Heine worshipped with his soul the divinity of Anacreon, the pagan Venus, but the fear of the Hebrew God of Wrath was in his heart, and that consuming modern quality called _grief_ had set its seal upon him. What unfortunate combination of gifts for a lyric genius! All his life he fled them, until his strength was gone, he fell ill, and died, fled them wildly in pitiful attempt to reach just once the shelter of Anacreon’s Greek Garden of Pleasure, there to chase butterflies among the roses. Centuries had passed since the serene day of Anacreon. Heine’s frail body tried to bridge the ages. It was impossible. He could not right the wrong of having been born out of time. Death was the result. To be sure he created a miniature world of grace, of beauty, but into it he put a tragic heart. Tu Fu was both beloved vagabond and eloquent minstrel, under the dying moons of Cathay. Each of these lyrists at periods of their lives gave themselves to dissipation in futile attempt to catch, to hold the fleeting joy-world. It embittered the heart of the Hebrew, burnt up his life and hastened his death. It saddened deeply the Persian. It saddened Tu Fu and killed him. But the Greek it could not touch. He was of the Brotherhood of Pan who may not grieve. The day of each was a day when old things were changing, giving place to new. It was a period indeed that has no little in common with today with which important parallels might be drawn. The Persians under Cyrus were devastating the seductive Ionian cities of Asia. Anacreon, who was about eighteen at this time, fled with his parents to Thrace, thence to Samos, part of the way, it is pleasant to fancy, along the beautiful road that bordered the shore of Asia Minor, between white-walled cities and the sea. The Greek world was being remodeled. Decisive battles were recorded, and Tu Fu fought long years in the wars which destroyed a proud civilization. Heine’s day was one of popular upheaval, revolution. It knew the eloquent speech of La Salle, the denunciative writing of Börne. A change of spirit was coming over Europe. Class prejudice was dying a hard death. The right of the individual was being born. Hafiz’ period was similar. And yet he paid as little attention to it as did Goethe, in the days when the Revolution was sweeping on. Dynasty after dynasty had succeeded each other in Persia whose members made either Shiraz, the home of Hafiz, their place of residence, or Ispahan, or Kirman, until at length Tamerlane came along and beheaded them all. Hafiz’ political horizon was like to Heine’s in its uncertainty, and in its change of outlook. Like Heine, he saw world-conquerors sweep away the firm ground from beneath his feet, and he glimpsed far vision of a world in which there should be no inequality. He had the poet’s vision of the future’s justice. The definite facts of Hafiz’ life are few, unsatisfactory.