 Part 1 of Tristram and Assault by Matthew Arnold. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nathan at antipodianwriter.wordpress.com. Tristram and Assault by Matthew Arnold, Part 1. Tristram. Is she not come? The messenger was sure. Prop me upon the pillows. Once again, raise me my page. This cannot long endure. Christ, what a night. How the sleet whips the pain. What lights all those out to the north would be. The lanterns of the fishing boats at sea. Soft. Who is that? Stands by the dying fire. Assault. Ah, not the Assault I desire. What night is this so weekend pale, though the locks are yet brown and his noble head propped on pillows in his bed, gazing seaward for the light of some ship that fights the gale. On this wild December night, over the sick man's feet is spread a dark green forest dress. A gold harp leans against the bed, ruddy in the fire's light. I know him by his harp of gold, famous in Arthur's Court of Gold. I know him by his forest dress, the peerless hunter, harp the night. Tristram of lioness. What lady is this, whose silk attire gleams so rich in the light of the fire, the ringlets on her shoulders lying in their flitting luster vying with the clasp of burnished gold, which her heavy robe doth hold. Her looks are mild, her fingers slight, as the driven snow are white, but her cheeks are sunk and pale. Is it that the bleak sea gale beating from the Atlantic Sea on this coast of Brittany nips too keenly the sweet flower? Is it that a deep fatigue hath come on her a chilly fear, passing all her youthful hour, spinning with her maidens here, listlessly through the window bars, gazing seawards many a league. From her lonely, shore-built tower, while the nights are at the wars, or perhaps has her young heart felt already some deeper smart, of those that in secret the heartstrings writhe, leaving her sunk and pale both hair. Who is this snow-dropped by the sea? I know her by her mildness rare, her snow-white hands, her golden hair. I know her by her rich silk dress and her fragile loveliness, the sweetest Christian soul alive. Esalt of Brittany. Esalt of Brittany? But where is that other Esalt fair, that proud first Esalt, Cornwell's Queen? She whom Tristram's ship of yore from Ireland to Cornwell bore, to Tentacle, to the side of King Mark to be his bride. She who, as they voyaged, quaffed with Tristram that spiced magic draught, which since then forever rolls through their blood and binds their souls, working love but working team. There were two Esalts who did sway each her hour of Tristram's day, but one possessed his waning time, the other his resplendent prime. Behold her here, the patient flower, who possessed his darker hour. Esalt of the snow-white hand, watch as paled by Tristram's bed. She is here, who had his gloom. Where are thou, who hadst his gloom? One such kiss as those of yore. Might thou dying night restore? Does the love draught work no more? Art thou cold or false or dead? Esalt of Ireland. Thou'd howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, and the night sinks back on his pillows again. His weak with fever and pain, and his spirit is not clear. Hark, he mutters in his sleep, as he wanders far from here. Changes place and time of year, and his closed eye doth sweep over some fear. And wintery sea, not this fierce Atlantic deep, as he mutters brokenly. The calm sea shines, lose hang of the vessel's sails, before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, and overhead the cloudless sky of May. Ah, would I were in those green fields at play, not pent on ship for this delicious day. Tristram, I play thee, of thy courtesy. Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee, but pledge me in it first for courtesy. Ha! Dost thou start? Are thy lips blanched like mine? Child, tis no water, this tis poison vine. Esalt! Ah, sweet angels, let him dream, keep his eyelids, let him seem, not this fever wasted white, thinned and paled before his time, but the brilliant youthful night in the glory of his prime, sitting in the gilded barge at thy side, Thou'l love and charge, bending gaily over thy hand, esalt of Ireland. And she too, that Princess Fair, if her bloom be now less rare, let her have her youth again, let her be as she was then, let her have her proud dark eyes and her petulant quick replies, let her sweep her dazzling hand with its gesture of command, and shake back her raven hair with the old imperious air. As of old, so let her be, that first isalt Princess Bright chatting with her youthful night, as he steers her over the sea, quitting at her father's will, the green isle where she was bred, and her bower in Ireland, for the search beat cornish strand, where the Prince whom she must wed, dwells on loud Tentacles Hill, high above the sounding sea. And that golden cup her mother gave her, that her future Lord gave her, that King Mark, and she might drink it on their marriage day, and forever love each other, let her, as she sits on board, ah, sweet saints unwittingly, see it shine and take it up, and to Tristram, laughing, say, Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, pledge me in my golden cup, let them drink it, let their hands tremble, and their cheeks be flame, as they feel the fatal bands of the love they dare not name, with her wild, delicious pain twine about their hearts again, let the early summer be once more round them, and the sea blue and over its mero kind, let the breath of them may wind, wandering through their drooping sails, die on the green fields of Wales, let a dream like this restore, what is I must see no more? She'll blow as the wind that pleasant walks a dreary madcap, what just was this to meet me here, with feet like those made for so wild away, the southern winter parlor by my fae, had been the likeliest Tristram place today. Tristram, nay, nay, thou must not take my hand, Tristram, sweet love, we are betrayed, our planned fly, save thyself, save me, I dare not stay, one last kiss first, tis vain to horse away. Ah, sweet saints, his dream doth move faster surely than it should, from the fever in his blood, all the springtime of his love is already gone and past, and instead thereof is seen its winter, which endureth still, tentacle on its surge-beat hill, the pleasant walks, the weeping queen, the flying leaves, the straining blast, and that long wild kiss, their last, and this rough December night, and his burning fever-pain, mingle with his hurrying dream, till they rule it, till he's seen the pressed fugitive again, the love-desperate banished night, with a fire in his brain, flying over the stormy main. Wither does he wander now, happily in his dreams, the wind wafts him here, and lets him find the lovely orphan child again, in her castle by the coast, the youngest, fairest chattelaine, that this realm of France can boast our snow-dropper by the Atlantic Sea, his salt of Brittany. And for through the haggard air, the stained arms, the matted hair, of that stranger night he'll start, there gleamed something which recalled the Tristram, who in better days was Lancelot's guest at Joyer's Guard, welcomed here and here, and stalled, tended of his fever here, happily he seems again to move his young guardian's heart with love, in his ex-old loneliness, in his stately deep distress, without a word, without a tear. Ah, it is well he should retrace his tranquil life in this lone place, his gentle bearing at the side of his timid, youthful bride, his long rambles by the shore on winter evenings, when the roar of the near waves came sadly grand, through the dark, up the drowned sand, or his endless reveries in the woods where the gleamed play, on the grass, under the trees, passing the long summer's day, idle as a mossy stone, in the forest, to depths alone, the chase neglected, and his hound couched beside him on the ground. Ah, what troubles on his brow, hither let him wander now, hither to the quiet hours, past among these heaths of ours, by the great Atlantic sea, ours, if not of ecstasy, from violent anguish, surely free. All red with blood, the