When the frost flowers the whitened window-panes,-- And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused His spirited air, and wondered who he was. For very young he seemed, tenderly reared; Like some young cypress, tall and dark and straight, Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound,-- So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared. And a deep pity entered Rustum’s soul As he beheld him coming; and he stood, And beckoned 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. Behold me! I am vast, and clad in iron, And tried; and I have stood on many a field Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe: Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? Be governed: quit the Tartar host, and come To 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, The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw His giant figure planted on the sand, Sole, like some single tower, which a chief Hath builded on the waste in former years Against the robbers; and he saw that head, Streaked with its first gray hairs; hope filled his soul, And he ran forward, and embraced his knees, And clasped his hand within his own, and said,-- “Oh, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul! Art thou not Rustum? Speak! art thou not he?” But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, And turned 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, And hide it not, but say, _Rustum is here!_ He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes; But he will find some pretext not to fight, And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab’s hall In Samarcand, he will arise and cry,-- ‘I challenged once, when the two armies camped Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords To cope with me in single fight; but they Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I Changed 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 turned, and sternly spake aloud,-- “Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast called