I tell what rustic bard and archimage
Told from the legends of a bygone age:—
One morn in dudgeon Rustam rose to hunt,
Girt him, filled up his quiver, mounted Rakhsh,
And hied him to the marches of Túrán,
A savage Lion prowling after prey.
When he drew near the marches and beheld
The plain well stocked with onager, he flushed
Rose-like and smiled, then urging on his steed
He dropped much game with arrow, mace, and lasso.
He lit a fire with sticks, dry grass, and thorns,
Chose out a tree to serve him for a spit,

And set thereon a lusty onager—
A feather's weight to him! He tore the meat,
When roasted, from the bones and sucked the marrow,
Drank of a neighbouring stream and wooed repose,
While Rakhsh careered and grazed along the mead.
Some Turkman horsemen chanced upon the plain
And marked the tracks of Rakhsh. These they pursued
Beside the stream, observed him in the pasture,
Surrounded him, and with their royal lassos
Essayed to take him. Rakhsh perceiving this
Raged like a mighty lion. Lashing out
He laid two Turkmans low and with his teeth
Tore off another's head. Thus three were slain,
And still the head of Rakhsh escaped the noose;
At length the others threw from every side
Their lassos, caught him round the neck and took him,
Then walked him to the city, all desirous
To have a share in him.

When Rustam woke

From pleasant sleep and needed docile Rakhsh
He looked about the mead but found him not,
Whereat in dudgeon and astound he hurried
Toward Samangán. “Now whither shall I trudge,”
He said, ‘to 'scape my dark soul's shame, or how,
Thus armed with quiver, mace, helm, scimitar,
And tiger-skin cuirass, shall I o'erpass

The waste or make a shift to deal with foes?
How will the Turkmans say: ‘Who stole his Rakhsh?
Thus matchless Rustam slept his life away!’
Now must I plod all helpless and forlorn;
Still let me arm, I yet may trace him out.”
Thus with a weary, aching heart he went
In evil case and much discouragement.