathes out her life in one last effort, and drops upon the instrument which had contributed to her defeat. Strada's poem on this subject, though long, is too interesting to be omitted; we give it in the beautiful version of Crashaw, an undeservedly neglected poet who lived in the time of Charles I: Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams man perceived his rival, and her art, oser strains, and e'er the war begin, ged with a flying touch; and streightway she ves out her dainty voice as readily, - a thousand sweet distinguished tones, reckons up in soft divisions rk volumes of wild notes; to let him know, ails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, ith her sweet self she wrangles; he amazed, ould melt into such sweet variety, trains higher yet, that tickled with rare art And closes the sweet quarrel, ronsing all The plyant series of her slippery song; Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys float, In panting murmurs, stilled out of her breast; His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath In that sweet soyl it seems a holy quire, Of sweet-lipped angel-imps, that swill their throats Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, To woo them from their beds, still murmuring That men can sleep while they their mattens sing: (Most divine service) whose so early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. There might you hear her kindle her soft voice, Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird; Her little soul is ravisht: and so poured Into loose ecstacies, that she is plac't Above herself, musick's enthusiast. Shame now and anger mixt a double stain In the musician's face; yet, once again, |