Page:Persian Literature (1900), vol. 1.djvu/178

And many a foe has felt my conquering rage;
  Much have I seen, superior strength and art
  Have borne my spear thro' many a demon's heart;
  Only behold me on the battle plain,
  Wait till thou see'st this hand the war sustain,
  And if on thee should changeful fortune smile,
  Thou needst not fear the monster of the Nile![40]
  But soft compassion melts my soul to save,
  A youth so blooming with a mind so brave!"

  The generous speech Sohráb attentive heard,
  His heart expanding glowed at every word:
  "One question answer, and in answering show,
  That truth should ever from a warrior flow;
  Art thou not Rustem, whose exploits sublime,
  Endear his name thro' every distant clime?"

  "I boast no station of exalted birth,
  No proud pretensions to distinguished worth;
  To him inferior, no such powers are mine,
  No offspring I of Nírum's glorious line!"[41]

  The prompt denial dampt his filial joy,
  All hope at once forsook the Warrior-boy,
  His opening day of pleasure, and the bloom
  Of cherished life, immersed in shadowy gloom.
  Perplexed with what his mother's words implied;--
  A narrow space is now prepared, aside,
  For single combat. With disdainful glance
  Each boldly shakes his death-devoting lance,
  And rushes forward to the dubious fight;
  Thoughts high and brave their burning souls excite;
  Now sword to sword; continuous strokes resound,
  Till glittering fragments strew the dusty ground.
  Each grasps his massive club with added force,[42]
  The folding mail is rent from either horse;
  It seemed as if the fearful day of doom
  Had, clothed in all its withering terrors, come.
  Their shattered corslets yield defence no more--
  At length they breathe, defiled with dust and gore;
  Their gasping throats with parching thirst are dry,
  Gloomy and fierce they roll the lowering eye,
  And frown defiance. Son and Father driven
  To mortal strife! are these the ways of Heaven?
  The various swarms which boundless ocean breeds,
  The countless tribes which crop the flowery meads,
  All know their kind, but hapless man alone
  Has no instinctive feeling for his own!