Poetry · Sohrab and Rostam 28 (1/3)

Sohrab and Rostam28

An Episode

And the first grey of morning fill’d the east,

And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.

But all the Tartar camp along the stream

Was hush’d, and still the men were plunged in sleep:

Sohrab alone, he slept not: all night long

He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;

But when the grey dawn stole into his tent,

He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,

And took his horseman’s cloak, and left his tent,

And went abroad into the cold wet fog,

Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa’s tent.

Through the black Tartar tents he pass’d, which stood

Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand

Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o’erflow

When the sun melts the snows in high Pamir:

Through the black tents he pass’d, o’er that low strand,

And to a hillock came, a little back

From the stream’s brink, the spot where first a boat,

Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land.

The men of former times had crown’d the top

With a clay fort; but that was fall’n; and now

The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa’s tent,

A dome of laths, and o’er it felts were spread.

And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood

Upon the thick-pil’d carpets in the tent,

And found the old man sleeping on his bed

Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.

And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step

Was dull’d; for he slept light, an old man’s sleep;

And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:⁠—

“Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn.

Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?”

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:⁠—

“Thou know’st me, Peran-Wisa: it is I.

The sun is not yet risen, and the foe

Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie

Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.

For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek

Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,

In Samarkand, before the army march’d;

And I will tell thee what my heart desires.

Thou know’st if, since from Azerbaijan first

I came among the Tartars, and bore arms,

I have still serv’d Afrasiab well, and shown,

At my boy’s years, the courage of a man.

This too thou know’st, that, while I still bear on

The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world,

And beat the Persians back on every field,

I seek one man, one man, and one alone⁠—

Rostam, my father; who I hop’d, should greet,

Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field,

His not unworthy, not inglorious son.

So I long hop’d, but him I never find.

Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask.

Let the two armies rest to-day: but I

Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords

To meet me, man to man: if I prevail,

Rostam will surely hear it; if I fall⁠—

Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin.

Dim is the rumour of a common fight,

Where host meets host, and many names are sunk:

But of a single combat Fame speaks clear.”

He spoke: and Peran-Wisa took the hand

Of the young man in his, and sigh’d, and said:⁠—

“O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine!

Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs,

And share the battle’s common chance with us

Who love thee, but must press for ever first,

In single fight incurring single risk,

To find a father thou hast never seen?

That were far best, my son, to stay with us

Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war,

And when ’tis truce, then in Afrasiab’s towns.

But, if this one desire indeed rules all,

To seek out Rostam⁠—seek him not through fight:

Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms,

O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son!

But far hence seek him, for he is not here.

For now it is not as when I was young,

When Rostam was in front of every fray:

But now he keeps apart, and sits at home,

In Sistan, with Zal, his father old.

Whether that his own mighty strength at last

Feels the abhorr’d approaches of old age;

Or in some quarrel with the Persian King.

There go:⁠—Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes

Danger or death awaits thee on this field.

Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost

To us: fain therefore send thee hence, in peace

To seek thy father, not seek single fights

In vain:⁠—but who can keep the lion’s cub

From ravening? and who govern Rostam’s son?

Go: I will grant thee what thy heart desires.”

So said he, and dropp’d Sohrab’s hand, and left

His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay,

And o’er his chilly limbs his woollen coat

He pass’d, and tied his sandals on his feet,

And threw a white cloak round him, and he took

In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword;

And on his head he plac’d his sheep-skin cap,

Black, glossy, curl’d, the fleece of Kara-Kul;

And rais’d the curtain of his tent, and call’d

His herald to his side, and went abroad.

The sun, by this, had risen, and clear’d the fog

From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands:

And from their tents the Tartar horsemen fil’d

Into the open plain; so Haman bade;

Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa rul’d

The host, and still was in his lusty prime.

From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream’d:

As when, some grey November morn, the files,

In marching order spread, of long-neck’d cranes

Stream over Qazvin and the southern slopes

Of Alborz, from the Aralian estuaries,

Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound

For the warm Persian sea-board: so they stream’d

The Tartars of the Oxus, the King’s guard,

First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears;

Large men, large steeds; who from Bukhara come

And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares.

