That name, and something, I confess, in thee,
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield
Fall; and thy spear transfix’d an unarm’d foe. 550
And now thou boastest, and insult’st my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! 
My father, whom I seek through all the world,
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!” 555

As when some hunter deg. in the spring hath found deg.556
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest,
Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake,
And pierced her with an arrow as she rose,
And follow’d her to find her where she fell 560
Far off;—­anon her mate comes winging back
From hunting, and a great way off descries
His huddling young left sole deg.; at that, he checks deg.563
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 565
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side,
In some far stony gorge out of his ken,
A heap of fluttering feathers—­never more
Shall the lake glass deg. her, flying over it; deg.570
Never the black and dripping precipices
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by—­
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss,
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 575

But, with a cold incredulous voice, he said:—­
“What prate is this of fathers and revenge? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son.”

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:—­
“Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I. 580
Surely the news will one day reach his ear,
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long,
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here;
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 585
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! 
What will that grief, what will that vengeance be? 
Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her,
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 590
With that old king, her father, who grows grey
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp,
With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 595
But a dark rumour will be bruited up, deg. deg.596
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear;
And then will that defenceless woman learn
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more,
But that in battle with a nameless foe, 600
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.”