Poetry

one less, obscure or fam’d,
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me?
Are not they mortal, am not I myself?
But who for men of naught would do great deeds?
Come, thou shalt see how Rostam hoards his fame.
But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms;
Let not men say of Rostam, he was match’d
In single fight with any mortal man.”
He spoke, and frown’d; and Gudurz turn’d, and ran
Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy,
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rostam came.
But Rostam strode to his tent door, and call’d
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms,
And clad himself in steel: the arms he chose
Were plain, and on his shield was no device,
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold,
And from the fluted spine atop a plume
Of horsehair wav’d, a scarlet horsehair plume.
So arm’d he issued forth; and Rakhsh, his horse,
Follow’d him, like a faithful hound, at heel,
Rakhsh, whose renown was nois’d through all the earth,
The horse, whom Rostam on a foray once
Did in Bukhara by the river find
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home,
And rear’d him; a bright bay, with lofty crest;
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider’d green
Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work’d
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know:
So follow’d, Rostam left his tents, and cross’d
The camp, and to the Persian host appear’d.
And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts
Hail’d; but the Tartars knew not who he was.
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes
Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore,
By sandy Bahrain, in the Persian Gulf,
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night,
Having made up his tale of precious pearls,
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands⁠—
So dear to the pale Persians Rostam came.
And Rostam to the Persian front advanc’d,
And Sohrab arm’d in Haman’s tent, and came.
And as afield the reapers cut a swath
Down through the middle of a rich man’s corn,
And on each side are squares of standing corn,
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare;
So on each side were squares of men, with spears
Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand.
And Rostam came upon the sand, and cast
His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw
Sohrab come forth, and ey’d him as he came.
As some rich woman, on a winter’s morn,
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge
Who with numb blacken’d fingers makes her fire⁠—
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter’s morn,
When the frost flowers the whiten’d window panes⁠—
And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts
Of that poor drudge may be; so Rostam ey’d
The unknown adventurous Youth, who from afar
Came seeking Rostam, and defying forth
All the most valiant chiefs: long he perus’d
His spirited air, and wonder’d who he was.
For very young he seem’d, tenderly rear’d;
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight,
Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound⁠—
So slender Sohrab seem’d, so softly rear’d.
And a deep pity enter’d Rostam’s soul
As he beheld him coming; and he stood,
And beckon’d to him with his hand, and said:⁠—
“O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft,
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold.
Heaven’s air is better than the cold dead grave.
Behold me: I am vast, and clad in iron,
And tried; and I have stood on many a field
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe:
Never was that field lost, or that foe sav’d.
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?
Be govern’d! quit the Tartar host, and come
To Iran, and be as my son to me,
And fight beneath my banner till I die.
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.”
So he spake, mildly: Sohrab heard his voice,
The mighty voice of Rostam; and he saw
His giant figure planted on the sand,
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief
Has builded on the waste in former years
Against the robbers; and he saw that head,
Streak’d with its first grey hairs; hope fill’d his soul;
And he ran forward and embrac’d his knees,
And clasp’d his hand within his own, and said:⁠—
“Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul!
Art thou not Rostam? Speak! art thou not he?”
But Rostam ey’d askance the kneeling youth,
And turn’d away, and spake to his own soul:⁠—
“Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean.
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys.
For if I now confess this thing he asks,
And hide it not, but say⁠—Rostam is here⁠—
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,
But he will find some pretext not to fight,
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts,
A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way.
And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab’s hall,
In Samarkand, he will arise and cry⁠—
‘I challeng’d once, when the two armies camp’d
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords
To cope with me in single fight; but they
Shrank; only Rostam dar’d: then he and I
Chang’d gifts, and went on equal terms away.’
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud;
Then were the chiefs of Iran sham’d through me.”
And then he turn’d, and sternly spake aloud:⁠—
“Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus
Of Rostam? I am here, whom thou hast call’d
By challenge forth: make good thy vaunt, or yield.
Is it with Rostam only thou wouldst fight?
Rash boy, men look on Rostam’s face and flee.
For well I know, that did great Rostam stand
Before thy face this day, and were reveal’d,
There would be then no talk of fighting more.
But being what I am, I tell thee this;
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul:
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield,
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods,
Oxus in summer wash them all away.”
He spoke: and Sohrab answer’d, on his feet:⁠—
“Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me so.
I am no girl, to be made pale by words.
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rostam stand
Here on this field, there were no fighting then.
But Rostam is far hence, and we stand here.
Begin: thou art more vast, more dread than I,
And thou