Part 4

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 answered him in wrath; for now The anguish of the deep-fixed 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, pricked upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might prick it on the babe she bore." He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks; And his knees tottered; and he smote his hand Against his breast, his heavy mailèd hand, That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud; And to his heart he pressed 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 showed a sign in faint vermilion points Pricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks 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 pricked the sign appeared On Sohrab's arm--the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks, Him that kind creature found and reared and loved. Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm, And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, And then he touched it with his hand and said: "How sayest 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 uttered one sharp cry-- "O, boy--thy father!"--and his voice choked there, And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kissed 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 smirched 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 clutched 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 spoke, and said: "Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day The doom that 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 hurled 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 numbered 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 passing 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 kissed 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, compassionate eyes, The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said: "Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints, When first they bore thy master to this field." But Sohrab looked 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 snuffed the breezes of my father's home, And thou hast trod the sands of Seïstan, 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 soaked with wine-- And said--'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' But I Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seïstan, 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." And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied: "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!" And, 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 followed 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 Seïstan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me-- Thou, and the snow-haired 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 passing horseman on the waste May see my tomb a great way off, and say: _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 Seïstan, 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 whom I have ever slain Might be once more alive--my bitterest foes, And they who were called 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 bloody 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 Seïstan; 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 on 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 Flowed with the stream; all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled-- Like the soiled tissue of white violets Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank By romping children, whom their nurses call From the hot fields at noon. His head drooped 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 opened them, And fixed them feebly on his father's face. Till now all strength was ebbed, 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 bloody 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-reared By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps, Lie prone, 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 darkened all; and a cold fog, with night, Crept from the Oxus.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

KHAMSIN.

Oh, the wind from the desert blew in!-- Khamsin, The wind from the desert blew in! It blew from the heart of the fiery south, From the fervid sand and the hills of drouth, And it kissed the land with its scorching mouth; The wind from the desert blew in!

It blasted the buds on the almond bough, And shrivelled the fruit on the orange-tree; The wizened dervish breathed no vow, So weary and parched was he. The lean muezzin could not cry; The dogs ran mad, and bayed the sky; The hot sun shone like a copper disk, And prone in the shade of an obelisk The water-carrier sank with a sigh, For limp and dry was his water-skin; And the wind from the desert blew in.

The camel crouched by the crumbling wall, And oh the pitiful moan it made! The minarets, taper and slim and tall, Reeled and swam in the brazen light; And prayers went up by day and night, But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed. The river writhed in its slimy bed, Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread; The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind; And still the wind, the ruthless wind, Khamsin, The wind from the desert blew in.

Into the cool of the mosque it crept, Where the poor sought rest at the Prophet's shrine; Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine; It fevered the brow of the maid who slept, And men grew haggard with revel of wine. The tiny fledglings died in the nest; The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast. Then a rumor rose and swelled and spread From a tremulous whisper, faint and vague, Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread, _The plague! the plague! the plague!_-- Oh the wind, Khamsin, The scourge from the desert, blew in!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE DIVER.

"Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold, As to dive to the howling charybdis below?-- I cast into the whirlpool a goblet of gold, And o'er it already the dark waters flow: Whoever to me may the goblet bring, Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king."

He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep, That rugged and hoary, hung over the verge Of the endless and measureless world of the deep, Swirled into the maelstrom that maddened the surge. "And where is the diver so stout to go-- I ask ye again--to the deep below?"

And the knights and the squires that gathered around, Stood silent--and fixed on the ocean their eyes; They looked on the dismal and savage profound, And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize. And thrice spoke the monarch--"The cup to win, Is there never a wight who will venture in?"

And all as before heard in silence the king-- Till a youth, with an aspect unfearing but gentle, 'Mid the tremulous squires, stept out from the ring, Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle;

And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder.

As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave One glance on the gulf of that merciless main; Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave, Casts roaringly up the charybdis again; And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom.

And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending. And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea.

And at last there lay open the desolate realm! Through the breakers that whitened the waste of the swell, Dark--dark yawned a cleft in the midst of the whelm, The path to the heart of that fathomless hell. Round and round whirled the waves--deep and deeper still driven, Like a gorge thro' the mountainous main thunder-riven.

