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If the high sphere of Heav'n give not wealth, be aware
That it will not by manliness come to your snare!
The ant although weak does not hardship sustain ;
By their pow'rfulness, lions their food do not gain.
Since the hand is unable to reach to the skies,
One is bound to submit to the changes that rise.
If Fate has inscribed that your life will be long,
The snake, sword and tiger can do you no wrong.
And if of your life not a part should remain,
The antidote kills you, the same as the bane.
When Rustam his last daily morsel had gnawed,
Was dust from his body not brought by Shighad?1

Story

(OF A BOLD SOLDIER).

In great Isphahān, a companion had I,

Who was warlike and bold and uncommonly sly.
His hand and his sword were with blood always dyed;
Like flesh on the fire, hearts of foes through him fried.
Not a day did I see him with quiver unlashed;
From his steel arrow-heads ev'ry day the fire flashed.
He was brave, and his strength was exceedingly great;
From dread of him, tigers were restless in state.
Such reliance in shooting his shafts he would show,
That he failed not to smite with each arrow a foe.

I have not seen a thorn pierce a flower so quick,

As the heads of his arrows pierced shields that were thick. He smote not an enemy's head with his spear,

That he did not cause helmet and head to adhere.

1 Shighad, a bastard brother of Rustam, who treacherously killed Rustam by throwing him down a well.

In battle, like sparrows 'mong locusts in flight;

Men and sparrows, for slaughter, were one in his sight. If upon Faridun an attack he had made,

No time he'd have left him to flourish his blade.

By the strength of his fingers were leopards subdued;
He his nails in the brains of fierce tigers imbrued.
He would seize by the girdle one used to the fray,
And were he a mountain, would dash him away.
On a man clad in mail when his battle-axe fell,
He passed through the man and smote saddle as well.
In valour and generous qualities shown,

His equal on earth, no one ever had known.
For a moment he let me not out of his sight,
For with men of good nature he gathered delight.
From that country a journey soon called me away,
For it had not been fated that there I should stay.
From Irāk into Sham1 I was carried by Fate;
In that sanctified land I was happy in state.
In Sham, then, I finished my measure of toil,

And a longing I felt for my own native soil.

By chance, it occurred that while journeying back,

I again had to pass through the land of Irak.

One night, with my head hanging down in deep thought,
To my mind was that skilful one's memory brought.
The salt of remembrance renewed my old sore,

For oft had I eaten his salt, long before.

;

To great Isphahān to behold him I went;
Out of friendship, on searching and asking intent.
I saw that Time's changes had made the youth old
His straight figure bent and his red hue, like gold;
His snowy-haired head like a white-crested hill;
From the snow of old age down his face the tears rill.

1 Sham, Syria.

The sky having mastery over him found,

Soon twisted the hand of his manliness round.
The world from his head having ostracised pride,
Infirmity's head, on his knees must abide.

I exclaimed, "Oh great chief! who with lions engaged,
What has polished you down like a fox that is aged?"
"Since the Tartar invasion," he smilingly said,

"I have driven strife-seeking away from my head.

The ground filled with spears, like a cane-break, I watched,
With their banners of scarlet, like fire-brands attached.
Like smoke, I excited the dust-clouds of war;

But what 'vantage gives bravery when Fortune's afar ?
I am he, who, whenever an onset I made,

A ring from the palm with my spear I conveyed.
But because in my 'star' no assistance I found,
Like a ring, they immediately circled me round!
The path of retreat I esteemed as a friend;
For the foolish alone will with Fortune contend.
What succour do helmet and armour bestow,
When my planet refuses assistance to show?
When you hold not possession of Victory's key,
Conquest's door by your arm cannot broken up be.

A host came, leopard-felling, of elephant might;
Iron-clad the horse-hoofs and the head of each wight.
As soon as the dust of this army we spied,

To put on our armour and helmets we hied.

Like clouds, we urged forward our Arabs, amain,
And brought our swords down, like a torrent of rain.
Both armies together from ambushment crashed;

You'd have said that the sky on the earth they had dashed.
From the raining of arrows, like hail, 'mong the foes,

The whirlwind of death, in each corner arose.

In hunting the lions accustomed to war,

The mouth of the dragon like noose was ajar.

From the dust, azure coloured, the earth became sky, And the helmets and swords flashed like stars twinkling high.

As soon as the enemy's horse came in sight,

With our shields knit together, dismounted we fight.
What strength can the hand of man's labouring show,
If the arm of God's grace does not succour bestow ?
Not blunt were the swords of these brave men of war;
But fierce was the spite of their rancorous star.
Not a man of our army came out from the fray,
With doublet unmoistened with blood, on that day.
The shafts of those men into silk did not go,

Who, I've said, with their arrows an anvil could sew.
Like a hundred grains, joined in one cluster, we start;
We were scattered, each grain in a corner apart.
We through cowardice further resistance forsook ;
Like the fish clothed in mail which succumbs to the hook.
When Fortune averted her face from our field,
'Gainst the arrows of Fate, of what use was a shield?"

Story

(OF THE ARCHER AND THE YOUTH CLOTHED IN FELT).

There dwelt in Ardbil,1 once, a man of strong thew, Who could pierce with his arrows a spade through and through.

To fight him a man clothed in felt came from far—

A strife-raising youth and promoter of war

He was like Bihram-Ghor, in his search for a fray;
On his shoulder a noose of wild ass's skin lay.

1 Ardbil, a city in Media.

Fifty arrows of poplar he shot at this foe;

Through the armour of felt not an arrow would go.
Like the hero Dastan1 the brave youth joined the fight;
In the coil of his noose snared his enemy tight.
To the door of his tent, in the camp-pitching ground,
His hands to his neck, like a robber's, he bound.
He slept not, from pride and from shame, all the night;
A slave shouted out from a tent, at daylight:
"As the felt-clad one's prisoner, why are you here,
Who can penetrate iron with arrows and spear?"
I have heard he wept blood, and thus said in reply:
"Don't you know you can't live when the Fates bid
I am he who in using the sword and the dart,
Could the tactics of war unto Rustam impart.
When the arm of my fortune was strong in degree,
A thick iron spade seemed like felt unto me.
But now that good luck from my fingers has strayed,
Felt in front of my shafts, is as good as a spade."
When Death comes, a spear will pierce armour, indeed,
But will not pierce a shirt, if it is not decreed.
He who has the fell sabre of death at his rear,

you

die?

Will be nude, though his armour should triple appear.
And should Fortune befriend and Time's aid he obtain,
Though naked, he cannot by dagger be slain.
The sage by his striving escaped not from fate,

And the fool did not die from the rubbish he ate.

1 Dastan, another name for Zāl, father of Rustam.

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