He spoke, and Rustum answer’d not, but hurl’d
His spear; down from the shoulder, down it came,
As on some partridge, in the corn a hawk, 400
That long has tower’d deg. in the airy clouds, deg.401
Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come,
And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spear
Hiss’d, and went quivering down into the sand,
Which it sent flying wide;—­then Sohrab threw 405
In turn, and full struck deg.  Rustum’s shield; sharp rang, deg.406
The iron plates rang sharp, but turn’d the spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he
Could wield; an unlopp’d trunk it was, and huge,
Still rough—­like those which men in treeless plains 410
To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers,
Hyphasis deg. or Hydaspes, deg. when, high up deg.412
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time
Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, deg. deg.414
And strewn the channels with torn boughs—­so huge 415
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck
One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside,
Lithe as the glancing deg. snake, and the club came deg.418
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum’s hand. 
And Rustum follow’d his own blow, and fell 420
To his knees, and with his fingers clutch’d the sand;
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword,
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand;
But he look’d on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, 425
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. 
But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I;
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 430
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—­
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves,
And heard their hollow deg. roar of dying men; deg.435
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! 
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears,
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 440
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,
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang;
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 445
Mayst fight; fight them, when they confront thy spear! 
But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me!”