[p.xxxiv]
1840. Alaric at Rome. (Prize poem at Rugby.)1843. Cromwell. (Prize poem at Oxford.)1849. The Strayed Reveller and Other Poems.Mycerinus.The Strayed Reveller.Fragment of an Antigone.The Sick King in Bokhara.Religious Isolation.To my Friends.A Modern Sappho.The New Sirens.The Voice.To Fausta.Stagyrus.To a Gipsy Child.The Hayswater Boat.The Forsaken Merman.The World and the Quietist.In Utrumque Paratus.Resignation.Sonnets.Quiet Work.To a Friend.Shakespeare.To the Duke of Wellington.Written in Butler's Sermons.Written in Emerson's Essays.To an Independent Preacher.To George Cruikshank.To a Republican Friend.1852. Empedocles on Etna and Other Poems.[p.xxxv]Empedocles on Etna.The River.Excuse.Indifference.Too Late.On the Rhine.Longing.The Lake.Parting.Absence.Destiny. (Not reprinted.)To Marguerite.Human Life.Despondency.Youth's Agitations—A Sonnet.Self-Deception.Lines written by a Death-bed. (Afterward, Youth and Calm.)Tristram and Iseult.Memorial Verses. (Previously published inFraser's Magazine.)Courage. (Not reprinted.)Self-Dependence.A Summer Night.The Buried Life.A Farewell.Stanzas in Memory of the Author ofObermann.Consolation.Lines written in Kensington Gardens.The World's Triumphs—A Sonnet.The Second Best.Revolutions.The Youth of Nature.[p.xxxvi]The Youth of Man.Morality.Progress.The Future.1853. Poems.Sohrab and Rustum.Cadmus and Harmonia. (A fragment of Empedocles on Etna.)Philomela.Thekla's Answer.The Church of Brou.The Neckan.Switzerland.Richmond Hill. (A fragment of The Youth of Man.)Requiescat.The Scholar-Gipsy.Stanzas in Memory of the Late Edward Quillman.Power of Youth. (A fragment of The Youth of Man.)1854. A Farewell.1855. Poems.Balder DeadSeparation.1858. Merope: A Tragedy.1867. New Poems.Persistency of Poetry.Saint Brandan.(Fraser's Magazine, July, 1860.)Sonnets.A Picture of Newstead.Rachel. (Three Sonnets.)East London.West London.Anti-Desperation.[p.xxxvii]Immorality.Worldly Place.The Divinity.The Good Shepherd with the Kid.Austerity of Poetry.East and West.Monica's Last Prayer.Calais Sands.Dover Beach.The Terrace at Berne.Stanzas composed at Carnæ.A Southern Night. (Previously published in theVictoria Regia, 1861.)Fragment of Chorus of a "Dejaneira."Palladium.Early Death and Fame.Growing Old.The Progress of Poesy.A Nameless Epitaph.The Last Word.A Wish.A Caution to Poets.Pis-Aller.Epilogue to Lessing's LAOCOON.Bacchanalia.Rugby Chapel.Heine's Grave.Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse.1860. The Lord's Messengers. (Cornhill Magazine, July.)1866. Thyrsis. (Macmillan's Magazine, April.)1868. Obermann Once More.1873. New Rome. (Cornhill Magazine, June.)[p.xxxviii]1877. Haworth Churchyard with Epilogue. (Fraser's Magazine, May.)1881. Geist's Grave. (Fortnightly Review, January.)1882. Westminster Abbey. (Nineteenth Century Magazine, January.)Poor Matthais. (Macmillan's Magazine, December.)1887. Horatian Echo. (The Century Guild Hobby Horse, July.)Kaiser Dead. (Fortnightly Review, July.)
1859. England and the Italian Question.1861. Popular Education in France.On Translating Homer.1864. A French Eton.1865. Essays in Criticism.1867. On Study of Celtic Literature.1868. Schools and Universities on the Continent.1869. Culture and Anarchy.1870. St. Paul and Protestantism.1871. Friendship's Garland.1873. Literature and Dogma.1874. Higher Schools and Universities in Germany.1875. God and the Bible.1877. Last Essays on Church and Religion.1879. Mixed Essays.1882. Irish Essays.1885. Discourses in America.1888. Essays in Criticism, Second Series.Special Report on Elementary Education Abroad.Civilization in the United States.
