SELECTIONS IN ENGLISH POETRY
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul ?
Boy as 1 am, I have seen battles too—
Have waded foremost in their bloody waves.
And heard their hollow roar of dying men; 435
But never was my heart thus touch'd before.
Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart?
0 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
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, 450
Whose fiery point now in his maiFd right-hand
Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star,
The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil'd
His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering arms. 454
His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voice
Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way :
"Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands!
Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words!
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more!
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 460
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! 465
241 16