He rends in agony and deep despair.
The western sun had disappeared in gloom,
And still the Champion wept his cruel doom.
His wondering legions marked the long delay,
And seeing Rakush riderless astray,
The rumor quick to Persia’s monarch sped,
And there described the mighty Rustem dead.
The king’s chosen men were sent to find the warrior, whether he be slain or wounded. They found him in his terrible grief, and the war-spirit seemed dead in his bosom.
“Go,” said he, “to the Tartar chiefs, and say to them, ‘No more shall war between us stain the earth with blood.’” A moment more, and the young warrior was dead, and on a Persian bier his lifeless form was laid, while Rustem, sick of martial pomp and show, ordered the gorgeous pageantry of war to be consigned to the flames,[[257]] for all the warrior’s pride lay in dust and ashes as he followed the bier to the imperial resting place which was provided for Sohrāb. But to the mother was carried the most fearful blow, when the Tartar chiefs led back the splendid steed all riderless, and laid at her feet the coat of mail her son had worn, while they told the story of his fall beneath his father’s hand. What a terrible penalty her falsehood had brought upon her head and heart!
“Distracted, wild, she sprang from place to place,