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 In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers never more Shall the lake glass 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? O 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. Hut a dark rumour will be bruited up, From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; And then will that defenceless woman learn

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