whirling river flows, the wide plain rings, the days dear, throbs with blows upon us, are the chivalry of Rome, their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. Up, Tristram, up, men cry, they are moonstruck night, what foul fiend rides thee on into the fight, above the dinner voices in my ears, I see her former life through the crossing spears. Assault! Ah, he wanders forth again, we cannot keep him now, as then there's a secret in his breast, which will never let him rest. These musing fits in the green wood, they cloud the brain, they dull the blood, his sword is sharp, his horse is good. Beyond the mountains will he see the famous towns of Italy, and labelled with the blessed sign that he even Saxons on the Rhine. At Arthur's side he fights once more with the Roman Emperor. There's many a gay knight where he goes, will help him to forget his care, the march, the leaguer, heavens, blithe air, the nailing steeds, the ringing blows, sick pining comes not where these are. Ah, what boots it, that the jest lightens every other brow, what, that every other breast dances as the trumpets blow, if one's own heart beats not light on the waves of the tossed fight, if one's self cannot get free from the clog of misery. Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale, watching by the salt sea tide with her children at her side, for the gleam of thy white sail, home, Tristram, to thy halls again, to our lonely sea complain, to our forests tell thy pain. All round the forest sweeps off black in shade, but it is moonlight in the open glade, and in the bottom of the glade shine clear the forest japple in the fountain near. I think I have a fever in my blood, come, let me leave the shadow of this wood right down and bathe my hot brood out on the flood, mild showings the cold spring in the moon's clear light, God, tis her face plays in the water's bright, fair love, she says, can't thou forget so soon at this soft hour under this sweet moon? This salt! Ah, poor soul, if this be so, only death can barn thy woe. The solitudes of the green wood had no medicine for thy mood. The rushing battle cleared thy blood, as little as did solitude. Ah, his eyelids slowly break, their hot seals and let him wake. What new change shall we now see? A happier? Worse, it cannot be. Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire. On the window panes the moon shines bright, the wind is down, but shall not come tonight. Ah, no, she is asleep in Cornwall now. Far hence her dreams are fair as smooth as her brow. Of me, she ricks not, nor my vain desire. I have had dreams. I have had dreams, my page, would take a score years from a strong man's age, and with a blood like mine will leave I fear scant leisure for a second messenger. My princess, art thou here? Sweet, tis too late. Too bad in sleep, my fever has gone by. Tonight my page shall keep me company. Where did the children sleep? Kiss them for me. My child, thou heart almost as pale as I. This comes at nursing long end, watching late. To bed. Good night. She left the glimly to fireplace. She came to the bedside. She took his hands in hers, her tears down on her slender fingers reigned. She raised her eyes upon his face, not with a look of wounded pride, a look as if the heart complained. Her look was like a sad embrace, the gaze of one who can divine a grief and sympathise. Sweet flower, thy children's eyes are not more innocent than thine. But they sleep in sheltered rest like helpless birds in the warm nest on the castle southern side, where feebly comes the mournful roar of buffeting wind and surging tide through many a room and corridor, full on their window the moon's ray makes their chamber as bright as day. It shines upon the blank white walls, and on the snowy pillow falls, and on to angel heads doth play turn to each other the eyes closed, the lashes on the cheeks reposed round each sweet brow, the cap closed set, hardly lets peep the golden hair. Through the soft open lips the air scarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrown at random on the counterpane, and often the fingers close in haste as if their baby owner chased the butterflies again. This stir they have, and this alone, but else they are so still. Ah, tired madcaps, you lie still, but were you at the window now to look forth on the fairy of your illumined haunts by night to see the parklates where you play far lovelier than they are by day, to see the sparkle on the eaves and upon every giant bow of those old oaks whose wet red leaves addued with bright drops of rain. How would your voices run again and far beyond the sparkling trees of the castle park one sees the bare heath spreading clear as day, more behind more far far away into the heart of Brittany, and here and there locked by the land, longer inlets of smooth glittering sea, and many a stretch of watery sand, all shining in the white moon beams, but you see fairer in your dreams. What voices are these on the clear night air? What lights in the court? What steps on the stair? End of part one. Recorded by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com. Part two of Tristram Andy Salt by Matthew Arnold. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com. Tristram and Esalt by Matthew Arnold. Part two. Esalt of Ireland. Like a poor sufferer that I carried, bound I was, I could not break the band. Try not with the past, but feel the present. I am here, we meet, I hold thy hand. Thou hast come indeed, thou hast rejoined me, thou hast did it, but too late to save. Fear not now that men should tax thine honour, I am dying, build thine mace, my grave. Tristram, awful love of heaven speaking kindly. What I hear these bitter words from thee? Sick with grief I am and faint with trouble, I forgot thou comest from thy voyage, Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair, But thy dark eyes are not dimmed, Browley Salt, And thy beauty never was more fair. Ah, ash-ladderer, little o' my beauty, I like thee have left my youth afar, Take my hand and touch these wasted fingers, See my cheek and lips how white they are. Thou art paler, but thy sweet charming salt Would not fade with the dull years away. Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight, I forgive thee, I salt, Thou wilt stay. Fear me not, I will be always with thee, I will watch thee tendy soothe thy pain, Singly tales of true long path at others, jointed evening with thee days again. No, thou shalt not speak, I should be finding something altered in thy courtly tone. Sit, sit by me, I will think we've lived so in the Greenwood all our lives alone. Altered, Tristram, not in courts, believe me, Love like mine is altered in the breast, Courtly life is light and cannot reach it, Ah, it lives because so deep suppressed. What, thou thinkest men speaking courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consoled? What, thou thinkest this aching brow Was cooler, circle, Tristram, by a band of gold? Royal state with Mark, my deep wronged husband, That was bliss to make my sorrows flee. Silk and courteous, whispering, honeyed nothings, Those were friends to make me false to thee. Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown, Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, Me, a smiling queen upon thy throne. Bane and strange debate were both have suffered, Both have passed a youth constrained and sad. Both have brought their anxious day to evening, And have now short space for being glad. Joined we are henceforth, Nor will thy people, nor thy younger esult take it ill, That a former rival shares her office When she sees her humbled pale and still. I a faded watcher by thy pillow, I a statue on thy chapel floor, Horting grief before the virgin mother, Rows no anger, make no rivals, more. She will cry, is this the foe I dreaded, This his idol, this that royal bride? Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight, Stay pale, queen, forever by my side. Hush, no words, that smile I see, forgive me, I am now by nurse, I did be sleep. Close thine eyes, this flooding moonlight, Blinds them, nay, all's well again, Thou must not weep. I am happy, yet I feel there's something swells my heart, And takes my breath away, through a mist I see thee near, Come nearer, bend, bend down, I yet have much to say. Heaven, his head sinks back upon the pillow, Tristram, Tristram, Met by heart, not fail, call on God, And on the holy angels, what love, Courage, Christ, is so pale. Hush, tis vain, I feel my end approaching, This is what my mother said should be, And the fierce pains took her in the forest, The deep draughts of death in bearing me. Son, she said, by name shall be of sorrow, Tristram, art thou called for my death's sake, So she said, and died in the tree of forest, Grief since then his home with me doth make. I'm dying, start not, nor look wildly, Me, by living friend thou canst not save. But since living we were ununited, Go not far, or he salt from my grave. Rise, go hence, and seek the princess, His salt, speak her fear, She is of royal blood, say, I charge to her, That thou stay beside me, she will grant it, She is kind and good. Now to sail the seas of death, I leave thee, One last kiss upon the living shore. Tristram, Tristram, stay receive me with thee, His salt leaves thee, Tristram, nevermore. You see them clear, the moon shines bright, Slow, slow and softly, Where she stilt, she sinks upon the ground, Her hood has fallen back, her arms outspread, Still holds her lover's hands, her head is bowed, Half buried on the bed. Over the blanched sheet, her raven hair Lies in disordered streams, And there, strung like white stars, The pearls still are, And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, Flash on her white arms still. The very same which yesterday night, Flashed in the silver sconce's light, When the feast was gay, and the laughter loud, Intentacles pallous-proud. But then they decked a restless ghost, With hot flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tide of courtly speech, Her abruptly died, and a glance which over the crowded floor, The dancers and the festive host, Whoever to the door. But the night's idle in surprise, And the dames whispered scoffingly, Her moods good lack, they passed like showers, But yesterday night, And she would be as pale and still as withered flowers, And now tonight she laughs and speaks, And has a colour in her cheeks, Christ keep us from such fantasy. Yes, now the longing is over-past, Which, dulled by fear, and fought by shame, Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consumed her beauty like a flame, And dimmed it like the desert blast, And though the curtains hide her face, Yet were it lifted to the light, The sweet expression of her brow Would charm the gaze-er, Till his thought erased the ravages of time, Filled up the hollow cheek, And brought a freshness back as of her prime. So healing is her quiet now, So perfectly the lines express A tranquil, settled loveliness, Her younger rivals, purest grace. The air of the December night Steals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be, Swinging with it in the light, Flaps the ghost-like tapestry, And on the arise wrought you see A stately huntsman, clad in green, Round him a fresh forest scene, On that clear forest knoll he stays, With his pack round him and delays, He stares and stares with troubled face, At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace, At that bright iron-figured door, And those blow-on rushes on the floor, He gazes down into the room With heated cheeks and flurried air, And to himself he seems to say, What place is this and who are they? Who is that kneeling lady fair, And on his pillow is that pale night Who seems of marble on a tomb? How comes it here, this chamber bright? Through whose mullion windows clear The castle court, all wet with rain, The drawbridge and the moat appear, And in the beach and marked with spray The sunken reefs and far away The unacquired, bright Atlantic plain? What has some glamour made me sleep, And sent me with my dogs to sweep By night with oysterous bugle-peel? Through some old seaside, nightly hall, Not in the free green wood at all? That night's asleep, And at her prayer that lady by the bed doth kneel, Then hush thou oysterous bugle-peel? The wild boar rustles in his lair, The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air, But lord and hounds keep rooted there. Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the break, O hunter, And without a fear, thy golden tassled bugle-blow, And through the glades thy pastime take, For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here, For these thou seest are unmoved, cold, Cold as those who lived and loved a thousand years ago. End of Part 2. Recorded by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com Part 3 of Tristram & Assault by Matthew Arnold. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com. Tristram & Assault by Matthew Arnold. Part 3. U-Sault of Brittany. A year had flown and over the sea away in Cornwall, Tristram & Queen Assault lay in King Mark's Chapel in tentacle old, there in a ship they bore those lovers cold. The young surviving U-Sault one bright day had wandered forth. Her children were at play in a green circular hollow in heath which borders the seashore. A country path creeps over it from the tilt fields behind. The hollows grassy banks are soft inclined and too understanding on them far and near. The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear over the waist. This circle of open ground is light and green. The heather which all round creeps thickly grows not here. But the pale grass is strewn with rocks and many a shivered mass of veined white gleaming warts and here and there dotted with holly trees and juniper. In the smooth centre of the opening stood a three holly side by side and made a screen warm with the winter sun of burnished green. With scarlet berries gemmed the fell fairs' food. Under the glittering holly's U-Sault stands watching her children play their little hands of busy gathering spars of quartz and streams of stag horn for their hats anon with screams of mad delight they dropped their spoils and bound among the holly plumps and broken ground racing full speed and startling in their rush the fell fairs and the speckled mistletrush out of their glossy covets. But when now their cheeks were flushed and over each hot brow under the feathered hats of the sweet pair in blinding masses showered the golden hair then U-Sault called them to her and three clustered under the holly screen and she told them an old world Breton history. Warm in their mantles wrapped the three stood there under the holly's and the clean still air mantles with those rich furs deep blistering which Venice ships to from Swat Egypt bring long they stayed still then pacing out of their ease moved up and down under the glossy trees but still as they pursued their warm dry road from U-Sault slips the unbroken story flowed and still the children listened their blue eyes fixed on their mother's face in wide surprise nor did their look stray once to the seaside or to the brown heaths round them bright and wide or to the snow which though it was all away from the open heath still by the hedgerows lay or to the shining seafowl that with screams were up from where the bright Atlantic gleams sweeping to landward or to where quite clear the fell fairs settled on the thickets near and they would still have listened till dark night came keen and chilled down on the heather bright but when the red glow on the sea grew cold and the great turrets of the castle old looked sternly through the frosty evening air the U-Sault took by the hand those children fair and brought her tail to an end and found the path and led them home over the darkening heath and is she happy does she see unmoved the days in which she might have lived and loved slipped without bringing this slowly away one after one tomorrow like today joy has not found her yet nor ever will is it this thought which makes her mean so still her features so fatigued her eyes so sweet so sunk so rarely