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Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881).Thomas B. Macaulay (1800-1859).Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861).Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892).Charles R. Darwin (1809-1882).William M. Thackeray (1811-1863).Robert Browning (1812-1889).Charles Dickens (1812-1870).George Eliot (1819-1880).John Ruskin (1819-1900).Herbert Spencer (1820-1903).William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878).Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882).Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864).John G. Whittier (1807-1892).Henry W. Longfellow (1807-1882).Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894).James Russell Lowell (1819-1891).
[p.xl]
The Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold(The Macmillan Company, one volume).The English Poets, Vol. I, by T.H. Ward.Matthew Arnold and the Spirit of the Age, edited by the English Club of Sewanee, Tennessee.Matthew Arnold, by Sir J.G. Fitch.Tennyson, Ruskin, and Other Literary Estimates, by Frederic Harrison.Studies in Interpretation, by W.H. Hudson.Corrected Impressions on Matthew Arnold, by G.E.B. Saintsbury.Matthew Arnold, by Herbert W. Paul.Matthew Arnold, by G.E.B. Saintsbury.Arnold's Letters, collected and arranged by G.W.E. Russell.The Bibliography of Matthew Arnold, edited by T.B. Smart.Matthew Arnold, by Andrew Lang, inCentury Magazine, 1881-1882, p. 849.The Poetry of Matthew Arnold, by R.H. Hutton, inEssays Theological and Literary, Vol. II.Religion and Culture, by John Shairp.Arnold, inVictorian Poets, by Stedman.Matthew Arnold, New Poems, inEssays and Studies, by A.C. Swinburne.Arnold, inOur Living Poets, by Forman.
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°1And the first grey of morning fill'd the east,°°2And the fog rose out of the Oxus° stream.°3But all the Tartar camp° along the streamWas hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep;5Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night longHe 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,10And went abroad into the cold wet fog,°11Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's° tent.Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stoodClustering like bee-hives on the low flat strandOf Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow°15When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere°Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand,And to a hillock came, a little backFrom the stream's brink—the spot where first a boat,Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land.20The men of former times had crown'd the topWith a clay fort; but that was fall'n, and now[p.2]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 stood25Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent,And found the old man sleeping on his bedOf rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the stepWas dull'd; for he slept light, an old man's sleep;30And 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.35The sun is not yet risen, and the foeSleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lieTossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.°38For so did King Afrasiab° bid me seekThy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,°40In Samarcand,° before the army march'd;And I will tell thee what my heart desires.°42Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan° firstI came among the Tartars and bore arms,I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown,°45At my boy's years,° the courage of a man.This too thou know'st, that while I still bear onThe conquering Tartar ensigns through the world,And beat the Persians back on every field,I seek one man, one man, and one alone—50Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet,Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field,His not unworthy, not inglorious son.So I long hoped, but him I never find.Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask.[p.3]55Let the two armies rest to-day; but IWill challenge forth the bravest Persian lordsTo meet me, man to man; if I prevail,Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall—Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin.°60Dim is the rumour of a common fight,°°61Where host meets host, and many names are sunk°;But of a single combat fame speaks clear."He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the handOf the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said:—65"O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine!Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs,°67And share the battle's common chance° with usWho love thee, but must press for ever first,In single fight incurring single risk,°70To find a father thou hast never seen°?That were far best, my son, to stay with usUnmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war,And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns.But, if this one desire indeed rules all,75To seek out Rustum—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,80When Rustum was in front of every fray;But now he keeps apart, and sits at home,°82In Seistan,° with Zal, his father old.Whether that his own mighty strength at lastFeels the abhorr'd approaches of old age,°85Or in some quarrel° with the Persian King.°°86There go°!—Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodesDanger or death awaits thee on this field.[p.4]Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lostTo us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace90To seek thy father, not seek single fightsIn vain;—but who can keep the lion's cubFrom ravening, and who govern Rustum's son?Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires."So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and left95His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay;And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coatHe pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet,And threw a white cloak round him, and he took°99In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword°;100And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap,°101Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul°;And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'dHis herald to his side, and went abroad.The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog105From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands.And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed°107Into the open plain; so Haman° bade—Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruledThe host, and still was in his lusty prime.110From 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°113Stream over Casbin° and the southern slopes°114Of Elburz,° from the Aralian estuaries,°115Or some frore° Caspian reed-bed, southward boundFor 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;°119Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara° come°120And Khiva,° and ferment the milk of mares.°[p.5]°121Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns° of the south,°122The Tukas,° and the lances of Salore,°123And those from Attruck° and the Caspian sands;Light men and on light steeds, who only drink125The acrid milk of camels, and their wells.And then a swarm of wandering horse, who cameFrom far, and a more doubtful service own'd;°128The Tartars of Ferghana,° from the banks°129Of the Jaxartes,° men with scanty beards130And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes°131Who roam o'er Kipchak° and the northern waste,°132Kalmucks° and unkempt Kuzzaks,° tribes who stray°133Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes,°Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere;135These all filed 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.°138The Ilyats of Khorassan°; and behind,The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot,140Marshall'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 Ferood, who led the Persians, saw145That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back,He took his spear, and to the front he came,°147And check'd his ranks, and fix'd° them where they stood.And the old Tartar came upon the sandBetwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:—150"Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear!Let there be truce between the hosts to-day.But choose a champion from the Persian lordsTo fight our champion Sohrab, man to man."