Next, the more temperate Turkmens of the south,

The Tukas, and the lances of Salore,

And those from Atreck and the Caspian sands;

Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink

The acrid milk of camels, and their wells.

And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came

From far, and a more doubtful service own’d;

The Tartars of Fergana, from the banks

Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards

And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes

Who roam o’er Kipchak and the northern waste,

Kalmyks and unkemp’d Kazakhs, tribes who stray

Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes,

Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamir.

These all fil’d out from camp into the plain.

And on the other side the Persians form’d:

First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem’d,

The Ilyats of Khorasan: and behind,

The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot,

Marshall’d battalions bright in burnish’d steel.

But Peran-Wisa with his herald came,

Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front,

And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks.

And when Farud, who led the Persians, saw

That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back,

He took his spear, and to the front he came,

And check’d his ranks, and fix’d them where they stood.

And the old Tartar came upon the sand

Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:⁠—

“Farud, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear!

Let there be truce between the hosts to-day.

But choose a champion from the Persian lords

To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.”

As, in the country, on a morn in June,

When the dew glistens on the pearled ears,

A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy⁠—

So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said,

A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran

Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they lov’d.

But as a troop of peddlers, from Kabul,

Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,

That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow;

Winding so high, that, as they mount, they pass

Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow,

Chok’d by the air, and scarce can they themselves

Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulberries29⁠—

In single file they move, and stop their breath,

For fear they should dislodge the o’erhanging snows⁠—

So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.

And to Farud his brother Chiefs came up

To counsel: Gudurz and Zoarrah came,

And Fariburz, who rul’d the Persian host

Second, and was the uncle of the King:

These came and counsell’d; and then Gudurz said:⁠—

“Farud, shame bids us take their challenge up,

Yet champion have we none to match this youth.

He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart.

But Rostam came last night; aloof he sits

And sullen, and has pitch’d his tents apart:

Him will I seek, and carry to his ear

The Tartar challenge, and this young man’s name.

Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight.

Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.”

So spake he; and Farud stood forth and said:⁠—

“Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said.

Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.”

He spoke; and Peran-Wisa turn’d, and strode

Back through the opening squadrons to his tent.

But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran,

And cross’d the camp which lay behind, and reach’d,

Out on the sands beyond it, Rostam’s tents.

Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay,

Just pitch’d: the high pavilion in the midst

Was Rostam’s, and his men lay camp’d around.

And Gudurz enter’d Rostam’s tent, and found

Rostam: his morning meal was done, but still

The table stood before him, charg’d with food;

A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread,

And dark green melons; and there Rostam sate

Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist,

And play’d with it; but Gudurz came and stood

Before him; and he look’d, and saw him stand;

And with a cry sprang up and dropp’d the bird,

And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said:⁠—

“Welcome! these eyes could see no better sight.

What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink.”

But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said:⁠—

“Not now! a time will come to eat and drink,

But not to-day: to-day has other needs.

The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze:

For from the Tartars is a challenge brought

To pick a champion from the Persian lords

To fight their champion⁠—and thou know’st his name⁠—

Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid.

O Rostam, like thy might is this young man’s!

He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart.

And he is young, and Iran’s Chiefs are old,

Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee.

Come down and help us, Rostam, or we lose.”

He spoke: but Rostam answer’d with a smile:⁠—

“Go to! if Iran’s Chiefs are old, then I

Am older: if the young are weak, the King

Errs strangely; for the King, for Kay Khosrow,

Himself is young, and honours younger men,

And lets the agèd moulder to their graves.

Rostam he loves no more, but loves the young⁠—

The young may rise at Sohrab’s vaunts, not I.

For what care I, though all speak Sohrab’s fame?

For would that I myself had such a son,

And not that one slight helpless girl I have,

A son so fam’d, so brave, to send to war,

And I to tarry with the snow-hair’d Zal,

My father, whom the robber Afghans vex,

And clip his borders short, and drive his herds,

And he has none to guard his weak old age.

There would I go, and hang my armour up,

And with my great name fence that weak old man,

And spend the goodly treasures I have got,

And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab’s fame,

And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings,

And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more.”

He spoke, and smil’d; and Gudurz made reply:⁠—

“What then, O Rostam, will men say to this,

When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks

Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks,

Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say,