PARRHASIUS.

There stood an unsold captive in the mart, A gray-haired and majestical old man, Chained to a pillar. It was almost night, And the last seller from the place had gone, And not a sound was heard but of a dog Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, As the faint captive changed his weary feet. He had stood there since morning, and had borne From every eye in Athens the cold gaze Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer Passed on; and when, with weariness o'erspent, He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep, The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats Of torture to his children, summoned back The ebbing blood into his pallid face.

'T was evening, and the half-descended sun Tipped with a golden fire the many domes Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up With a stout heart that long and weary day, Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, But now he was alone, and from his nerves

LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA. FROM "BRUTUS."

Would you know why I summoned you together? Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger, Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse! See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death! She was the mark and model of the time, The mould in which each female face was formed, The very shrine and sacristy of virtue! Fairer than ever was a form created By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, And never-resting thought is all on fire! The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, And whispered in his ear her strains divine, Can I conceive beyond her;—the young choir Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderful Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds, Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,— How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plants Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections Might have called back the torpid breast of age To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind Might have abashed the boldest libertine And turned desire to reverential love And holiest affection! O my countrymen! You all can witness when that she went forth It was a holiday in Rome; old age Forgot its crutch, labor its task,—all ran, And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, "There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she lies! That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, Torn up by ruthless violence,—gone! gone! gone! Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls, Which saw his poisoned brother,— Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, Revenge! Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge! Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife, And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge! The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens, The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge! And we will be revenged, my countrymen! Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. Brutus your king!—No, fellow-citizens! If mad ambition in this guilty frame Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,— By all the gods, this dagger which I hold Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart. Now take the body up. Bear it before us To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches, And in the blazing conflagration rear A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

THE ROMAN FATHER. FROM "VIRGINIA"

Straightway Virginius led the maid A little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, Piled up with horn and hide; Close to yon low dark archway, Where, in a crimson flood, Leaps down to the great sewer The gurgling stream of blood.

Hard by, a flesher on a block Had laid his whittle down: Virginius caught the whittle up, And hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, And his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!

"O, how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be, To thee, thou know'st, I was not so,— Who could be so to thee? And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear My footstep on the threshold When I came back last year!

"And how she danced with pleasure To see my civic crown, And took my sword, and hung it up, And brought me forth my gown! Now, all those things are over,— Yes, all thy pretty ways, Thy needlework, thy prattle, Thy snatches of old lays;

"And none will grieve when I go forth, Or smile when I return, Or watch beside the old man's bed, Or weep upon his urn. The house that was the happiest Within the Roman walls, The house that envied not the wealth Of Capua's marble halls,

"Now, for the brightness of thy smile, Must have eternal gloom, And for the music of thy voice, The silence of the tomb. The time is come! See how he points His eager hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, Like a kite's upon the prey!

"With all his wit, he little deems That, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath, in his despair, One fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, The portion of the slave;

"Yea, and from nameless evil, That passes taunt and blow,— Foul outrage which thou knowest not, Which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, And give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, There is no way but this."

With that he lifted high the steel, And smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, And with one sob she died. Then, for a little moment, All people held their breath; And through the crowded forum Was stillness as of death;

And in another moment Brake forth, from one and all, A cry as if the Volscians Were coming o'er the wall. Some with averted faces Shrieking fled home amain; Some ran to call a leech; and some Ran to lift up the slain.

Some felt her lips and little wrist, If life might there be found; And some tore up their garments fast, And strove to stanch the wound. In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched; For never truer blow That good right arm had dealt in fight Against a Volscian foe.

When Appius Claudius saw that deed, He shuddered and sank down, And hid his face some little space With the corner of his gown; Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment-seat, And held the knife on high.

"O dwellers in the nether gloom, Avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you Do right between us twain; And even as Appius Claudius Hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius, And all the Claudian line!"

So spake the slayer of his child, And turned and went his way; But first he cast one haggard glance To where the body lay, And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, And then, with-steadfast feet, Strode right across the market-place Unto the Sacred Street.

Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him; alive or dead! Ten thousand pounds of copper To the man who brings his head." He looked upon his clients; But none would work his will. He looked upon his lictors; But they trembled, and stood still.

And as Virginius through the press His way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude Fell back to right and left. And he hath passed in safety Onto his woful home, And there ta'en horse to tell the camp What deeds are done in Rome.

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

MARK ANTONY, OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR. FROM "JULIUS CÆSAR,"  ACT III. SC. 2.

Antony.—O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure?—Fare thee well.—

(To the people.)

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrèd with their bones; So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Cæsar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, (For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men,) Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransom did the general coffers fill: Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once,—not without cause! What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason!—Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar, And I must pause till it come back to me.
————

THE SACK OF THE CITY.

Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume, The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks; Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom, Seemed they in joyous flight to dance above their wrecks.

Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high, Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel; Prostrate the palaces huge tombs of fire lie, While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel.

Died the pale mothers;—and the virgins, from their arms, O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight; With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.

Lo, where the city lies mantled in pall of death! Lo, where thy mighty arm hath passed, all things must bend! As the priests prayed, the sword stopped their accursèd breath,— Vainly their sacred book for shield did they extend.

Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian hound. To kiss thy sandal's foot, O King, thy people kneel, With golden circlet to thy glorious ankle bound.

From the French of VICTOR-MARIE HUGO.

THE SLAYING OF SOHRAB. FROM "SOHRAB AND RUSTUM."

He spake; and Rustum answered not, but hurled His spear. Down from the shoulder, down it came— As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk, That long has towered in the airy clouds, Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come, And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spear Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand, Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield. Sharp rang The iron plates, rang sharp, but turned the spear. And Rustum seized his club, which none but he Could wield—an unlapped trunk it was, and huge, Still rough; like those which men, in treeless plains, To build them boats, fish from the flooded rivers, Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time Has made in Himalayan forests wrack, And strewn the channels with torn boughs—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 Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand. And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell To his knees, and with his fingers clutched 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 looked on, and smiled, nor bared 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. But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth am I. No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. Thou sayest 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 roar of dying men; But never was my heart thus touched 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, 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 May'st fight: fight them, when they confront thy spear. But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!" He ceased. But while he spake Rustum had risen, And stood erect, trembling with rage. His club He left to lie, but had regained his spear, Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand Blazed bright and baleful—like that autumn star, The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiled His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. His breast heaved; his lips foamed; and twice his voice Was choked with rage. At last these words broke way:— "Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! 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 Of war. I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! Remember all thy valor; try thy feints And cunning; all the pity I had is gone; Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts, With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles." He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword. At once they rushed Together; as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west. Their shields Dashed with a clang together; and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees; such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud Grew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sun Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out. The steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin: And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away; and that proud horse-hair plume, Never till now defiled, sunk to the dust; And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloom Grew blacker; thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry. No horse's cry was that, most like the roar Of some pained desert lion, who all day Has trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand. The two hosts heard the cry, and quaked for fear; And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quailed not—but rushed on, And struck again; and again Rustum bowed His head. But this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in his hand the hilt remained alone. Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shouted "Rustum!" Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step, And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the ground. And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair— Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand. Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began:— "Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent; Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. And then all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, To glad thy father in his weak old age. Fool! thou art slain, and by an unknown man! Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be, Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied:— "Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I matched with ten such men as thou, And I were he who till to-day I was, They should be lying here, I standing there. But that belovèd name unnerved my arm— That name, and something, I confess, in thee, Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. 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!"
————

So Rustum knew not his own loss; but stood Over his dying son, and knew him not. 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. 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— 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 With that old king, her father, who grows gray 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 honor, when the war is done, But a dark rumor will be bruited up, 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, By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain."
————

And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said: "O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved! Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false—thou art not Rustum's son. For Rustum had no son. One child he had— But one—a girl; who with her mother now Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us; Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war." But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for now The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, And he desired to draw forth the steel, And let the blood flow free, and so to die. But first he would convince his stubborn foe; And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: "Man, who art thou, who dost deny my words? Truth sits upon the lips of dying men; And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might prick it on the babe she bore." He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks; And his knees tottered; and he smote his hand Against his breast, his heavy mailèd hand, That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud; And to his heart he pressed the other hand, And in a hollow voice he spake, and said: "Sohrab, that were a proof which 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 showed a sign in faint vermilion points Pricked. 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 hands: So delicately pricked the sign appeared On Sohrab's arm—the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks, Him that kind creature found and reared and loved. Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm, And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, And then he touched it with his hand and said: "How sayest thou? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?" He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry— "O, boy—thy father!"—and his voice choked there, And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kissed 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 smirched 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 clutched 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 spoke, and said: "Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day The doom that at my birth was written down In heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand. Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, I know it. But fate trod those promptings down Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged The strife, and hurled 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 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, With his head bowing to the ground, and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe, First to the one, then to the other moved His head, as if inquiring what their grief Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said: "Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints, When first they bore thy master to this field." But Sohrab looked 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 snuffed the breezes of my father's home, And thou hast trod the sands of Seïstan, 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 soaked with wine— And said—'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' But I Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seïstan, Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream; But lodged among my father's foes, and seen Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream— The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied: "Oh that its waves were flowing over me! Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head!" And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied: "Desire not that, my father! Thou must live; For some are born to do great deeds, and live; As some are born to be obscured, and die. 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 followed 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 Seïstan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me— Thou, and the snow-haired 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 May see my tomb a great way off, and say: Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there, Whom his great father did in ignorance kill— And I be not forgotten in my grave." And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied: "Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, And carry thee away to Seïstan, And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 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, 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, my 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; And I, not thou, be borne to Seïstan; And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; And say—O son, I weep thee not too sore, For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!— But now in blood and battles was my youth, And full of blood and battles is my age; 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-Khosroo, Returning home over the salt, blue sea, From laying thy dear master in his grave." And Rustum gazed on 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 Flowed with the stream; all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled— Like the soiled tissue of white violets Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank By romping children, whom their nurses call From the hot fields at noon. His head drooped 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 opened them, And fixed them feebly on his father's face. Till now all strength was ebbed, 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. And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. As those black granite pillars, once high-reared By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps, Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side— So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. And night came down over the solemn waste, And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night, Crept from the Oxus.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.