The King, appeased, no more with vengeance burned, The Tartar legions to their homes returned; The Persian warriors, gathering round the dead, Grovelled in dust, and tears of sorrow shed; Then back to loved Irán their steps the monarch led. But Rustem, midst his native bands, remained, And further rites of sacrifice maintained; A thousand horses bled at his command, And the torn drums were scattered o'er the sand; And now through Zábul's deep and bowery groves, In mournful pomp the sad procession moves. The mighty Chief on foot precedes the bier; His Warrior-friends, in grief assembled near: The dismal cadence rose upon the gale, And Zál astonished heard the piercing wail; He and his kindred joined the solemn train; Hung round the bier and wondering viewed the slain. "There gaze, and weep!" the sorrowing Father said, "For there, behold my glorious offspring dead!" The hoary Sire shrunk backward with surprise, And tears of blood o'erflowed his aged eyes; And now the Champion's rural palace gate Receives the funeral group in gloomy state; Rúdábeh loud bemoaned the Stripling's doom; Sweet flower, all drooping in the hour of bloom, His tender youth in distant bowers had past, Sheltered at home he felt no withering blast; In the soft prison of his mother's arms, Secure from danger and the world's alarms. O ruthless Fortune! flushed with generous pride, He sought his sire, and thus unhappy, died. Rustem again the sacred bier unclosed; Again Sohráb to public view exposed; Husbands, and wives, and warriors, old and young, Struck with amaze, around the body hung, With garments rent and loosely flowing hair; Their shrieks and clamours filled the echoing air; Frequent they cried: "Thus Sám the Champion slept! Thus sleeps Sohráb!" Again they groaned, and wept. Now o'er the corpse a yellow robe is spread, The aloes bier is closed upon the dead; And, to preserve the hapless hero's name, Fragrant and fresh, that his unblemished fame Might live and bloom through all succeeding days, A mound sepulchral on the spot they raise, Formed like a charger's hoof. In every ear The story has been told--and many a tear, Shed at the sad recital. Through Túrán, Afrásiyáb's wide realm, and Samengán, Deep sunk the tidings--nuptial bower, and bed, And all that promised happiness, had fled!