There was a warrior, by name Pílsam,
Of royal race and eager for renown,
His sire was glorious Wísa and his brother
Victorious Pírán. Both in Írán
And in Túrán he had no peer save Rustam.
On hearing what Afrásiyáb had said
He frowned with rage and, hasting to the king,
Cried in his eager longing for the fray:—
“A youthful warrior of this host am I.
What dust before me are the valiant Tús
And gallant Gív—that Lion known to fame—
Bahrám and Zanga son of Sháwarán,
And brave Guráza! At the king's command
I will go lion-like, smite off their heads,
O'ercloud their moon, and bring their crowns to dust.”
The king replied: “O famous warrior!
May victory be thine. Thou must prevail
And come back conquering and glorious.”
The soldiers heard his voice,
And fell on Rustam in a mass, while he
Charged them in fury with the seven warriors.
They drave and routed all the Turkman host,
Incarnadined the land with brave men's blood,
And laid so many low that what with corpses
And trunkless heads no vacant space was seen
For troops to fight on, wheel, or pass between.