Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane! O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; For thou hast gone where I shall never go,

And snuffed the breezes of my father's home.

And thou hast trod the sands of Seïstan, And seen the river of Helmund, and the Lake 751

Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food,

Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine,

And said 'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' but I 755

Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face,

Nor seen his lofty house in Seïstan,

and said:-

"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet

Should first have rotted on their nimble joints,

Or ere they bore thy master to this field!" But Sohrab looked upon the horse and said:

741

770

But, 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 obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, And reap a second glory in thine age; 776 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!

"Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son,

So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me,

And carry thee away to Seïstan,

And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,

800

With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.

And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones,

And plant a far-seen pillar over all, And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.

805 And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go!

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace! What should I do with slaying any more? For would that all whom I have ever slain

Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes,

810

And they who were called champions in their time,

And through whose death I won that fame I have

And I were nothing but a common man,
A poor, mean soldier, and without re-

nown,

So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! 815

Or rather would that I, even I myself, Might now be lying on this bloody sand, Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine,

Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou;

And I, not thou, be borne to Seïstan; 820 And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine;

And say 'O son, I weep thee not too sore, For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end.' But now in blood and battles was my youth,

And full of blood and battles is my age, 825 And I shall never end this life of blood.' Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied:

"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! But thou shalt yet have peace; only not

By romping children, whom their nurses call

Indoors from the sun's eye; his head drooped low,

His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay

White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,

Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, 850 Convulsed him back to life, he opened them,

And fixed them feebly on his father's face;

Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs

Unwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left,

855

To hem his watery march, and dam his streams,

And split his currents; that for many a league

The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles

885 Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain cradle in Pamere, A foiled circuitous wanderer-till at last The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide

His luminous home of waters opens, bright

890 And tranquil, from whose floor the newbathed stars

Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.

Fifteen years have gone round
Since thou arosest to tread,
In the summer-morning, the road
Of death, at a call unforeseen,
Sudden. For fifteen years,
We who till then in thy shade
Rested as under the boughs
Of a mighty oak, have endured
Sunshine and rain as we might,
Bare, unshaded, alone,
Lacking the shelter of thee.

O strong soul, by what shore
Tarriest thou now? For that force,
Surely, has not been left vain!
Somewhere, surely, afar,

In the sounding labor-house vast

Of being, is practised that strength,

IO

"Twixt vice and virtue; revivest, Succorest! This was thy work, This was thy life upon earth.

What is the course of the life

Of mortal men on the earth? Most men eddy about Here and there eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurled in the dust. 15 Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they diePerish; and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves,

20

25

In the moonlit solitudes mild

Of the midmost Ocean, have swelled, Foamed for a moment, and gone.

And there are some, whom a thirst
Ardent, unquenchable, fires,
Not with the crowd to be spent,
Not without aim to go round
In an eddy of purposeless dust,
Effort unmeaning and vain.
Ah, yes! some of us strive

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60

65

70

75

80

85

Zealous, beneficent, firm!