lifted saved to meet her children's she lives slow her voice alone hath yet an infant tone and silver tone but even that comes languidly in truth she seems one dying in a mask of youth and now she will go home and softly lay her laughing children in their beds and play a while with them before they sleep and then she'll light her silver lamp which fishermen dragging their nets through the rough waves afar along this iron coast know like a star and take her broidery frame and there she'll sit hour after hour her gold curls sweeping it lifting her soft bent head only to mind her children will to listen to the wind and when the clock peels midnight she will move her work away and let her fingers rove across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound who lies guarding her feet along the ground or else she will fall musing her blue eyes fixed her slight hands clasped on her lap then rise and at her prey do kneel and we have told her rosary beads of ebony tipped with gold then to her soft sleep and tomorrow will be today's exact repeated effigy yes it is lonely for her in the hall the children and the grey heads and a shawl her women and so Tristram's aged hound are there the sole companions to be found but these she loves and noisier life than this she would find ill to bear weak as she is she has her children too and night and day is with them the sheaths where they play the hollies and the cliff and the seashore the sand, the seabirds and the distant sails these are to her dearest to them the tales with which this day the children she beguiled she gleaned from Breton Grand Ames when a child in every hut along this sea coast wild she herself loves them still and when they are told can forget all to hear them as a vult dear saints it is not sorrow as I hear not suffering which shuts up before and lets us be what we will once no more no, we may suffer deeply yet retain power to be moved and soothed for all our pain by what of old pleased us and will again no, it is the gradual furnace of the world in whose hot air our spirits are up curled until they crumble or else grow like steel which kills in us the bloom the youth the spring which leaves the fierce necessity to feel but takes away the power this can avail by drying up our joy in everything our former pleasures all seem stale this or some tyrannous single thought some fit of passion which subdues our souls to it till for its sake alone we live and move call it ambition or remorse or love this too can change us wholly and make seem all which we did before shadow and dream and yet I swear it angers me to see how this full passion gulls men potently being in truth but a diseased unrest and a nuttural overheat at best how they are full of linger and distress not having it which when they do possess they straightway are burnt up with fume and care and spend their lives in posting here and there where this plague drives them and have little ease are furious with themselves and hard to please like that bold Caesar the famed Roman white who wept at reading of a Grecian knight who made a name at younger years than he or that renowned mirror Prince Alexander Phillips Peerless son who carried the great war from Macedon into the Sudan's realm and thundered on to die at 35 in Belong a tale did Esult to the children say under the hollies that bright winter's day she told them of the fairy haunted land away the other side of Brittany beyond the heaths edged by the lonely sea of the deep forest glades of Brocky Leand through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps where Merlin by the enchanted thorn tree sleeps for here he came with the fae Vivian one April when the warm days first began he was on foot and that false fae his friend on her white porphyry here he met his end in these lone silvan glades that April day this tale of Merlin and the lovely fae was the one Esult chose and she brought clear before the children's fancy him and her blowing between the stems the forest air had loosened the brown curls of Vivian's hair which played on her flushed cheek and her blue eyes sparkled with mocking glee and exercise her porphyry's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat for they had travelled far and not stopped yet a briar in that tangled wilderness had scored her white right hand which she allows to rest ungloved on her green riding dress the other warded off the drooping boughs but still she chatted on with her blue eyes fixed full on Merlin's face her stately prize her havia had the morning's fresh clear grace the spirit of the woods was in her face she looked so witching fair that learned why forgot his craft and his best wits took flight and he grew fond and eager to obey his mistress use her empire as she may they came to where the brushwood ceased and day peered to twist the stems and the ground broke away and a slope swarred down to the brawling oak and up as high as where they stood to look on the brook's father side was clear but then the underwood and trees began again this open glen was studded thick with thorns then white with blossom and you saw the horns through the green fern the shy fellow dear who cometh noon down to the water here you saw the bright eyed squirrels dart along under the thorns on the green sword and strong the blackbird whistled from the dingles near and the weird chipping of the woodpecker rang lonelyly and sharp the sky was fair and a fresh breath had spring stirred everywhere Merlin and Vivian stopped on the slope's brow to gaze on the green sea of leaf and bow which glistering lay all round them lone and mild as if to itself the quiet forest smiled upon the brow top grew a thorn and here the grass was dry and must and you saw clear across the hollow white anemones starved the cool turf and clumps of primroses ran out from the dark underwood behind no fair arresting place a man could find here let us halt said Merlin then and she nodded and tied her poultry to a tree they sat them down together and asleep fell upon Merlin more like death so deep her finger on her lips then Vivian rose and from her brown locked head the wimple throws and takes it in her hand and waves it over blossomed thorn tree and her sleeping mother nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round and made a little plot of magic ground and in that daisied circle as men say is Merlin prisoner till the judgement day that she herself wither she will conrove for she was passing weary of his love End of part three End of Tristram and Assault by Matthew Arnold recorded by Nathan at antibodyandwriter.wordpress.com Saurabh and Rustam by Matthew Arnold this is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Nathan at antibodyandwriter.wordpress.com Saurabh and Rustam by Matthew Arnold and the first grow of morning filled the east and the fog rose out of the oxus stream that all the tartar camp along the streams were plunged in sleep Saurabh alone he slept not all night long he had lain wakeful tossing on his bed but when the grey dawn stole into his tent he rose and clad himself and girt his sword and took his horseman's cloak and left his tent and went abroad into the cold wet fog through the dim camp to Baron Wiesa's tent through the black tartar tents he passed which stood clustering like beehives on the low flat strand of oxus where the summer floods overflow when the sun melts the snows in high Pamir through the black tents he passed over that low strand and to a hillock came a little back from the streams brink the spot where first a boat crossing the stream in summer scrapes the land the men of former times had crowned the top with a clay forward but that was fallen and now the tartars built their Peran Wiesa's tent a dome of lace and over it felts were spread and Saurabh came there and went in upon the thick piled carpets in the tent and found the old man sleeping on his bed of rugs and felts and near him lay his arms and Peran Wiesa heard him though the step was dulled for he slept light on old man's sleep and he rose quickly on one arm and said who are they or