Now when the shining sun had disappeared,
And dark night led its host across the sky,

The daughter of Pírán approached her son—
Farúd—with anxious mind and aching heart,
And lay down near her darling, but all night
Remained the spouse of grief and misery.
She dreamed that from the lofty castle rose
A flame in front of him she loved so well,
Illuming Mount Sapad and burning all
The castle and the women-slaves. She woke
In pain, her soul in anguish and dismay,
Went out upon the wall and looking round
Saw all the mountain filled with mail and spears.
Her cheek flushed up and fuming at the heart
She hastened to Farúd, and cried to him:—
“Awake from slumber, O my son! the stars
Are bringing down disaster on our heads!
The mountain is all foes, the castle-gate
All spears and mail!”

He said: “Why such to-do?

If life is o'er for me, and thou canst count not
On further respite for me, mine own sire
Was slain in youth, my life is wreeked like his.
Gurwí's hand put a period to his days,
And now Bízhan is eager for my death;
Yet will I struggle, perish wretchedly,
And not ask quarter of the Íránians.”
He gave out mail and maces to the troops,
He placed a splendid helm upon his head,
And with a Rúman breastplate girt about him
Came with a royal bow grasped in his hand.
Now when the shining sun displayed its face,
And proudly mounted to the vault of heaven,

The war-cries of the chieftains rose on all sides,
While massive maces whirled amid the din
Of clarions, tymbals, pipes, and Indian bells.
Farúd descended from the castle-ramparts
With all his gallant Turkmans. Through the dust
Raised by the horsemen, and the feathered shafts,
The mountain-top was like a sea of pitch.
There was no level ground or room to fight;
The rocks and stones played havoc with the steeds,
While shouts ascended as the armies strove.
Tús ready armed for battle, grasping shield
And trenchant falchion, led the way in person,
Escorted by the chieftains of the host
Afoot. Thus they attacked till noon was high,
And then the troops of brave Farúd were thinned,
The hills and valleys had been filled with slain,
The youth's good fortune had abandoned him.
The Íránians marvelled at him, none had seen
So fierce a Lion, but as battle pressed him
He saw his fortune adverse; of the Turkmans
No cavalier remained with him; he fought
Alone; he turned and fled down toward the hold.
Ruhhám sought with Bízhan to intercept him:
They charged him from above and from below.
When on the lower ground Bízhan appeared,
With stirrups firmly pressed and reins held loose,
The youth espied the helm, drew out his mace,
And went like some fierce lion at his foe,
Not knowing what the vaulted sky decreed.
He thought to strike Bízhan upon the head,
And smash both head and helmet with one buffet.
Bízhan was staggered by the young man's stroke,
And lost both sense and power. Ruhhám behind
Saw this and shouted, clutched his Indian sword,
And struck the lion-man upon the shoulder;
His hand fell useless. Wounded he cried out,
And urged his steed which, as he neared the hold,
Bízhan came up and houghed. Farúd himself
Afoot with certain of his followers,
Thus stricken in the battles of the brave,
Reached and secured with speed the castle-gate.
Woe for the heart and name of brave Farúd!
His mother and the slaves drew near, embraced him,
And sadly laid him on his ivory throne:
His day, his season for the crown, were over.
His mother and the female slaves plucked out
The scented tresses of their musky hair,
While the beloved Farúd plucked out their lives:
The throne was strewn with hair, the house all
sorrow.
Then with a faint glance and a sigh he turned
Toward his mother and the slaves, and said,
With one last effort to unclose his lips:—
“It is no marvel that ye pluck your hair;
The Íránians will come with girded loins
To sack the hold and make my slave-girls captive,
Make castle, castle-wall, and rampart waste.
Let all whose hearts and cheeks burn for my life
Go fling themselves down from the battlements
That none may be the portion of Bízhan.
I follow soon because he severeth
My blameless life and is, in this my day
Of youth, my death.”

He spake, his cheeks grew wan,

His spirit soared away 'mid grief and anguish.
As 'twere a conjurer this drunken sky
Deludeth us with tricks—threescore and ten—
At whiles employing blast or cloud and then
The sword or dagger or the agency
Of some unworthy wight. At whiles to one
Plunged in calamity 'twill grant relief,
At whiles allot crown, treasury, and throne,
At whiles chain, dungeon, bitterness, and grief!
Man must accept his lot whate'er it be;
Mine own affliction is my poverty.
The man of wisdom, had he died at birth,
Had suffered not the heat and cold of earth,
But, living after birth, hath want and stress,
Constrained to weep a life of wretchedness.
Woe for his heart, his usance, and intents!
His pillow is the dust in all events.