The prompt denial dampt his filial joy, All hope at once forsook the Warrior-boy, His opening day of pleasure, and the bloom Of cherished life, immersed in shadowy gloom. Perplexed with what his mother's words implied;-- A narrow space is now prepared, aside, For single combat. With disdainful glance Each boldly shakes his death-devoting lance, And rushes forward to the dubious fight; Thoughts high and brave their burning souls excite; Now sword to sword; continuous strokes resound, Till glittering fragments strew the dusty ground. Each grasps his massive club with added force,[42] The folding mail is rent from either horse; It seemed as if the fearful day of doom Had, clothed in all its withering terrors, come. Their shattered corslets yield defence no more-- At length they breathe, defiled with dust and gore; Their gasping throats with parching thirst are dry, Gloomy and fierce they roll the lowering eye, And frown defiance. Son and Father driven To mortal strife! are these the ways of Heaven? The various swarms which boundless ocean breeds, The countless tribes which crop the flowery meads, All know their kind, but hapless man alone Has no instinctive feeling for his own! Compell'd to pause, by every eye surveyed, Rustem, with shame, his wearied strength betrayed; Foil'd by a youth in battle's mid career, His groaning spirit almost sunk with fear; Recovering strength, again they fiercely meet; Again they struggle with redoubled heat; With bended bows they furious now contend; And feather'd shafts in rattling showers descend; Thick as autumnal leaves they strew the plain, Harmless their points, and all their fury vain. And now they seize each other's girdle-band; Rustem, who, if he moved his iron hand, Could shake a mountain, and to whom a rock Seemed soft as wax, tried, with one mighty stroke, To hurl him thundering from his fiery steed, But Fate forbids the gallant youth should bleed; Finding his wonted nerves relaxed, amazed That hand he drops which never had been raised Uncrowned with victory, even when demons fought, And pauses, wildered with despairing thought. Sohráb again springs with terrific grace, And lifts, from saddle-bow, his ponderous mace; With gather'd strength the quick-descending blow Wounds in its fall, and stuns the unwary foe; Then thus contemptuous: "All thy power is gone; Thy charger's strength exhausted as thy own; Thy bleeding wounds with pity I behold; O seek no more the combat of the bold!"