Poetry

arm, he said:⁠—
“Man, who art thou who dost deny my words?
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men,
And Falsehood, while I liv’d, was far from mine.
I tell thee, prick’d upon this arm I bear
That seal which Rostam to my mother gave,
That she might prick it on the babe she bore.”
He spoke: and all the blood left Rostam’s cheeks;
And his knees totter’d, and he smote his hand
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand,
That the hard iron corslet clank’d aloud:
And to his heart he press’d the other hand,
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:⁠—
“Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie.
If thou show this, then art thou Rostam’s son.”
Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loos’d
His belt, and near the shoulder bar’d his arm,
And show’d a sign in faint vermilion points
Prick’d: as a cunning workman, in Peking,
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase,
An emperor’s gift⁠—at early morn he paints,
And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp
Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands:⁠—
So delicately prick’d the sign appear’d
On Sohrab’s arm, the sign of Rostam’s seal.
It was that griffin, which of old rear’d Zal,
Rostam’s great father, whom they left to die,
A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks;
Him that kind Creature found, and rear’d, and lov’d⁠—
Then Rostam took it for his glorious sign.
And Sohrab bar’d that image on his arm,
And himself scann’d it long with mournful eyes,
And then he touch’d it with his hand and said:⁠—
“How say’st thou? Is that sign the proper sign
Of Rostam’s son, or of some other man’s?”
He spoke: but Rostam gaz’d, and gaz’d, and stood
Speechless; and then he utter’d one sharp cry⁠—
O Boy⁠—thy Father!⁠—and his voice chok’d there.
And then a dark cloud pass’d before his eyes,
And his head swam, and he sunk down to earth.
But Sohrab crawl’d to where he lay, and cast
His arms about his neck, and kiss’d his lips,
And with fond faltering fingers strok’d his cheeks,
Trying to call him back to life: and life
Came back to Rostam, and he op’d his eyes,
And they stood wide with horror; and he seiz’d
In both his hands the dust which lay around,
And threw it on his head, and smirch’d his hair⁠—
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms:
And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast,
And his sobs chok’d him; and he clutch’d his sword,
To draw it, and for ever let life out.
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands,
And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said:⁠—
“Father, forbear; for I but meet to-day
The doom which at my birth was written down
In Heaven, and thou art Heaven’s unconscious hand.
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou,
When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too,
I know it: but Fate trod those promptings down
Under its iron heel; Fate, Fate engag’d
The strife, and hurl’d me on my father’s spear.
But let us speak no more of this: I find
My father; let me feel that I have found.
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,
And wash them with thy tears, and say, My Son!
Quick! quick! for number’d 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.”
So said he: and his voice releas’d the heart
Of Rostam, and his tears broke forth; he cast
His arms round his son’s neck, and wept aloud,
And kiss’d him. And awe fell on both the hosts,
When they saw Rostam’s grief; and Rakhsh, the horse,
With his head bowing to the ground, and mane
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe
First to the one then to the other mov’d
His head, as if inquiring what their grief
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes,
The big warm tears roll’d down, and cak’d the sand.
But Rostam chid him with stern voice, and said:⁠—
“Rakhsh, now thou grievest; but, O Rakhsh, thy feet
Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints,
When first they bore thy Master to this field.”
But Sohrab look’d upon the horse and said:⁠—
“Is this then Rakhsh? How often, in past days,
My mother told me of thee, thou brave Steed!
My terrible father’s terrible horse; and said,
That I should one day find thy lord and thee.
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane.
O Rakhsh, thou art more fortunate than I;
For thou hast gone where I shall never go,
And snuff’d the breezes of my father’s home.
And thou hast trod the sands of Sistan,
And seen the River of Helmand, and the Lake
Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself
Has often strok’d thy neck, and given thee food,
Corn in a golden platter soak’d with wine,
And said⁠—‘O Rakhsh! bear Rostam well!’⁠—but I
Have never known my grandsire’s furrow’d face,
Nor seen his lofty house in Sistan,
Nor slak’d my thirst at the clear Helmand stream:
But lodg’d among my father’s foes, and seen
Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarkand,
Bukhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,
And the black Turkmen tents; and only drunk
The desert rivers, Marghab and Tejen,
Kohik, and where the Kalmyks feed their sheep,
The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream⁠—
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.”
And, with a heavy groan, Rostam replied:⁠—
“Oh, that its waves were flowing over me!
Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt
Roll tumbling in the current o’er my head!”
And, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied:⁠—
“Desire not that, my father; thou must live.
For some are born to do great deeds, and live,
As some are born to be obscur’d, and die.
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do,
And reap a second glory in thine age.
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine.
But come: thou seest this great host of men
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these:
Let me entreat for them: what have they done?
They follow’d me, my hope, my fame, my star.
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace.
But me thou must bear hence, not send with them,
But carry me with thee to Sistan,
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me,
Thou, and the