it is not yet clear dawn speak is there news or any night alarm but Saurabh came to his bedside and said how nice to me Peran Wiesa it is I the sun is not yet risen and the foe sleep but I sleep not all night long aligh tossing and wakeful and I come to thee so did King Afrasiyab bid me seek thy council and to heed thee as thy sun and some I can't before the army marched and I will tell thee what my heart desires Thou nursed if since from Ababajan first I came among the tartars and bore arms I have still served Afrasiyab well and shone at my boys years the courage of a man is too Thou nursed that while I bear on the conquintata ensigns through the world and beat the Persians back on every field I seek one man one man and one alone Rustam my father whom hoped should greet should one day greet upon some well fought field he's not unworthy not inglorious son so I long hoped but him I never find come then here now and grant me what I ask let the two armies rest today but I will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords to meet me man to man if I prevail Rustam will surely call old man the dead need no one claim no kin din is the rumour of a common fight where host meets host and many names are sunk but of a single combat fame speaks clear he spoke and Peran Wisa took the hand of the young man in his inside and said oh Sohrab an unquiet heart is thine canst thou not rest among the tartar chiefs and share the battle's common chance with us who love thee but must press forever first in single fight in single risk to find a father thou hast never seen at worth our best my son to stay with us unmermering in our tents while it is war and went his truce then in Aphraceib's towns but if this one desire indeed rules all to seek out Rustam seek him not through fight seek him in peace and carry to his arms oh Sohrab carry an unwounded son but far hence seek him for he is not here for now it is not as when I was when Rustam was in front of every fray but now he keeps apart and sits at home and cistan with Zal his father old whether that his own mighty strength at last feels the abhorred approaches of old age were in some quarrel with the Persian king there go thou ought not yet my heart forbodes danger or death awaits thee on this field fame would I know thee safe and well though lost to us fame therefore send thee hence in peace father not seek single fights in vain but who can keep the lions cub from the ravening and who govern Rustam's son go I will grant thee what thy heart desires so said he and dropped Sohrab's hand and left his bed and the warm rugs were on he lay and over his chilly limbs his woollen coat he passed and tied his sandals on his feet and threw a white cloak round him and he took in his right hand a ruler's staff no sword and on his head he set his sheep black glossy curled the fleece of caracal and raised the curtain off his tent and called his herald to his side and went abroad the sun by this had risen and cleared the fog from the broad oxes and the glittering sands and from their tents the tartar horsemen filed into the open plains so Haman bade, Haman who next to Perrin we sir ruled the host and still was in his lusty prime from their black tents long files of horse they streamed as when some grey November mourned the files in order spread of long necked cranes stream over Caspian and the southern slopes of earlbuzz from the Aralooan estuaries or some frau Caspian reed bed southward bound for the warm Persian seaboard so they streamed the tartars of the oxes the kings guard first with black sheepskin caps and with long spears large men large steeds who from Bokhara come and Kiva and ferment the milk of nears. Next the more temperate talk commons the tukas and the lances of Solor and those from Atruk and the Caspian sands light men and ham light steeds who only drink the acrid milk of camels and their wells and then a swarm of wandering horse who came from far in a more doubtful service owned the tartars of Fagana from the banks of the Jacques Garties men with scanty beards and close set skull caps and those wilder hordes who roam over Kipchak and the northern waste Calmux and unkempt Cusack tribes who stray nearest the pole and wandering curgizis who come on shaggy ponies from Damir these all filed out from camp into the plain and on the other side the Persians formed first a little cloud of horse tartars they seemed the Iliads of Khorasan and behind the royal troops of Persia horse and foot marshaled battalions bright in burnished steel but Peran Wisa with his herald came threading the tartar squadrons to the front and with his staff to the most ranks and when Ferud who led the Persians saw that Peran Wisa kept the tartars back he took his spear into the front he came and checked his ranks and fixed them where they stood the old tartar came upon the sand betwixt the silent hosts and spake and said Ferud and ye Persians and tartars here let there be truce between the hosts today but choose a champion from the Persian lords to fight our champion Sohrab man to man as in the country on a morning dawn in June when the Jew glistens on the peeled ears a sheva runs through the deep corn for joy so when they heard what Peran Wisa said a thrall thrall the tartar squadrons ran of pride and hope for Sohrab whom they loved but as a troop of peddlers from Kabul cross underneath the Indian Caucasus that vast sky neighbouring mountain of milk snow crossing so high that as they mount they pass long flocks of traveling birds dead on the snow choked by the air themselves slaked their parched throats with sugared mulberries in a single file they moved and stopped their breath of fear they should dislodge the overhanging snows so the pale Persians held their breath of fear and to Ferud his brother chiefs came up to council, Gadirz and Zorar came and Faribers who ruled the Persian host second and was the uncle of the king he came and counselled and then Gadirz said Ferud, shame bids us take their challenge up yet champion have we none to match this youth he has the wild stag's foot at the lion's heart but Rustram came last night Balufi sits and sullen and has pitched his tents apart him will I see can carry to his ear the tartar challenge and this young man's name happily he will forget his wrath and fight stand forth a while and take their challenge up so spaky and Ferud stood forth and cried old man be it agreed as thou hast said let Sohrab arm and you will find a man we spake and Peran we turned and strode back through the open squadrons to his tent but through the anxious Persians Gadirz ran and crossed the camp which lay behind and reached out on the sands beyond it Rustram's tents of scarlet cloth they were and glittering gay just pitched the high pavilion in the midst was Rustram's and his men lay camped around and Gadirz entered Rustram's tent and found Rustram was done but still the table stood before him charged with food sider roasted sheep and cakes of bread and dark green melons and their Rustram sate listless and held a falcon on his wrist and played with it but Gadirz came and stood before him and he looked and saw him stand and with a cry sprang up and dropped to the bird and greeted Gadirz with both hands and said welcome these eyes could see no better sight what news but sit down first and eat and drink but Gadirz in the tent door and said not now a time will come to eat and drink but not today, today has other needs the armies are drawn out and stand at gaze for from the Tartars is a challenge brought to pick a champion from the Persian lords to fight their champion and thou knowest his name Sohrab men called him but his birth his head Rustram like thou might is this young man's he has the wild stag's foot the lion's heart and he is young and Iran's chiefs are old or else too weak and all eyes turn to thee come down and help this Rustram all we lose he spoke but Rustram answered with a smile go to if Iran's chiefs are old then I am older the younger weak the king is strangely for the king Fakai costruing himself as young and honours