so huge
  The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck
  One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside
  Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 415
  Thundering to earth and leapt from Rustum’s hand. 
  And Rustum follow’d his own blow and fell
  To his knees, and with his fingers clutch’d the sand: 
  And now might Sohrab have unsheath’d his sword,
  And pierc’d the mighty Rustum while he lay 420
  Dizzy, and on his knees, and chok’d with sand: 
  But he look’d on, and smil’d, nor bar’d his sword,
  But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:—­

  “Thou strik’st too hard:  that club of thine will float
  Upon the summer floods, and not my bones, 425
  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; 430
  Have waded foremost in their bloody waves,
  And heard their hollow roar of dying men;
  But never was my heart thus touch’d before. 
  Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart? 
  O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! 435
  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 440
  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 ceas’d:  but while he spake, Rustum had risen, 445
  And stood erect, trembling with rage:  his club
  He left to lie, but had regain’d his spear,
  Whose fiery point now in his mail’d right hand
  Blaz’d bright and baleful, like that autumn star,[37]
  The baleful sign of fevers:  dust had soil’d 450
  His stately crest, and dimm’d his glittering arms. 
  His breast heav’d; his lips foam’d; and twice his voice
  Was chok’d with rage:  at last these words broke away:—­

[Rustum in wounded pride returns furiously to the combat.  He shouts his cry of “Rustum!” Sohrab incautiously at the sound exposes his side to a wound and falls.]

  “Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! 
  Curl’d minion,[38] dancer, coiner of sweet words! 455
  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 460
  Of war:  I fight it out, and hand