Thanksgivings done, he harnessed rose-cheeked Rakhsh
And mounting came in time where sorcerers dwelt.
Long had he fared and saw, as Sol declined,
Trees, grass, and stream—the very spot for youth.
There was a spring as bright as pheasant's eyes;
Beside it were a golden bowl of wine,
A roasted mountain-sheep with bread thereon,
And salts and sweetmeats. Rustam thanked the Lord
For showing him a place so opportune,
Dismounted from his steed, took off the saddle,
And marvelled at the loaves and venison.
“Oh! Rustam is an outcast still
And hath no days of pleasure,
Marked out for every kind of ill
And not a moment's leisure.“Be where he may it is his plight
With battle still to harden,
And wilderness and mountain-height
Must serve him for a garden.“His combatings are never done
And there is no assuagement,
'Tis dragon, dív, and desert—one
Perpetual engagement!“The wine and cup, the scented rose,
And where lush herbage groweth—
Such things are not at his dispose,
These fortune ne'er bestoweth“On one that with the crocodile
Is still engaged in fighting,
Save when the leopard for a while
The combat is inviting.”
The sound of music reached a witch's ears;
She made her cheeks like spring, although by rights
She was not fair, and then, perfumed and decked,
Approached, saluted, and sat down by Rustam,
Who gave God thanks at finding in the desert
Board, wine, and lute, and youthful boon-companion.
Not knowing that she was a wicked witch,
An Áhriman beneath her bravery,
He handed her a cup of wine, invoking
The Giver of all good. Now when he named
The Lord of love her favour changed; no soul
Had she for gratitude, no tongue for praise,
But blackened at God's name, while Rustam, flinging
His lasso quicker than the wind, ensnared,
And questioned her: “What art thou? Speak and show
Thy proper favour.”
In the lasso's coi??ls
There was a fetid hag all guile and wrinkle,