The youth gave his trust to his Maker! Before That path through the riven abyss closed again-- Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore, And, behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main! And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled, And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold.

O'er the surface grim silence lay dark and profound, But the deep from below murmured hollow and fell; And the crowd, as it shuddered, lamented aloud-- "Gallant youth--noble heart--fare-thee-well, fare-thee-well!" And still ever deepening that wail as of woe, More hollow the gulf sent its howl from below.

If thou should'st in those waters thy diadem fling, And cry, "Who may find it shall win it, and wear;" God's wot, though the prize were the crown of a king-- A crown at such hazard were valued too dear. For never did lips of the living reveal, What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal.

Oh many a ship, to that breast grappled fast, Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave; Again crashed together, the keel and the mast, To be seen, tossed aloft in the glee of the wave.-- Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer, Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer.

And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending, And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom.

And lo! from the heart of that far-floating gloom, What gleams on the darkness so swanlike and white? Lo! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb!-- They battle--the Man with the Element's might. It is he--it is he!--In his left hand behold, As a sign--as a joy! shines the goblet of gold!

And he breathèd deep, and he breathèd long, And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day. They gaze on each other--they shout as they throng-- "He lives--lo, the ocean has rendered its prey! And out of the grave where the Hell began, His valor has rescued the living man!"

And he comes with the crowd in their clamor and glee, And the goblet his daring has won from the water, He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee; And the king from her maidens has beckoned his daughter, And he bade her the wine to his cup-bearer bring, And thus spake the Diver--"Long life to the king!

"Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, The air and the sky that to mortals are given! May the horror below never more find a voice-- Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven! Never more--never more may he lift from the mirror, The Veil which is woven with Night and with Terror!

"Quick-brightening like lightning--it tore me along, Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at play In the rocks of its wilderness caught me--and strong As the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away. Vain, vain were my struggles--the circle had won me, Round and round in its dance the wild element spun me.

"And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer, In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath-- And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair, And I clung to it, trembling--and baffled the death. And, safe in the perils around me, behold On the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold!

"Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless obscure! A silence of horror that slept on the ear, That the eye more appalled might the horror endure! Salamander--snake--dragon--vast reptiles that dwell In the deep--coiled about the grim jaws of their hell!

"Dark-crawled--glided dark the unspeakable swarms, Like masses unshapen, made life hideously; Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms, Here the Hammer-fish darkened the dark of the sea, And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion, Went the terrible Shark--the hyena of Ocean.

"There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me, So far from the earth where man's help there was none! The one Human Thing, with the Goblins before me-- Alone--in a loneness so ghastly--ALONE! Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound, With the death of the main and the monsters around.

"Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now A hundred-limbed creature caught sight of its prey, And darted.--O God! from the far-flaming bough Of the coral, I swept on the horrible way; And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar, It seized me to save--King, the danger is o'er!"

On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvelled--quoth he, "Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine, And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee, Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine; If thou'll bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, To say what lies hid in the _innermost_ main!"

Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion, "Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest? Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean-- He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest. If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, Be your knights not, at least, put to shame by the squire!"

The king seized the goblet--he swung it on high, And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide; "But bring back that goblet again to my eye, And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side, And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree, The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee."

In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy-- And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire, On that bloom, on that blush, gazed, delighted, the boy; The maiden she faints at the feet of her sire! Here the guerdon divine; there the danger beneath; He resolves!--To the strife with the life and the death!

They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell; Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along! Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell-- They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng, Rearing up to the cliff--roaring back as before; But no wave ever brought the lost youth to the shore.

From the German of JOHANN C. F. SCHILLER.

GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP.

[Hatto, Archbishop of Mentz, in the year 914, barbarously murdered a number of poor people to prevent their consuming a portion of the food during that year of famine. He was afterwards devoured by rats in his tower on an island in the Rhine.--OLD LEGEND.]

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet: 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighborhood could tell His granaries were furnished well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, The poor folks flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.

Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And whilst for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all.

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; "And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he, And he sate down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning, as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked, there came a man from his farm-- He had a countenance white with alarm: "My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be. "Fly! my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he, "Ten thousand rats are coming this way,-- The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he; "'T is the safest place in Germany,-- The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the tide is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away; And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes, But soon a scream made him arise; He started, and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.