There was a Persian sage, whose philosophy was of a different complexion from that of the eloquent moralist of “the old garden near Bath.” “In what can I best assist thee?” demanded the Minister, Nizam-al-Mulk, as he warmly greeted his friend, Omar Keyoomee. “Place me,” said Omar, enamoured of poetry and ease, “where my life may pass without care or annoyance, and where wine, in abundance, may inspire my muse.” A pension was accordingly assigned him in the fertile district of Nishapour, where Omar lived and died. His tomb still exists, and Mr. J. B. Fraser, in his “Persia,” informs us that he heard Omar’s story told over his grave by a brother rhymester, and a most congenial spirit. The system of Omar was explained by himself, in something after this fashion:—
I ask not for much: let the miser seek wealth;
Let the proud sigh for titles and fame:—
All the riches I ask are a fair share of health,
And the hope of a true poet’s name.
Let the flatterer talk of his worth to the Shah,—
Of his greatness, too, all the day long;—
I envy them not, for I love better far
To pay my poor tribute in song.
A kaftan of honour! a gem from the King!