[p.6]As, in the country, on a morn in June,155When the dew glistens on the pearled ears,°156A shiver runs through the deep corn° for joy—So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said,A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ranOf pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved.°160But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool,°°161Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,°That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow;Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they passLong flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow,165Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselvesSlake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mulberries—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.170And to Ferood his brother chiefs came upTo counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came,And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host°173Second, and was the uncle of the King°;These came and counsell'd, and then Gudurz said:—175"Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up,Yet champion have we none to match this youth.°177He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart.°°178But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits°And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart.180Him will I seek, and carry to his earThe 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 Ferood stood forth and cried:—185"Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said!Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man."[p.7]He spake: and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strodeBack through the opening squadrons to his tent.But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran,190And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and reach'd,Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents.Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay,Just pitch'd; the high pavilion in the midstWas Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around.195And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and foundRustum; his morning meal was done, but stillThe table stood before him, charged with food—A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread;°199And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate°°200Listless, and held a falcon° on his wrist,And play'd with it; but Gudurz came and stoodBefore 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:—205"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.210The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze;For from the Tartars is a challenge broughtTo pick a champion from the Persian lordsTo fight their champion—and thou know'st his name—Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid.215O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's!He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart;°217And he is young, and Iran's° chiefs are old,Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee.Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose!"[p.8]220He spoke; but Rustum answer'd with a smile:—°221"Go to°! if Iran's chiefs are old, then IAm older; if the young are weak, the King°223Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo,°Himself is young, and honours younger men,225And lets the aged moulder to their graves.Rustum 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,°230And not that one slight helpless girl° I have—A son so famed, so brave, to send to war,°232And 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,235And 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,240And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings,And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more."He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made reply:—"What then, O Rustum, will men say to this,When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks245Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks,Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say:Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame,°248And shuns to peril it with younger men."°And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply:—250"O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words?Thou knowest better words than this to say.What is one more, one less, obscure or famed,Valiant or craven, young or old, to me?[p.9]Are not they mortal, am not I myself?255But who for men of nought would do great deeds?Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame!°257But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms°;Let not men say of Rustum, he was match'dIn single fight with any mortal man."260He spoke, and frown'd; and Gudurz turn'd, and ranBack quickly through the camp in fear and joy—Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came.But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call'dHis followers in, and bade them bring his arms,265And clad himself in steel; the arms he chose°266Were plain, and on his shield was no device,°Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold,And, from the fluted spine atop, a plumeOf horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume.270So arm'd, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse,Follow'd him like a faithful hound at heel—Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth,The horse, whom Rustum on a foray onceDid in Bokhara by the river find275A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home,And rear'd him; a bright bay, with lofty crest,°277Dight° with a saddle-cloth of broider'd greenCrusted with gold, and on the ground were work'dAll beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know.280So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'dThe camp, and to the Persian host appear'd.And all the Persians knew him, and with shoutsHail'd; but the Tartars knew not who he was.And dear as the wet diver to the eyes285Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore,[p.10]°286By sandy Bahrein,° in the Persian Gulf,Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night,°288Having made up his tale° of precious pearls,Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands—290So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came.And Rustum to the Persian front advanced,And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and came.And as afield the reapers cut a swathDown through the middle of a rich man's corn,295And 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 spearsBristling, and in the midst, the open sand.And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast300His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and sawSohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came.As some rich woman, on a winter's morn,Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudgeWho with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire—305At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn,°306When the frost flowers° the whiten'd window-panes—And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughtsOf that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyedThe unknown adventurous youth, who from afar310Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth°311All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused°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,315Which in a queen's secluded garden throwsIts slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf,By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound—°318So slender Sohrab seem'd,° so softly rear'd.[p.11]And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul320As 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.°325Behold me! I am vast,° and clad in iron,And tried°; and I have stood on many a fieldOf blood, and I have fought with many a foe—°328Never was that field lost, or that foe saved.