This done, he called on God and marched his powers
From Samarkand. On that side Sháh Pírúz,
The frantic, led his troops on like a blast;
On this side Khúshnawáz with fearful heart
Prayed privily before the holy Judge.
The drums and trumpets sounded in both hosts,
The air was ebon with the armies' dust,
And from them both such showers of arrows rained
That blood ran down like water in a stream.
Then, like a dust-cloud, Sháh Pírúz advanced
With mace and Rúman helm, and as he drew
Anear to Khúshnawáz,*

the Turkmans' chief
Retreated, turned his rein, and showed his back.
The foeman followed fiercely. Sháh Pírúz
Spurred forward with few followers and fell
With others—chiefs and Lions of the day
Of battle—in the fosse, such as Hurmuz
His brother, glorious Kubád and others—
Great men and princes of the royal race—
Till seven had fallen headlong, men of name
With golden casques. Then Khúshnawáz returned
Rejoicing to the fosse and lifted thence
The living while the throne bewailed their fortune.
Now Sháh Pírúz, that chief of chiefs endowed
With Grace and state, had broken head and back,
While of the princes, save Kubád, none lived:
Thus host and empire went adown the wind.
Then Khúshnawáz advanced with heart content,
And head exalted with his warrior-host,
And gave to spoil the baggage and the foe,
For right and left were indistinguishable.
They made some prisoners and what numbers more
Were stretched by arrows on the sombre soil!

'Tis not for world-lords to be covetous,
For hearts that covet are the dark dust's mate;
The never-resting sky ordaineth thus
Alike for subjects and for king's estate,
And wringeth its own fosterling, be he
A fool or wisdom's pillar. None can stay
Upon this earth of ours eternally.
Make right thy provand: naught is left to say.
When Khúshnawáz had crossed the fosse his troops
Lacked not for wealth. They bound Kubád with
fetters
Of iron, heedless of his throne and race.
When tidings reached the people of Írán
About the fosse and how Pírúz had fought,
A wail of anguish went up from the land
For all those princes—men of high degree—
And when the tidings had been certified
Balásh descended from his golden seat,
Plucked out his royal locks and strewed sad dust
Upon the throne. Within Írán the host,
The cities and the women, men, and children,
All wailed, all rent the hair and tore the face
For grief, talked of the Sháh and yearned for him;
All sat in dole and woe while great and small
Took thought what course to choose and whether they
Should quit Írán and see where fell the fray?