Before leaving the shore, he sent on board the ship an apology to his friends, and this was couched in graceful verse, but it was to the effect that at first the horrors of the sea seemed light in consideration of the pearls which it contained, but the terror of the storm had taught him that “the infliction of one of its waves would not be compensated for by an hundred-weight of gold.” PĪR-I-SEBZ. There is a legend connected with his youth which is supposed to explain his wondrous gift of poesy. Tradition claimed that the youth who should pass forty successive nights at Pīr-i-sebz without sleep, would become a great poet. Young Hāfiz therefore made a vow, that he would fulfill the conditions with the utmost exactness. For thirty-nine days he went faithfully to his post, walking every morning by the home of the girl he loved, and on the fortieth morning she called him in, but he remembered his vow and the evening found him again at the place of his lonely vigil. The uneventful night passed slowly away, and the gray dawn began to tint the distant mountain tops, but no other light was visible save the gleam of the morning star, when the watcher saw in the distance a figure approaching him. It was a venerable man wearing a green mantle,[275] and his white beard flowed down upon his garments like a cascade of silver. He bore in his hand a cup, filled with the nectar of immortality, and the reverent youth bent low before the genius of the mountain, and then drank eagerly of the proffered cup; therefore he still lives in the memory of man. He was loyal to his native land, and the following lines indicate his strong attachment to the city of his birth. SHĪRĀZ. “May every blessing be the lot Of fair Shīrāz, earth’s loveliest spot. Oh Heaven! bid Time its beauties spare, Nor print his wasteful traces there. Still be thou blest of him that gave Thy stream, sweet Ruknabad, whose wave Can every human ill assuage, And life prolong to Khizer’s age. And oh the gale that wings its way Twixt Jaffrabad and Mosalay; How sweet a perfume does it bear! How grateful is its amber air! Ye who mysterious joys would taste, Come to this sacred city—haste; Its saints, its sages seek to know, Whose breasts with heavenly rapture glow. And say, sweet gale—for thou canst tell— With lovely Lailī was it well, When last you passed the maiden by, Of wayward will and witching eye? Why, Hāfiz, when you feared the day That tore you from her arms away, Oh why so thankless for the hours You passed in Lailī’s lovely bowers?”