°O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death?°330Be govern'd°! quit the Tartar host, and comeTo 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,335The mighty voice of Rustum, and he sawHis giant figure planted on the sand,Sole, like some single tower, which a chiefHath builded on the waste in former yearsAgainst the robbers; and he saw that head,340Streak'd with its first grey hairs;—hope filled his soul,And he ran forward and embraced his knees,And clasp'd his hand within his own, and said:—°343"O, by thy father's head°! by thine own soul°344Art thou not Rustum°? speak! art thou not he?"345But Rustum eyed 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,350And hide it not, but say:Rustum is here!He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes,[p.12]But he will find some pretext not to fight,And praise my fame, and proffer courteous giftsA belt or sword perhaps, and go his way.355And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall,In Samarcand, he will arise and cry:'I challenged once, when the two armies camp'dBeside the Oxus, all the Persian lordsTo cope with me in single fight; but they360Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and IChanged gifts, and went on equal terms away.'So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud;Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me."And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud:—365"Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thusOf Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call'd°367By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt,° or yield!Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight?Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee!370For well I know, that did great Rustum standBefore 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:375Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield,Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till windsBleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods,Oxus in summer wash them all away."He spoke; and Sohrab answer'd, on his feet:—°380"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 Rustum standHere on this field, there were no fighting then.But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here.[p.13]385Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I,And thou art proved, I know, and I am young—But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven.And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sureThy victory, yet thou canst not surely know.390For we are all, like swimmers in the sea,Poised 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,395Back 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 Rustum answer'd not, but hurl'dHis spear; down from the shoulder, down it came,400As on some partridge, in the corn a hawk,°401That long has tower'd° in the airy clouds,Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come,And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spearHiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand,405Which it sent flying wide;—then Sohrab threw°406In turn, and full struck° Rustum's shield; sharp rang,The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear.And Rustum seized his club, which none but heCould wield; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge,410Still rough—like those which men in treeless plainsTo build them boats fish from the flooded rivers,°412Hyphasis° or Hydaspes,° when, high upBy their dark springs, the wind in winter-time°414Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack,°415And strewn the channels with torn boughs—so hugeThe club which Rustum lifted now, and struckOne stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside,[p.14]°418Lithe as the glancing° snake, and the club cameThundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand.420And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and fellTo his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the sand;And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword,And pierced the mighty Rustum while he layDizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand;425But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his sword,But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:—"Thou strik'st too hard! that club of thine will floatUpon the summer-floods, and not my bones.But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I;430No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul.Thou say'st, thou art not Rustum; 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,°435And 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,440And make a truce, and sit upon this sand,And pledge each other in red wine, like friends,And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds.There are enough foes in the Persian host,Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;445Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thouMayst fight; fightthem, when they confront thy spear!But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!"He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had risen,And stood erect, trembling with rage; his club450He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear,[p.15]Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-hand°452Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star,°The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil'd°454His stately crest,° and dimm'd his glittering arms.455His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voiceWas choked 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!460Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens nowWith Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance;But on the Oxus-sands, and in the danceOf battle, and with me, who make no playOf war; I fight it out, and hand to hand.465Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine!°466Remember all thy valour°; try thy feintsAnd cunning! all the pity I had is gone;Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts°469With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles.°"°470He spoke, and Sohrab kindled° at his taunts,And he too drew his sword; at once they rush'dTogether, as two eagles on one preyCome rushing down together from the clouds,One from the east, one from the west; their shields475Bash'd with a clang together, and a dinRose, such as that the sinewy woodcuttersMake often in the forest's heart at morn,Of hewing axes, crashing trees—such blowsRustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd.480And you would say that sun and stars took part°481In that unnatural° conflict; for a cloud°Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sunOver the fighters' heads; and a wind rose[p.16]Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain,485And 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 handStood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure,°489And the sun sparkled° on the Oxus stream.490But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyesAnd labouring breath; first Rustum struck the shieldWhich Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spearRent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the skin,And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan.°495Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm,°Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest°497He shore° away, and that proud horsehair plume,Never till now defiled, sank to the dust;°499And Rustum bow'd his head°; but then the gloom500Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air,And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse,Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry;—No horse's cry was that, most like the roarOf some pain'd desert-lion, who all day505Hath 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 quaked for fear,°508And Oxus curdled° as it cross'd his stream.But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on,510And struck again; and again Rustum bow'dHis 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 Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes515Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear,°516And shouted:Rustum°!