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And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand

Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand,

That the hard iron corslet clank'd aloud; And to his heart he press'd the other hand,

And in a hollow voice he spake, and said :

"Sohrab, that were a proof which I could not lie!

If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son."

Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed

His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm,

And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points Prick'd; as

a cunning workman, in

Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase,

An emperor's gift--at early morn he paints,

And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp

Lights up his studious forehead and thin

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And his head swam, and he sank down to earth.

But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast

His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips,

And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks,

Trying to call him back to life; and life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes,

And they stood wide with horror; and he seized

In both his hands the dust which lay around,

And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his hair,

His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms;

And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast,

And his sobs choked him; and he clutch'd his sword.

To draw it, and for ever let life out. But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands,

And with a soothing voice he spake, and said:

"Father, forbear! for I but meet to

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ings down

Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear.

But let us speak no more of this! I find My father; let me feel that I have found!

Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take

My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks,

And wash them with thy tears, and say: My son!

Quick! quick! for number'd are my sands of life,

And swift; for like the lightning to this field

I came, and like the wind I go awaySudden, and swift, and like a passing wind.

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"Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh; thy feet

Should first have rotted on their nimble joints,

Or ere they brought thy master to this field!"

But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said;

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

My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed,

My terrible father's terrible horse! and said,

That I should one day find thy lord and thee.

Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane!

O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; For thou hast gone where I shall never

go,

And snuff'd the breezes of my father's home,

And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan,

And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake

Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food,

Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine,

And said; O Ruksh! bear Rustum well! --but I

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Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, And reap a second glory in thine age; Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come! thou seest this great host of

men

Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these!

Let me entreat for them; what have they done?

They follow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star.

Let them all cross the Oxus back in

peace.

But me thou must bear hence, not send

with them,

But carry me with thee to Seistan,
And place me on a bed, and mourn for

me,

Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all thy friends.

And thou must lay me in that lovely earth,

And heap a stately mound above my bones,

And plant, a far-seen pillar over all. That so the passing horseman on the waste

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And I shall never end this life of blood." Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied:

"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man!

But thou shalt yet have peace; only not

now,

Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day,

When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship,

Thou and the other peers of Kai Khos

roo,

Returning home over the salt blue sea, From laying thy dear master in his grave.

And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face,

and said :

"Soon be that day, my son, and deep

that sea!

Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him,

and took

The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased

His wound's imperious anguish; but the blood

Came welling from the open gash, and life

Flow'd with the stream;-all down his cold white side

The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd,

Like the soil'd tissue of white violets Left, freshly gather'd, on the native bank,

By children whom their nurses call with haste

Indoors from the sun's eye; his head droop'd low,

His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay

White, with eyes closed; only when

heavy gasps,

Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame,

Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them,

And fix'd them feebly on his father's face;

Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbs,

Unwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left,

And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world.

So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead;

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PHILOMELA

HARK! ah, the nightingale

The tawny-throated!

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst!

What triumph! hark !-what pain!

O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain
That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken,
old-world pain--

Say, will it never heal?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy rack'd heart and brain
Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold,
Here, through the moonlight on this
English grass,

The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild?

Dost thou again peruse

With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes

The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame?

Dost thou once more assay

Thy flight, and feel come over thee,
Poor fugitive, the feathery change
Once more, and once more seem to make
resound

With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale?

Listen, Eugenia

How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves!

Again-thou hearest?
Eternal passion!
Eternal pain!

THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY

1853.

Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;

Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!

No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,

Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,

Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another head.

But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone to

rest,

And only the white sheep are sometimes seen

Cross and recross the strips of moonblanch'd green,

Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest!

Here, where the reaper was at work of late-

In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves

His coat, his basket, and his earthen

cruse,

And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,

Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use

Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,

With distant cries of reapers in the

corn

All the live murmur of a summer's day.

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, halfreap'd field,

And here till sun-down, shepherd! will I be.

Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,

And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see

Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep;

And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers

Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,

And bower me from the August sun with shade;

And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book

Come, let me read the oft-read tale again!

The story of the Oxford scholar poor, Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,

Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door,

One summer-morn forsook

His friends, and went to learn the gipsylore,

And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood,

And came, as most men deem'd, to little good.

But came to Oxford and his friends no

more.

But once, years after, in the country. lanes,

Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew,

Met him, and of his way of life enquired;

Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsycrew,

His mates, had arts to rule as they desired

The workings of men's brains, And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.

"And I,” he said, "the secret of their art,

When fully learn'd, will to the world impart ;

But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill."

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