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

“Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I.

Surely the news will one day reach his ear,

Reach Rostam, where he sits, and tarries long,

Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;

And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap

To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee.

Fierce Man, bethink thee, for an only son!

What will that grief, what will that vengeance be!

Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen!

Yet him I pity not so much, but her,

My mother, who in Azerbaijan dwells

With that old King, her father, who grows grey

With age, and rules over the valiant Koords.

Her most I pity, who no more will see

Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp,

With spoils and honour, when the war is done.

But a dark rumour will be bruited up,

From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;

And then will that defenceless woman learn

That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more;

But that in battle with a nameless foe,

By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.”

He spoke; and as he ceas’d he wept aloud,

Thinking of her he left, and his own death.

He spoke; but Rostam listen’d, plung’d in thought.

Nor did he yet believe it was his son

Who spoke, although he call’d back names he knew;

For he had had sure tidings that the babe,

Which was in Azerbaijan born to him,

Had been a puny girl, no boy at all:

So that sad mother sent him word, for fear

Rostam should seek the boy, to train in arms;

And so he deem’d that either Sohrab took,

By a false boast, the style of Rostam’s son;

Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame.

So deem’d he; yet he listen’d, plunged in thought;

And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide

Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore

At the full moon: tears gather’d in his eyes;

For he remember’d his own early youth,

And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn,

The Shepherd from his mountain lodge descries

A far, bright City, smitten by the sun,

Through many rolling clouds:⁠—so Rostam saw

His youth; saw Sohrab’s mother, in her bloom;

And that old King, her father, who lov’d well

His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child

With joy; and all the pleasant life they led,

They three, in that long-distant summer-time⁠—

The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt

And hound, and morn on those delightful hills

In Azerbaijan. And he saw that Youth,

Of age and looks to be his own dear son,

Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand,

Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe

Of an unskilful gardener has been cut,

Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed,

And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom,

On the mown, dying grass;⁠—so Sohrab lay,

Lovely in death, upon the common sand.

And Rostam gaz’d on him with grief, and said:⁠—

“O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son

Whom Rostam, wert thou his, might well have lov’d!

Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men

Have told thee false;⁠—thou art not Rostam’s son.

For Rostam had no son: one child he had⁠—

But one⁠—a girl: who with her mother now

Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us⁠—

Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.”

But Sohrab answer’d him in wrath; for now

The anguish of the deep-fix’d spear grew fierce,

And he desired to draw forth the steel,

And let the blood flow free, and so to die;

But first he would convince his stubborn foe⁠—

And, rising sternly on one 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 snow-hair’d Zal, and all thy friends.

And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,

And heap a stately mound above my bones,

And plant a far-seen pillar over all:

That so the passing horseman on the waste

May see my tomb a great way off, and say⁠—