—Sohrab heard that shout,[p.17]And shrank amazed; back he recoil'd one step,And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing form;And then he stood bewilder'd; and he dropp'd520His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side.He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to the ground;And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell,And the bright sun broke forth, and melted allThe cloud; and the two armies saw the pair—525Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.°527Then, with a bitter smile,° Rustum began:—"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to killA Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse,530And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent.Or else that the great Rustum would come downHimself to fight, and that thy wiles would moveHis heart to take a gift, and let thee go.And then that all the Tartar host would praise535Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame,°536To glad° thy father in his weak old age.Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man!°538Dearer to the red jackals° shalt thou beThan to thy friends, and to thy father old."540And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:—"Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vainThou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man!No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart.For were I match'd with ten such men as thee,545And I were that which till to-day I was,They should be lying here, I standing thereBut that belovéd name unnerved my arm—That name, and something, I confess, in thee,Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield[p.18]550Fall; 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 hearThe mighty Rustum shall avenge my death!My father, whom I seek through all the world,555He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!"°556As when some hunter° in the spring hath foundA breeding eagle sitting on her nest,Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake,And pierced her with an arrow as she rose,560And follow'd her to find her where she fellFar off;—anon her mate comes winging backFrom hunting, and a great way off descries°563His huddling young left sole°; at that, he checksHis pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps565Circles above his eyry, with loud screamsChiding his mate back to her nest; but sheLies dying, with the arrow in her side,In some far stony gorge out of his ken,A heap of fluttering feathers—never more°570Shall the lake glass° her, flying over it;Never the black and dripping precipicesEcho her stormy scream as she sails by—As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss,So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood575Over 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 Rustum never had a son."And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:—580"Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I.Surely the news will one day reach his ear,Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long,[p.19]Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap585To 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,590My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwellsWith that old king, her father, who grows greyWith age, and rules over the valiant Koords.Her most I pity, who no more will seeSohrab returning from the Tartar camp,595With spoils and honour, when the war is done.°596But a dark rumour will be bruited up,°From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;And then will that defenceless woman learnThat Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more,600But that in battle with a nameless foe,By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain."He spoke; and as he ceased, he wept aloud,Thinking of her he left, and his own death.He spoke; but Rustum listen'd, plunged in thought.605Nor did he yet believe it was his sonWho spoke, although he call'd back names he knew;For he had had sure tidings that the babe,Which was in Ader-baijan born to him,Had been a puny girl, no boy at all—610So that sad mother sent him word, for fearRustum should seek the boy, to train in arms—And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took,°613By a false boast, the style° of Rustum's son;Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame.615So deem'd he; yet he listen'd, plunged in thought[p.20]And his soul set to grief, as the vast tideOf the bright rocking Ocean sets to shoreAt the full moon; tears gather'd in his eyes;For he remember'd his own early youth,620And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn,The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descriesA far, bright city, smitten by the sun,Through many rolling clouds—so Rustum sawHis youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom;°625And that old king,° her father, who loved wellHis wandering guest, and gave him his fair childWith joy; and all the pleasant life they led,They three, in that long-distant summer-time—The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt630And hound, and morn on those delightful hillsIn Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth,°632Of age and looks° to be his own dear son,Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand;Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe635Of 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.640And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said:—"O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a sonWhom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved.Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else menHave told thee false—thou art not Rustum's son.645For Rustum had no son; one child he had—But one—a girl; who with her mother nowPlies some light female task, nor dreams of us—Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war."[p.21]But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath; for now650The 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:—655"Man, who art thou who dost deny my words?Truth sits upon the lips of dying men,And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.°658I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm° I bearThat seal which Rustum to my mother gave,660That she might prick it on the babe she bore."He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks,And his knees totter'd, and he smote his handAgainst his breast, his heavy mailed hand,°663That the hard iron corslet° clank'd aloud;665And 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 Rustum's son."Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed670His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm,And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points°672Prick'd; as a cunning° workman, in Pekin,Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase,An emperor's gift—at early morn he paints,675And all day long, and, when night comes, the lampLights up his studious forehead and thin hands—So delicately prick'd the sign appear'dOn Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal.°679It was that griffin,° which of old rear'd Zal,680Rustum's great father, whom they left to die,A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks;[p.22]Him that kind creature found, and rear'd, and loved—Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign.And Sohrab bared that image on his arm,685And 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 signOf Rustum's son, or of some other man's?"He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood690Speechless; and then he utter'd one sharp cry:O boy—thy father!