Page:Persian Literature (1900), vol. 1.djvu/185

We meet in blood to wail the fatal blow."

  The loosened mail unfolds the bracelet bright,
  Unhappy gift! to Rustem's wildered sight,
  Prostrate he falls--"By my unnatural hand,
  My son, my son is slain--and from the land
  Uprooted."--Frantic, in the dust his hair
  He rends in agony and deep despair;
  The western sun had disappeared in gloom,
  And still, the Champion wept his cruel doom;
  His wondering legions marked the long delay,
  And, seeing Rakush riderless astray,
  The rumour quick to Persia's Monarch spread,
  And there described the mighty Rustem dead.
  Káús, alarmed, the fatal tidings hears;
  His bosom quivers with increasing fears.
  "Speed, speed, and see what has befallen to-day
  To cause these groans and tears--what fatal fray!
  If he be lost, if breathless on the ground,
  And this young warrior, with the conquest crowned--
  Then must I, humbled, from my kingdom torn,
  Wander like Jemshíd, through the world forlorn."[46]

  The army roused, rushed o'er the dusty plain,
  Urged by the Monarch to revenge the slain;
  Wild consternation saddened every face,
  Tús winged with horror sought the fatal place,
  And there beheld the agonizing sight--
  The murderous end of that unnatural fight.
  Sohráb, still breathing, hears the shrill alarms,
  His gentle speech suspends the clang of arms:
  "My light of life now fluttering sinks in shade,
  Let vengeance sleep, and peaceful vows be made.
  Beseech the King to spare this Tartar host,
  For they are guiltless, all to them is lost;
  I led them on, their souls with glory fired,
  While mad ambition all my thoughts inspired.
  In search of thee, the world before my eyes,
  War was my choice, and thou the sacred prize;
  With thee, my sire! in virtuous league combined,
  No tyrant King should persecute mankind.
  That hope is past--the storm has ceased to rave--
  My ripening honours wither in the grave;
  Then let no vengeance on my comrades fall,
  Mine was the guilt, and mine the sorrow, all;
  How often have I sought thee--oft my mind
  Figured thee to my sight--o'erjoyed to find
  My mother's token; disappointment came,
  When thou denied thy lineage and thy name;
  Oh! still o'er thee my soul impassioned hung,