and sweet-basils, Sa'di told him of the book he was writing, and
added:--"What can a nosegay of flowers avail thee? Pluck but one leaf
from my Rose Garden; the rose from yonder bush lasts but a few days, but
this Rose must bloom to all eternity."

Sa'di has been proved quite correct in this estimate of his own work.
The book is indeed a sweet garden of unfading freshness. If we compare
Sa'di with Hafiz, we find that both of them based their theory of life
upon the same Sufic pantheism. Both of them were profoundly religious
men. Like the strong and life-giving soil out of whose bosom sprang the
rose-tree, wherein the nightingales sang, was the fixed religious
confidence, which formed the support of each poet's mind, amid all the
vagaries of fancy, and the luxuriant growth of fruit and flower which
their genius gave to the world. Hafiz is the Persian Anacreon. As he
raises his voice of thrilling and unvarying sweetness, his steps reel,
he waves the thyrsus, and his flushed cheek shows the inspiration of the
vine. To him the Supreme Being has much in common with the Indian or
Thracian Dionysus, the god of perennial youth, joyous revel, and
exhilaration. Hafiz can never be the guide, though he may be the cheerer
of mortals, adding more to the gayety than to the wisdom of life. But
both in the western and in the eastern world Sa'di must always be looked
upon as the guide and enlightener of those who taste life, and love
poetry. It has been said by a wise man that poetry is the great
instructor of mature minds. Many a man turning away in weariness from
the controversies, the insincerities, and the pretentiousness of the
intellectualists around him, has exclaimed, "Give me my Horace." But
Horace with all his _bonhommie_, his common sense, and his acuteness, is
but the representative of a narrow Roman coterie of the Augustan age.
How thin, flimsy, and unspiritual does he appear in comparison with the
marvellous depth, the spiritual insight, the tenderness and power of