With joy; and all the pleasant life they led, They three, in that long-distant summertime,

The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 630

In Ader-baijan. And he saw that youth,
Of age and looks to be his own dear son,
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand;
Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut,
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed,
And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom,
On the mown, dying grass, -so Sohrab lay,
Lovely in death, upon the common sand.
And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and
said, -

640

"Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days,

Quick, quick! for numbered are my sands of life,

And swift; for like the lightning to this field

I came, and like the wind I go away, Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind; But it was writ in Heaven that this should be."

So said he; and his voice released the heart

Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast

His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud,

And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts,

When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse,

730

With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends.

And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones,

And plant a far-seen pillar over all,

And men shall not forget thee in thy grave.

And I will spare thy host; yea, let them go!

Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace! What should I do with slaying any more? For would that all whom I have ever slain Might be once more alive, my bitterest foes,

810

And they who were called champions in their time,

And through whose death I won that fame
I have,

And I were nothing but a common man,
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown,
So thou mightest live too, my son, iny
son!

Or rather would that I, even I myself,
Might now be lying on this bloody sand,
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of
thine,

Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou;

820

And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan;
And Zal might weep above my grave, not

thine;

In a voice that she will know, -
"Margaret! Margaret!"
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain,
Surely she will come again!
Call her once, and come away;

This way, this way!

"Mother dear, we cannot stay!

The wild white horses foam and fret." Margaret Margaret !

Come, dear children, come away down: Call no more!

One last look at the white-walled town,

20

And the little gray church on the windy shore;

Then come down!

She will not come, though you call all day; Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday

We heard the sweet bells over the bay, -
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye
When did music come this way?

Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday

?

30

41

50

On a red gold throne in the heart of the

sea,

And the youngest sate on her knee.

She combed its bright hair, and she tended

it well,

When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.

She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;

She said, "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore today.