younger men and lets the aged molder to their graves Rustram he loves no more but loves the young the young may rise at Sohrab's point not I for what care I though all speak Sohrab's fame for would that I myself had such a son and not the one slight helpless girl I have a son so famed so brave to send to war and I to tarry with the snow haired Zal my father in the robber Afghans vex and clip his borders short and drive his herds and he has none to guard his weak old age there would I go and hang my armor up and with my great name fence that weak old man and spend the goodly treasures I have got and rest my age and hear of Sohrab's fame and leave to death the hosts of thankless kings and with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more he spoke and smiled and Gadiz made reply what then no Rustram women say to this when Sohrab dares our bravest fourth and sixth the most of all and thou who most he seeks hideest thy face take heed lest men should say like some old miser Rustram hoards his fame and shuns to peril it with younger men incredibly moved then Rustram made reply oh Gadiz wherefore dost thou say such words thou knowest better words than this to say what is one more one less obscure or famed valiant or craven young or old to me are not they mortal and not I myself but who for men of naught would do great deeds come thou shalt see how Rustram hoards his fame but I will fight unknown and in plain arms let not men say of Rustram he was matched in single fight with any mortal man he spoke and frowned and Gadiz turned and ran back quickly through the camp in fear and joy fear at his wrath but joy that Rustram came but Rustram strode to his tent door and called his followers in and bade them bring his arms and clad in plain and on his shield was no device only his helm was rich inlaid with gold and from the fluted spine atop a plume of horsehair waved a scarlet horsehair plume so armed he issued forth and a rucksh his horse followed him like a faithful hound at hill rucksh whose renown was noised through all the earth the horse whom Rustram on a foray once stood in Bokhara by the river find a cult beneath its dam and drove him home and reared him a bright bay with lofty crest died with a subtle cloth of voided green crusted with gold and on the ground was worked all beasts of chase all beasts which hunters know so followed Rustram left his tents and crossed the camp and to the Persian host appeared and all the Persians knew him and with shouts hailed but Tatars knew not who he was and dear as the wet diver to the eyes of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore by sandy Bahrain in the Persian Gulf plunging all day in the blue waves having made up his tail of precious pearls who joins her in their hut upon the sand so dear to the pale Persians Rustram came Rustram to the Persian front advanced and Sohrab armed in Haman's tent and came and as a field the reapers quite a swath down through the middle of a rich man's corn and on each side a squares of standing corn and in the midst a stubble short and bare so on each side were squares of men with spears bristling and in the midst of the open sand and Rustram came upon the sand and cast his eyes toward the Tata tents and saw Sohrab come forth and hide him as he came as some rich woman on a winter's mourn eyes through his silken curtains the poor drudge who with none blackened fingers makes her fire at Cochro on a starlit winter's mourn when the frost flowers the whitened windowpains and wonders how she lives and what the thoughts of that poor drudge may be so Rustram hide the unknown adventurous youth who from time seeking Rustram and defying forth all the most valiant cheats long he perused his spirited air and wondered who he was the very young he seemed tenderly reared like some young cypress tall and dark and straight which in a queen's secluded garden throws its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf by midnight to a bubbling fountain sound so slender Sohrab seemed so softly reared and a deep pity entered Rustram's soul as he brought him coming and he stood and beckoned to him with his hand and said O thou young man the air of heaven is soft and warm and pleasant but the grave is cold heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave behold me I am vast and clad in iron and tried and I have stood on many a field of blood and I have fought with many a foe never was that field lost or that foe saved O Sohrab wherefore will thy rush on death be governed quit the tartar host and come to Iran son to me and fight beneath my banner till I die there are no youths in Iran brave as thou so he spake mildly Sohrab heard his voice the mighty voice of Rustram and he saw that his giant figure planted on the sand soul like a single tower which a chief hath build it on the waist in former years against the robbers and he saw that head streaked with its first gray hairs hope filled his soul and he ran forward and embraced his knees and clasped his hand within his own and said father's head by thine own soul art thou not Rustram speak art thou not he but Rustram either scanced the kneeling youth and turned away and spake to his own soul are me I'm years what this young fox may mean false wildly boastful are these tartar boys for if I now confess this thing he asks and hide it not but say Rustram is here he will not yield indeed nor quit our foes but he will find some pretext and praise my fame and profit courteous gifts of belt or sword perhaps and go his way and on a feast tied in Afrasib's hall in Sarama Khan he will arise and cry I challenged once when the two armies camped beside the oxes all the Persian lords to cope with me in single fight but they shrank only Rustram dead then he and I changed gifts and went on equal terms away so will he speak perhaps while men applaud then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me and then he turned and sternly spake a loud rise wherefore dost thou vainly question thus a Rustram I am here whom thou hast called by challenge forth make good thy braunt or yield is it with Rustram only thou wouldst fight rash boy men look on Rustram's face and flee for well I know that did great Rustram stand before thy face this day and were revealed there would be then no talk of fighting more but being what I am I tell thee this do thou recorded in thine inmost soul either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield or else thy bones shall stir the sand till wings bleach them or oxes with his summer floods oxes and summer wash them all away he spoke and Sohrab answered on his feet art thou so fierce thou wilt not fright me so I am no girl to be made pale by words yet this thou hast said well did Rustram stand here on this field there were fighting then but Rustram is far hence and we stand here begin thou art more vast more dread than I and thou art proved I know and I am young but yet success sways with the breath of heaven and though thou thinkest thou knowest sure thy victory yet thou canst not surely know for we are all like swimmers in the sea poised on the top of a huge wave of fate which hangs uncertain to which side to fall and whether it will heave us to land or whether it will roll us out to sea back out to sea to the deep depths of death we know not and no search will make us know only the event will teach us in its hour he spoke and Rustram answered not but hurled his spear down from the shoulder down it came as on some partridge in the corner walk 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 Rustram's shield sharp rang the iron plate sprang sharp but turned to the spear and Rustram seized his club which numbered he could wield an unlocked trunk it was and huge still rough like those which men in treeless plains to build them boats fish from the flooded rivers high faces or high despies when high up by their dark springs the wind in wintertime had made in the lane forests wrack and strewn the channels with torn boughs so huge the club which Rustram lifted now and struck one stroke but again Sohrab on the