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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 labouring 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 horsehair 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 that 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, 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;
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 that 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 match'd 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 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.
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:-
"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 mailed hand,
That the hard iron corslet 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."
And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm,
And scanned it long with mournful eyes,

And then he touched it with his hand and said :

"How say'st 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 sunk down to earth.
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 poured, 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
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.

Matthew Arnold.

[From The Works of Matthew Arnold, complete and copyright editions of which are published solely by Messrs. Macmillan and Co., Ltd.]


WE were two daughters of one race:

She was the fairest in the face:

The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
They were together, and she fell;
Therefore revenge became me well.

O the Earl was fair to see!

This intensely dramatic poem has for many years been popular in America, and

several English artistes have recently given it here with great success.

She died she went to burning flame:
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame.
The wind is howling in turret and tree.
Whole weeks and months, and early and late,
To win his love I lay in wait:

O the Earl was fair to see!

I made a feast; I bad him come;

I won his love, I brought him home.
The wind is roaring in turret and tree.
And after supper, on a bed,

Upon my lap he laid his head:
O the Earl was fair to see!

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest:
His ruddy cheek upon my breast.
The wind is raging in turret and trec.
I hated him with the hate of hell,
But I loved his beauty passing well.
O the Earl was fair to see!

I rose up in the silent night:

I made my dagger sharp and bright.
The wind is raving in turret and tree.
As half-asleep his breath he drew,
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'.
O the Earl was fair to see!

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head,
He look'd so grand when he was dead.
The wind is blowing in turret and tree.

I wrapt his body in the sheet,

And laid him at his mother's feet.

O the Earl was fair to see!

Lord Tennyson.

[From The Poems of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, whose complete works are published solely by Messrs. Macmillan and Co., Ltd.]


"LITTLE HALY! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree; "Little Haly!" sighs the clover; "Little Haly!" moans the bee; "Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-dee at twilight; And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly" all the night.

This charming poem has recently become very popular, with both English and American artistes.

The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence; The old path down the garden walks still holds her footprints' dents;

And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to come And start it on its wortery errant down the old bee-gum.

The bee-hives all is quiet, and the little Jersey steer,

When any one comes nigh it, acts so lonesome-like and queer;
And the little Banty chickens kind o' cutters faint and low,
Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they didn't know.

They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees;
And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze;
And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed;
And all the song her red-bird sings is "Little Haly's dead!"

The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass,
Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she passed ;
And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo'-sorto' doubt
That Haly's little sunburnt hand'll ever pull it out.

Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me?
Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tenderly?
I question-and what answer?-only tears, and tears alone,
And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear-drops as my own.

"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;
"Little Haly!" sighs the clover; "Little Haly!" moans the bee;
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-dee at twilight;
And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly" all the night.
J. Whitcomb Riley.

[From Rhymes of Childhood. The Bowen-Merrill Co., Indianapolis.]


BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think-
The shutters are shut, no light may pass

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.

This poem, abridged for recitation, was frequently in the programme of Mr. Clifford Harrison's recitals.

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