—and his voice choked there.And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes,And his head swam, and he sank down to earth.But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast695His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips,And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks,Trying to call him back to life; and lifeCame back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes,And they stood wide with horror; and he seized700In 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 choked him; and he clutch'd his sword,705To draw it, and for ever let life out.But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands,And with a soothing voice he spake, and said:—"Father, forbear! for I but meet to-dayThe doom which at my birth was written down°710In 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 downUnder its iron heel; fate, fate engaged[p.23]715The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear.But let us speak no more of this! I find°717My father; let me feel that I have found!°Come, sit beside me on this sand, and takeMy head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,720And 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 fieldI came, and like the wind I go away—°724Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind.°725But it was writ in Heaven that this should be."So said he, and his voice released the heartOf Rustum, and his tears brake forth; he castHis arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud,And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts,730When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse,With his head bowing to the ground and maneSweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woeFirst to the one then to the other movedHis head, as if inquiring what their grief735Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes,°736The big warm tears roll'd down, and caked° the sand.But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:—"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feetShould first have rotted on their nimble joints,740Or ere they brought thy master to this field!"But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said:—"Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days,My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed,My terrible father's terrible horse! and said,745That I should one day find thy lord and thee.Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane!O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I;[p.24]For thou hast gone where I shall never go,And snuff'd the breezes of my father's home.750And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan,°751And seen the River of Helmund,° and the Lake°752Of Zirrah°; and the aged Zal himselfHas often stroked thy neck, and given thee food,Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine,755And said:O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!—but IHave never known my grandsire's furrow'd face,Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan,Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream;But lodged among my father's foes, and seen760Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand,Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste,And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk°763The desert rivers, Moorghab° and Tejend,°Kohik,° and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep,°765The northern Sir°; and this great Oxus stream,The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die."Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail'd:—"Oh, that its waves were flowing over me!Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt770Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head!"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.775Do 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 menWhich follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!780Let me entreat for them; what have they done?[p.25]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 Seistan,785And 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,°788And heap a stately mound° above my bones,And plant a far-seen pillar over all.790That so the passing horseman on the wasteMay see my tomb a great way off, and cry:Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there,Whom his great father did in ignorance kill!And I be not forgotten in my grave."795And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:—"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 Seistan,800And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee,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,805And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.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 that I have ever slain810Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes,And they who were call'd champions in their time,And through whose death I won that fame I have—And I were nothing but a common man,[p.26]A poor, mean soldier, and without renown,815So thou mightest live too, my son, my son!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;820And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan;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,825And full of blood and battles is my age,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 now,°830Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day,°When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship,Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo,Returning home over the salt blue sea,From laying thy dear master in his grave."835And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said:—"Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea!Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure."He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and tookThe spear, and drew it from his side, and eased840His wound's imperious anguish; but the bloodCame welling from the open gash, and lifeFlow'd with the stream;—all down his cold white sideThe crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd,Like the soil'd tissue of white violets845Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank,By children whom their nurses call with haste[p.27]Indoors from the sun's eye; his head droop'd low,His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay—White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps,850Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame,Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them,And fix'd them feebly on his father's face;Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbsUnwillingly the spirit fled away,855Regretting the warm mansion which it left,And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world.So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead;And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloakDown o'er his face, and sate by his dead son.860As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd°861By Jemshid in Persepolis,° to bearHis house, now 'mid their broken flights of stepsLie prone, enormous, down the mountain side—So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.865And night came down over the solemn waste,And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair,And darken'd all; and a cold fog, with night,Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose,As of a great assembly loosed, and fires870Began to twinkle through the fog; for nowBoth armies moved to camp, and took their meal;The Persians took it on the open sandsSouthward, the Tartars by the river marge;And Rustum and his son were left alone.875But the majestic river floated on,Out of the mist and hum of that low land,Into the frosty starlight, and there moved,°878Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian° waste,Under the solitary moon;—he flow'd[p.28]°880Right for the polar star,° past Orgunjè,°Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands beginTo hem his watery march, and dam his streams,And split his currents; that for many a leagueThe shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along885Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles—Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he hadIn his high mountain-cradle in Pamere,A foil'd circuitous wanderer—till at lastThe long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide°890His luminous home° of waters opens, bright°891And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars°Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.