other side as the glancing snake in the club came thundering to earth and left from Rustram's hand and Rustram followed his own blow and fell to his knees and with his fingers clutched the sand and now might Sohrab of unsheathed his sword and pierced the mighty Rustram while he lay dizzy and on his knees and choked the sand but he looked on and smiled nor dared his sword but curtisly drew back and spoke and said thou strikes too hard that club of thine will float upon the summer floods and be not wroth not wroth am I no when I see thee wroth the sakes by soul thou sayst thou art not Rustram be it so who art thou then that canst so touch my soul boys I am I have seen battles too have wadest almost in their bloody waves and heard their hollow roar of dying men but never was my heart thus touched before are they from heaven the softening of the heart oh thou old warrior that is yield to heaven come plant we here in earth our angry spears the sand and pledge each other in red wine like friends and thou shalt talk to me of Rustram's deeds there are enough foes in the Persian host whom I may meet and strike and fill no pang champions enough a free asab has whom thou mayst fight them when they confront by spear but oh let there be peace twist thee and thee he ceased while his spake Rustram had risen and stood erect trembling with rage his club he left to lie but had regained his spear his fiery point now in his mailed right hand blazed bright and baleful like that autumn star the baleful sign of thievers dust and soil 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 dance a corner of sweet words fight let me hear thy hateful voice no more thou art not in Afrasib's gardens now with tartar girls with whom thou art want to dance but on the ox's 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 faint 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 girls 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 came 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 moan of hewing axes crashing trees such blows rostrum and Sohrab on each other hailed and you would say the sun and stars took part in that unnatural conflict for a cloud grew suddenly in heaven and darked the sun over the fighter's heads and a wind rose under their feet and moaning swept the plane and in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pear in gloom they twain were wrapped and they alone for both the onlooking hosts on either hand stood in broad daylight and the sky was pure and the sun sparkled on the ox's string but in the gloom they fought with bloodshot eyes and laboring breath first rostrum struck the shield which Sohrab held stiff out the steel-spiked spear rented the tough plates but failed to reach the skin and rostrum plucked it back angry groan and Sohrab with his sword smote rostrum's helm nor clove it still quite through but all the crest he shore away and that proud horse-hair plume never till now defiled sank to the dust and rostrum bowed his head but then the gloom grew blacker thunder rumbled in the air and lightnings rented the cloud and rushed the horse he stood at hand uttered a dreadful cry no horses cry was that most like the roar of some pained desert line trailed the hunter's javelin in his side and comes at night to die upon the sand the two hosts heard that cry and quaked for fear and ox's curdled as it crossed his stream but Sohrab heard and quailed and not but rushed on and struck again and again rostrum bowed his head but this time all the blade like glass sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm and in the hand the hill remained alone then rostrum raised his head his dreadful eyes glared and he shook on high his menacing spear and shouted rostrum Sohrab heard that shout and shrank amazed back he recalled 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 sank 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 so rostrum standing safe upon his feet and Sohrab wounded on the bloody sand then with a bit of smile rostrum began Sohrab thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill a Persian lord this day and strip his corpse and bear thy trophies to Afrosyab's tent or else that the great rostrum would come down himself to fight and that thy wiles would move his heart to take a gift and let thee go and then that all the tartar host would praise thy courage all thy craft and spread thy fame to glad thy father in his weak old age fool thou art slain dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be into thy friends and to thy father old with a fearless mane Sohrab replied unknown thou art yet thy fierce font is vain thou dost not slay me proud in boastful man no rostrum slays me in this filial heart for where I matched with ten such men as thee and I were that which till today I was they should be lying here and I standing there but that beloved 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 that now thou boastest and insults to my fate but here thou this fierce man trembled to hear the mighty rostrum shall avenge my death my father whom I seek through all the world he shall avenge my death and punish thee as when some hunter in the spring have found a breeding eagle sitting on her nest upon the craggy aisle of a hill lake and pierced her with an arrow as she rose and followed her to find her where she felt far off and on her mate comes winging back from hunting in a great way off describes his huddling young left soul at that he checks his pinion and with short uneasy sweeps circles above his eerie with loud screams charting his mate back to her nest but she lies dying with the arrow in her side and some fast only gorge out of his care enough heap of fluttering feathers never more shall the lake blossom flying over it never the black layers of pieces echo her stormy scream as she sails by as that poor bird flies home nor knows his loss so rostrum knew not his own loss but stood over his dying son and knew him not with a cold and credulous voice he said what prait is this a father's and revenge the mighty rostrum never had a son 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 rostrum 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 the fierce man befinkly for an only son what will that grief what will that vengeance be oh could I live to lie that grief had seen yet he my pity not so much but her my mother who in adobe zhan dwells with that old king her father who grows gray with age and wills over the valiant courts the most I pity who no more will see sohrab returning from the tartar camp with spalls and honour when the war is done but our dark rumour will be brooted up from tribe to tribe until it reach her ear and then will that defenseless woman learn that sohrab will rejoice her sight no more but that in battle with a nameless foe by the fire distant oxus he is slain he spoke as he seized he wept aloud thinking of her he left in his own death he spoke but rostrum listened plunged him thought nor did he yet believe it was his son who spoke although he called back names he knew for he had had short tidings at the babe which was an adobe zhan born to him had been a puny girl no boy at all so that sad mother sent him word for fear rostrum should seek the boy to train in arms and so he deemed that either sohrab took by a false boast the style of rostrum's son or that men gave it him to swell his fame so deemed he yet he listened plunged him thought and his soul said to grief as the vast tide of the bright rocking ocean sets to shore at the full moon tears gathered in his eyes for he remembered his own early youth and all its bounding rapture as at dawn the shepherd from his mountain lodge describes a far bright city smitten by the sun through many rolling clouds so rostrum saw his youth so sohrab's mother in her bloom and that old king her father who loved well his wandering guest and gave him his fair child with joy and all the pleasant life they led lay three in that long distant summertime a castle in the dewey woods and hunt and hound and mourn on those delightful hills and adobejean 