Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/116

78 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 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.

And 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 gray

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 honor, when the war is done.