Poetry

art prov’d, I know, and I am young⁠—
But yet Success sways with the breath of Heaven.
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know.
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea,
Pois’d on the top of a huge wave of Fate,
Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall.
And whether it will heave us up to land,
Or whether it will roll us out to sea,
Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death,
We know not, and no search will make us know:
Only the event will teach us in its hour.”
He spoke; and Rostam answer’d not, but hurl’d
His spear: down from the shoulder, down it came,
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk
That long has tower’d in the airy clouds
Drops like a plummet: Sohrab saw it come,
And sprang aside, quick as a flash: the spear
Hiss’d, and went quivering down into the sand,
Which it sent flying wide:⁠—then Sohrab threw
In turn, and full struck Rostam’s shield: sharp rang,
The iron plates rang sharp, but turn’d the spear.
And Rostam seiz’d his club, which none but he
Could wield: an unlopp’d trunk it was, and huge,
Still rough; like those which men in treeless plains
To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers,
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time
Has made in Himalayan forests wrack,
And strewn the channels with torn boughs; so huge
The club which Rostam lifted now, and struck
One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rostam’s hand.
And Rostam follow’d his own blow, and fell
To his knees, and with his fingers clutch’d the sand:
And now might Sohrab have unsheath’d his sword,
And pierc’d the mighty Rostam while he lay
Dizzy, and on his knees, and chok’d with sand:
But he look’d on, and smil’d, nor bar’d his sword,
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:⁠—
“Thou strik’st too hard: that club of thine will float
Upon the summer floods, and not my bones.
But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth am I:
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul.
Thou say’st, thou art not Rostam: be it so.
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul?
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too;
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves,
And heard their hollow roar of dying men;
But never was my heart thus touch’d before.
Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart?
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven!
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears,
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand,
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends,
And thou shalt talk to me of Rostam’s deeds.
There are enough foes in the Persian host
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou
Mayst fight; fight them, when they confront thy spear.
But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me!”
He ceas’d: but while he spake, Rostam had risen,
And stood erect, trembling with rage: his club
He left to lie, but had regain’d his spear,
Whose fiery point now in his mail’d right-hand
Blaz’d bright and baleful, like that autumn Star,
The baleful sign of fevers: dust had soil’d
His stately crest, and dimm’d his glittering arms.
His breast heav’d; his lips foam’d; and twice his voice
Was chok’d with rage: at last these words broke way:⁠—
“Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!
Curl’d minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!
Fight; let me hear thy hateful voice no more!
Thou art not in Afrasiab’s gardens now
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!
Remember all thy valour; try thy feints
And cunning: all the pity I had is gone:
Because thou hast sham’d me before both the hosts
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl’s wiles.”
He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts,
And he too drew his sword: at once they rush’d
Together, as two eagles on one prey
Come rushing down together from the clouds,
One from the east, one from the west: their shields
Dash’d with a clang together, and a din
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters
Make often in the forest’s heart at morn,
Of hewing axes, crashing trees: such blows
Rostam and Sohrab on each other hail’d.
And you would say that sun and stars took part
In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark’d the sun
Over the fighters’ heads; and a wind rose
Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain,
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp’d the pair.
In gloom they twain were wrapp’d, and they alone;
For both the on-looking hosts on either hand
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure,
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.
But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes
And labouring breath; first Rostam struck the shield
Which Sohrab held stiff out: the steel-spik’d spear
Rent the tough plates, but fail’d to reach the skin,
And Rostam pluck’d it back with angry groan.
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rostam’s helm,
Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest
He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume,
Never till now defil’d, sunk to the dust;
And Rostam bow’d his head; but then the gloom
Grew blacker: thunder rumbled in the air,
And lightnings rent the cloud; and Rakhsh, the horse,
Who stood at hand, utter’d a dreadful cry:
No horse’s cry was that, most like the roar
Of some pain’d desert-lion, who all day
Hath trail’d the hunter’s javelin in his side,
And comes at night to die upon the sand:⁠—
The two hosts heard that cry, and quak’d for fear,
And Oxus curdled as it cross’d his stream.
But Sohrab heard, and quail’d not, but rush’d on,
And struck again; and again Rostam bow’d
His head; but this time all the blade, like glass,
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,
And in the hand the hilt remain’d alone.
Then Rostam raised his head: his dreadful eyes
Glar’d, and he shook on high his menacing spear,
And shouted, Rostam! Sohrab heard that shout,
And shrank amaz’d: back he recoil’d one step,
And scann’d with blinking