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 hacker synth which by the side of an unskillful gardener has been cut mowing the garden grass plots near its bed and lies a fragment tower of purple bloom on the moment dying grass so sohrab lay lovely in death upon the common sand and rostrum gazed on him in grief and said oh sohrab thou indeed art such a son whom rostrum with thou his might well have loved yet hear thou her sohrab or else men have told be false thou art not rostrum's son for rostrum had no son one child he had but one a girl who with her mother now applies some light female task nor dreams of us of us she dreams not nor of winds nor war but sohrab answered him in wrath for now the anguish of the deep fixed spear group fierce 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 tooth sits upon the lips of dying men and falsehood while I lived was far from mine I tell thee picked upon this arm I bear thou to seal which rostrum to my mother gave that she might prick it on the babe she bore he spoke and all the blood left rostrum's cheeks his knees totted and he smote his hand against his breast his heavy mailed hand that the hard iron coarsely clanked aloud and to his heart he pressed the other hand in a hollow voice he spake and said sohrab that were a proof which could not lie if thou show this then art thou rostrum's son then with weak hasty fingers sohrab loosed his belt and near the shoulder bear his arm and showed a sign in faint vermilion points pricked as a cunning woman in peaking pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase an empress gift but early morn he paints an 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 rostrum's seal it was that griffon which of old reared Zal rostrum'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 rostrum took it for his glorious son in a sohrab bed that image on his arm and himself scanned it long with mournful eyes and then he touched it with his hand and said how saste thou is that sign the proper sign of rostrum's son or of some other man's he spoke but rostrum gazed and gazed and stood speechless and then he uttered one sharp cry oh 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 rostrum and he opened his eyes and as to wide with horror and he seized in both his hands the dust which lay around and threw it on his head and smudged 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 forever let life out but sohrab saw his thought and held his hands and with a soothing voice he spoke and said father for bear fry but meet today the doom which had my birth was written down in heaven 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 held 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 the 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 written heaven that this should be so said he and his voice released the heart of rusterman his tears broke forth he cast his arms around his son's neck and wept aloud he kissed him and all fell on both the hosts when they saw rusterman's grief and rucksh the horse with his head bow into the ground and main sweeping the dust came near and in new to 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 to the sand but rusterman cheered him with stern voice and said rucksh now thou grievous to but I rucksh thy feet should first have brought thy master on their nimble joints or ear they brought thy master to this field but sorrow looked upon the horse and said is this then rucksh 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 main oh rucksh thou art more fortunate than I thou hast gone where I shall never go and snuck the breezes of my father's home and thou hast trod the sands of sastan and seen the river of Helmund and the lake of Zirah and the aged Zal himself as often stroked thy neck and given thee food corn and golden platter soaked with wine and said oh rucksh bear rustrum well but I have never known my grand sire's furrowed face or seen his lofty house and sastan or slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream but lodged among my father's foes and seen aphorcy of cities only, semi-canned bakhara and lone kiwi in the waste and the black torque muntents and only drunk at the desert rivers morgarb and tijand kuhik and where the kalmucks feed their sheep the northern seer and this great oxus streamed the yellow oxus by whose brink I die then with a heavy groan rustrum be wild oh that its waves were flowing over me oh that I saw its grains of yellow silk roll tumbling in the current over my head but with a grave mild voice sotra 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 of 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 of 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 sin with them but carry me with thee to so stand and place me on a bed and mourn for me thou on the snow-haired zaal and hauled by friends and thou must lay me in that lovely earth and heaper stately mound above my bones and plant a farsing pillar overall but so the passing horsemen on the waist may see my tomb a great way off and cry sotra ab the mighty rustrum's son lies there whom his great father did in ignorance kill and I be not forgotten in my grave with a mournful voice sotra I'd fear not as thou hast said sotra ab 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 so stand and place thee on a bed and mourn for thee with the snow-headed zaal and all my friends and I will lay thee in that lovely earth and heaper stately mound above thy bones and plant a farsing pillar overall and men shall not forget the in thy grave and I will spare thy host, yay let them go let them all cross the oxus back in peace what should I do with slaying any more forward 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 to my son my son for 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 born to si-stan and thou might weep above my grave not thine and say oh son I weep thee not to soar for willingly I know thou meetest 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 Sahara 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 mastered ship down the other piers of kai Kosru returning home over the salt blue sea from laying thy dear master in his grave and Rustram gazed in Sahara'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 Sahara smiled on him and took the spear and drew it from his side and eased his wounds in perious anguish but the blood came willing 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 children whom their nurses call with haste indoors from the sun's eye his head droops 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 Sahara bladed and the great Rustram drew his horseman's cloak down over his face and sate by his dead son as those black granite pillars once high reared by gem-shoot men perciopolis to bear his house now mid their broken flights of steps like prone you almost down the mountainside so in the sand lie Rustram by his son a 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 oxes Suna Hummerrose as of a great assembly loosed and fires began to twinkle through the fog for now both armies moved to camp and took their meal the Persians took it on the open sand southward, the Tatars by the river March and Rustram and his son were left alone but the majestic river floated on out of the mist and hum of that low land into the frosty starlight and their move to rejoice him through the hushed Chorosmian waste under the solitary moon he flowed right for the polar star past all and g rimming and bright and large then sands begin to hem his watery march and dam his leagues and split his currents that for many a league the shorn and parceled oxes drains along through beds of sand and matted rushy aisles oxes forgetting the bright speed he had in his high mountain cradle in Bermere foiled circuitous wonderer till at last the longed for dash of waves is heard and wide his luminous home of waters opens bright and tranquil from his floor the new bathed stars emerge and shine upon the url sea End of Sotraab and Rustram by Matthew Arnold Recording by Nathan at antipodeanwriter.wordpress.com