Gúdarz, returning, told the hopeless tale-- And thinking Rustem's presence might prevail; The Champion rose, but ere he reached the throne, Sohráb had breathed the last expiring groan. Now keener anguish rack'd the father's mind, Reft of his son, a murderer of his kind; His guilty sword distained with filial gore, He beat his burning breast, his hair he tore; The breathless corse before his shuddering view, A shower of ashes o'er his head he threw; "In my old age," he cried, "what have I done? Why have I slain my son, my innocent son! Why o'er his splendid dawning did I roll The clouds of death--and plunge my burthened soul In agony? My son! from heroes sprung; Better these hands were from my body wrung; And solitude and darkness, deep and drear, Fold me from sight than hated linger here. But when his mother hears, with horror wild, That I have shed the life-blood of her child, So nobly brave, so dearly loved, in vain, How can her heart that rending shock sustain?" Now on a bier the Persian warriors place The breathless Youth, and shade his pallid face; And turning from that fatal field away, Move towards the Champion's home in long array. Then Rustem, sick of martial pomp and show, Himself the spring of all this scene of woe, Doomed to the flames the pageantry he loved, Shield, spear, and mace, so oft in battle proved; Now lost to all, encompassed by despair; His bright pavilion crackling blazed in air; The sparkling throne the ascending column fed; In smoking fragments fell the golden bed; The raging fire red glimmering died away, And all the Warrior's pride in dust and ashes lay. Káús, the King, now joins the mournful Chief, And tries to soothe his deep and settled grief; For soon or late we yield our vital breath, And all our worldly troubles end in death! "When first I saw him, graceful in his might, He looked far other than a Tartar knight; Wondering I gazed--now Destiny has thrown Him on thy sword--he fought, and he is gone; And should even Heaven against the earth be hurled, Or fire inwrap in crackling flames the world, That which is past--we never can restore, His soul has travelled to some happier shore. Alas! no good from sorrow canst thou reap, Then wherefore thus in gloom and misery weep?" But Rustem's mighty woes disdained his aid, His heart was drowned in grief, and thus he said: "Yes, he is gone! to me for ever lost! O then protect his brave unguided host; From war removed and this detested place, Let them, unharmed, their mountain-wilds retrace; Bid them secure my brother's will obey, The careful guardian of their weary way,[48] To where the Jihún's distant waters stray." To this the King: "My soul is sad to see Thy hopeless grief--but, since approved by thee, The war shall cease--though the Túránian brand Has spread dismay and terror through the land."