Poetry · Sohrab and Rostam 28 (2/3) (1/2)

Like some old miser, Rostam hoards his fame,

And shuns to peril it with younger men.”

And, greatly mov’d, then Rostam made reply:⁠—

“O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words?

Thou knowest better words than this to say.

What is one more, 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 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 eyes the advancing Form:

And then he stood bewilder’d; and he dropp’d

His covering shield, and the spear pierc’d his side.

He reel’d, and staggering back, sunk to the ground.

And then the gloom dispers’d, and the wind fell,

And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all

The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair;

Saw Rostam standing, safe upon his feet,

And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.

Then, with a bitter smile, Rostam began:⁠—

“Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill

A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,

And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab’s tent.

Or else that the great Rostam would come down

Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move

His heart to take a gift, and let thee go.

And then that all the Tartar host would praise

Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame,

To glad thy father in his weak old age.

Fool! thou art slain, and by an unknown man!

Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be

Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.”

And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:⁠—

“Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain.

Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man!

No! Rostam slays me, and this filial heart.

For were I match’d with ten such men as thee,

And I were that which till to-day I was,

They should be lying here, I standing there.

But that belovèd name unnerv’d my arm⁠—

That name, and something, I confess, in thee,

Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield

Fall; and thy spear transfix’d an unarm’d foe.

And now thou boastest, and insult’st my fate.

But hear thou this, fierce Man, tremble to hear!

The mighty Rostam shall avenge my death!

My father, whom I seek through all the world,

He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!”

As when some hunter in the spring hath found

A breeding eagle sitting on her nest,

Upon the craggy isle of a hill lake,

And pierc’d her with an arrow as she rose,

And follow’d her to find her where she fell

Far off;⁠—anon her mate comes winging back

From hunting, and a great way off descries

His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks

His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps

Circles above his eyry, with loud screams

Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she

Lies dying, with the arrow in her side,

In some far stony gorge out of his ken,

A heap of fluttering feathers: never more

Shall the lake glass her, flying over it;

Never the black and dripping precipices

Echo her stormy scream as she sails by:⁠—

As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss⁠—

So Rostam knew not his own loss, but stood

Over his dying son, and knew him not.

But, with a cold incredulous voice, he said:⁠—

“What prate is this of fathers and revenge?

The mighty Rostam never had a son.”

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:⁠—