Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 11

Thou 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, And I were that which till to-day I was, They should be lying here, I standing there.

But that beloved name unnerved 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 Rustum 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 pierced 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 gla.s.s 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 Rustum 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 Rustum never had a son."

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:-- "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, 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 Ader-baijan 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 ceased, he wept aloud, Thinking of her he left, and his own death.

He spoke; but Rustum listen'd, plunged 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 Ader-baijan born to him, Had been a puny girl, no boy at all-- So that sad mother sent him word, for fear Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, By a false boast, the style of Rustum'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 sh.o.r.e 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 Rustum saw His youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom; And that old king, her father, who loved 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 Ader-baijan. 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 gra.s.s-plots near its bed, And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, On the mown, dying gra.s.s--so Sohrab lay, Lovely in death, upon the common sand.

And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said:-- "O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved.

Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false--thou art not Rustum's son.

For Rustum 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 lived, was far from mine.

I tell thee, p.r.i.c.k'd upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might p.r.i.c.k 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 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 Rustum's son."

Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points p.r.i.c.k'd; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, p.r.i.c.ks 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 p.r.i.c.k'd the sign appear'd On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal.

It was that griffin, which of old rear'd Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks; 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, 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 Rustum's son, or of some other man's?"

He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood Speechless; and then he utter'd one sharp cry: _O boy--thy father!_--and his voice choked there.

And then a dark cloud pa.s.s'd before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank 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 stroked his cheeks, Trying to call him back to life; and life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, And they stood wide with horror; and he seized 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 choked 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 spake, 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 engaged 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 pa.s.sing wind.

But it was writ in Heaven that this should be."

So said he, and his voice released the heart Of Rustum, 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 Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, 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 moved His head, as if inquiring what their grief Might mean; and from his dark, compa.s.sionate eyes, The 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 feet Should first have rotted on their nimble joints, Or 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, That 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; 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 Seistan, And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, And said; _O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!_--but I Have 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 seen Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The 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 silt Roll 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.

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 Seistan, 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 pa.s.sing horseman on the waste May 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."

And, 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, And 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, And 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 slain Might 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, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, So thou mightest live too, my son, my son!

Or rather would that I, even I myself, Might now be lying on this b.l.o.o.d.y 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 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, And 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, Not 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."

And 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 took The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased His wound's imperious anguish; but the blood Came welling from the open gash, and life Flow'd with the stream;--all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd, Like the soil'd tissue of white violets Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, By children whom their nurses call with haste 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, Deep 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 limbs Unwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left, And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world.

So, on the b.l.o.o.d.y sand, Sohrab lay dead; And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son.

As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now 'mid their broken flights of steps Lie p.r.o.ne, enormous, down the mountain side-- So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.

And 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 a.s.sembly loosed, and fires Began to twinkle through the fog; for now Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; The Persians took it on the open sands Southward, the Tartars by the river marge; And Rustum and his son were left alone.

But the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste, Under the solitary moon;--he flow'd Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g, and bright, and large; then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for many a league The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles-- Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, A foil'd circuitous wanderer--till at last The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.

THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA

_Hussein_

O most just Vizier, send away The cloth-merchants, and let them be, Them and their dues, this day! the King Is ill at ease, and calls for thee.

_The Vizier_

O merchants, tarry yet a day Here in Bokhara! but at noon, To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay Each fortieth web of cloth to me, As the law is, and go your way.

O Hussein, lead me to the King!

Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own, Ferdousi's, and the others', lead!

How is it with my lord?

_Hussein_

Alone, Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, O Vizier! without lying down, In the great window of the gate, Looking into the Registan, Where through the sellers' booths the slaves Are this way bringing the dead man.-- O Vizier, here is the King's door!