Was choked with rage: at last these words broke way:

'Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!

Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!

Fight; let me hear thy hateful voice no more!

Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 460 With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;

But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance Of battle, and with me, who make no play Of war: I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! 465

Remember all thy valor; try thy feints
And cunning: all the pity I had is gone:
Because thou hast shamed me before both
the hosts

With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles.'

He spoke and Sohrab kindled at his taunts,

470

And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. 485

His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side.

He spoke; and as he ceased he wept aloud, Thinking of her he left, and his own death.

He spoke; but Rustum listened, plunged in thought.

Nor did he yet believe it was his son 605 Who spoke, although he called back names he knew;

For he had had sure tidings that the babe, Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, Had been a puny girl, no boy at all: 609 So that sad mother sent him word, for fear Rustum should seek the boy, to train in

arms;

And so he deemed that either Sohrab took, By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son;

Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. So deemed he; yet he listened, plunged in thought; 615 And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide Of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore At the full moon: tears gathered in his eyes;

For he remembered his own early youth, And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries

621

In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth,
Of age and looks to be his own dear son,
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand,
Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 635
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed,
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom,
On the mown, dying grass; so Sohrab
lay,

Lovely in death, upon the common sand. Aud Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said: 640

-

'O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son

And he desirèd to draw forth the steel, And let the blood flow free, and so to die; But first he would convince his stubborn foe

And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: 'Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? 655

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.

I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave,

That she might prick it on the babe she bore.'

660

He spoke and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks;

And his knees tottered, and he smote his hand,

Against his breast, his heavy mailèd hand, That the hard iron corslet clanked aloud: And on his heart he pressed the other hand, And in a hollow voice he spake, and said: Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie. 667

6

If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son.'

Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed

His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 670 And showed a sign in faint vermilion points Pricked: as a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain

A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks. Him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved

Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes,

685 And then he touched it with his hand and said:

'How say'st thou? Is that sign the proper sign

Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?' He spoke but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood

Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp

Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life,

And swift; for like the lightning to this field

I came, and like the wind I go away — Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. But it was writ in heaven that this should be.'

725

And I will lay thee in that lovely earth,
And heap a stately mound above thy bones,
And plant a far-seen pillar over all:
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.
And I will spare thy host: yea, let them go:
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
What should I do with slaying any more?
For would that all whom I have ever slain
Might be once more alive; my bitterest
foes,

810

And they who were called champions in their time,

And through whose death I won that fame I have;

And I were nothing but a common man,
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown;
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son!
Or rather would that I, even I myself, 816
Might now be lying on this bloody sand,
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of
thine,

Not thou of mine; and I might die, not thou;

And I, not thou, be borne to Seïstan;

820

And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;

And say "O son, I weep thee not too

sore,