With musk and ambergris he first embalmed The head of Irij, then to his old father Dispatched the present with these cruel words: "Here is the head of thy beloved son, Thy darling favourite, dress it with a crown As thou wert wont; and mark the goodly fruit Thou hast produced. Adorn thy ivory throne, In all its splendour, for this worthy head, And place it in full majesty before thee!" In the meantime, Feridún had prepared a magnificent reception for his son. The period of his return had arrived, and he was in anxious expectation of seeing him, when suddenly he received intelligence that Irij had been put to death by his brothers. The mournful spectacle soon reached his father's house. A scream of agony burst from his heart, As wildly in his arms he clasped the face Of his poor slaughtered son; then down he sank Senseless upon the earth. The soldiers round Bemoaned the sad catastrophe, and rent Their garments in their grief. The souls of all Were filled with gloom, their eyes with flowing tears, For hope had promised a far different scene; A day of heart-felt mirth and joyfulness, When Irij to his father's house returned. After the extreme agitation of Feridún had subsided, he directed all his people to wear black apparel, in honor of the murdered youth, and all his drums and banners to be torn to pieces. They say that subsequent to this dreadful calamity he always wore black clothes. The head of Irij was buried in a favorite garden, where he had been accustomed to hold weekly a rural entertainment. Feridún, in performing the last ceremony, pressed it to his bosom, and with streaming eyes exclaimed: "O Heaven, look down upon my murdered boy; His severed head before me, but his body Torn by those hungry wolves! O grant my prayer, That I may see, before I die, the seed Of Irij hurl just vengeance on the heads Of his assassins; hear, O hear my prayer." --Thus he in sorrow for his favourite son Obscured the light which might have sparkled still, Withering the jasmine flower of happy days; So that his pale existence looked like death. MINÚCHIHR Feridún continued to cherish with the fondest affection the memory of his murdered son, and still looked forward with anxiety to the anticipated hour of retribution. He fervently hoped that a son might be born to take vengeance for his father's death. But it so happened that Mahafríd, the wife of Irij, gave birth to a daughter. When this daughter grew up, Feridún gave her in marriage to Pishung, and from that union an heir was born who in form and feature resembled Irij and Feridún. He was called Minúchihr, and great rejoicings took place on the occasion of his birth.