“Thou strik’st too hard! that club of thine will float Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I; No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. Thou say’st thou art not Rustum; be it so! Who art thou, then, that canst so touch my soul? Boy as I am, I have seen battles too,-- Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, And heard their hollow roar of dying men; But never was my heart thus touched before. Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart? O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum’s deeds. There are enough foes in the Persian host, Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou Mayst fight; fight _them_, when they confront thy spear! But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me!” He ceased; but while he spake, Rustum had risen, And stood erect, trembling with rage; his club He left to lie, but had regained his spear, Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soiled His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. His breast heaved, his lips foamed, and twice his voice Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way:-- “Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more! Thou art not in Afrasiab’s gardens now With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance Of battle, and with me, who make no play Of war: I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! Remember all thy valor; try thy feints And cunning! all the pity I had is gone, Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts With thy light skipping tricks and thy girl’s wiles.” He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword; at once they rushed Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their shields Dashed with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest’s heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees,--such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict: for a cloud Grew suddenly in heaven, and darked the sun Over the fighters’ heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone;