[22] Writing of “Muslim Democracy” in _The New Era_, 1916, p. 251, Iqbal says: “The Democracy of Europe--overshadowed by socialistic agitation and anarchical fear--originated mainly in the economic regeneration of European societies. Nietzsche, however, abhors this ‘rule of the herd’ and, hopeless of the plebeian, he bases all higher culture on the cultivation and growth of an Aristocracy of Supermen. But is the plebeian so absolutely hopeless? The Democracy of Islam did not grow out of the extension of economic opportunity; it is a spiritual principle based on the assumption that every human being is a centre of latent power, the possibilities of which can be developed by cultivating a certain type of character. Out of the plebeian material Islam has formed men of the noblest type of life and power. Is not, then, the Democracy of early Islam an experimental refutation of the ideas of Nietzsche?” PROLOGUE When the world-illuming sun rushed upon Night like a brigand, My weeping bedewed the face of the rose. My tears washed away sleep from the eye of the narcissus, My passion wakened the grass and made it grow. The Gardener taught me to sing with power, 5 He sowed a verse and reaped a sword. In the soil he planted only the seed of my tears And wove my lament with the garden, as warp and woof. Tho’ I am but a mote, the radiant sun is mine: Within my bosom are a hundred dawns. 10 My dust is brighter than Jamshíd’s cup,[23] It knows things that are yet unborn in the world. My thought hunted down and slung from the saddle a deer That has not yet leaped forth from the covert of non-existence. Fair is my garden ere yet the leaves are green: 15 Full-blown roses are hidden in the skirt of my garment. I struck dumb the musicians where they were gathered together, I smote the heartstrings of all that heard me, Because the lute of my genius hath a rare melody: Even to comrades my song is strange. 20 I am born in the world as a new sun, I have not learned the ways and fashions of the sky: Not yet have the stars fled before my splendour, Not yet is my quicksilver astir; Untouched is the sea by my dancing rays, 25 Untouched are the mountains by my crimson hue. The eye of existence is not familiar with me; I rise trembling, afraid to show myself. From the East my dawn arrived and routed Night, A fresh dew settled on the rose of the world. 30 I am waiting for the votaries that rise at dawn: Oh, happy they who shall worship my fire! I have no need of the ear of To-day, I am the voice of the poet of To-morrow. My own age does not understand my deep meanings, 35 My Joseph is not for this market. I despair of my old companions, My Sinai burns for sake of the Moses who is coming. Their sea is silent, like dew,