* * * * *
_Apropos_ of royal gifts to poets, it is related that, when the Afghans
had possession of Persia, a rude chief of that nation was governor of
Shiraz. A poet composed a panegyric on his wisdom, his valour, and his
virtues. As he was taking it to the palace he was met by a friend at the
outer gate, who inquired where he was going, and he informed him of his
purpose. His friend asked him if he was insane, to offer an ode to a
barbarian who hardly understood a word of the Persian language. "All
that you say may be very true," said the poor poet, "but I am starving,
and have no means of livelihood but by making verses. I must, therefore,
proceed." He went and stood before the governor with his ode in his
hand. "Who is that fellow?" said the Afghan lord. "And what is that
paper which he holds?" "I am a poet," answered the man, "and this paper
contains some poetry." "What is the use of poetry?" demanded the
governor. "To render great men like you immortal," he replied, making at
the same time a profound bow. "Let us hear some of it." The poet, on
this mandate, began reading his composition aloud, but he had not
finished the second stanza when he was interrupted. "Enough!" exclaimed
the governor; "I understand it all. Give the poor man some money--_that_
is what he wants.
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