Hast thou disported; come in, for thy mother yearneth for her son. If she or I in aught have caused thee pain, or spoken hasty words, Think on thy hermit's duty of forgiveness; bear them not in mind. Thou art the refuge of us refugeless - the eyes of thy blind sire. Why art thou silent? Speak! Bound up in thee are both thy parents' lives."

He ceased, and I stood paralyzed - till by an effort resolutely Collecting all my powers of utterance, with faltering voice I said:"Pious and noble hermit, I am not thy son; I am the king.

Wandering with bow and arrow by a stream, seeking for game, I pierced

Unknowingly thy child. The rest I need not tell. Be gracious to me."

Hearing my pitiless words, announcing his bereavement, he remained Senseless awhile; then drawing a deep sigh, his face all bathed

in tears,

He spake as I approached him suppliantly, and slowly said:

"Hadst thou not come thyself to tell thy awful tale, its load of guilt Had crushed thy head into ten thousand fragments. This ill-fated deed

Was wrought by thee unwittingly, O king, else hadst thou not been spared,

And all the race of Raghavas had perished. Lead us to the place; And, bloody though he be, and lifeless, we must look upon our son For the last time, and clasp him in our arms." Then weeping bitterly,

The pair, led by my hand, came to the spot, and fell upon their son. Thrilled by the touch, the father cried: "My son, hast thou no greeting for me?

No word of recognition? Why liest thou here upon the ground?
Art thou offended? Or am I no longer loved by thee, my son?
See here thy mother. Thou wert ever dutiful towards us both.
Why wilt thou not embrace me? Speak one tender word. Whom
shall I hear

Reading again the sacred Sastra in the early morning hours?

Who now will bring me roots and fruits to feed me like a cherished guest?

How, weak and blind, can I support thy aged mother, pining for her son?

Stay! Go not yet to Death's abode-stay with thy mother yet one day:

To-morrow we will both go with thee on the dreary way. Forlorn And sad, deserted by our child, without protector in the wood,

Soon shall we both depart toward the mansion of the King of

Death."

Thus bitterly lamenting, he performed the funeral rites; then turning

Towards me, thus addressed me, standing reverently near: "I had But this one child, and thou hast made me childless. Now strike down

The father; I shall feel no pain in death. But thy requital be
That sorrow for a child shall also bring thee one day to the grave."

SOHRAB AND RUSTUM.

BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

[MATTHEW ARNOLD: English poet, essayist, and critic; born at Laleham, December 24, 1822; died at Liverpool, April 15, 1888. He was professor of poetry at Oxford, 1857-1867. He was government inspector of schools for nearly forty years. His earliest published works were his prize poems, "Alaric at Rome," written at Rugby, and "Cromwell," written at Oxford. His poetical works include "The Strayed Reveler, and Other Poems," 1848; "Empedocles on Etna," 1853; "Merope," a tragedy, 1857; "New Poems," 1868. His prose essays include "Lectures on Celtic Literature," and "Lectures on Translating Homer," "Culture and Anarchy," ," "Literature and Dogma," and "Discourses on America."]

AND the first gray of morning filled the east,

And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.

But all the Tartar camp along the stream

Was hushed, and still the men were plunged in sleep.
Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long

He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed:
But when the gray dawn stole into his tent,

He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,

And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent,

And went abroad into the cold wet fog,

Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent.

Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which stood Clustering like beehives on the low flat strand

Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'erflow

When the sun melts the snows on high Pamera;

Through the black tents he passed, o'er that low strand,
And to a hillock came, a little back

From the stream's brink the spot where first a boat,
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land.
The men of former times had crowned the top
With a clay fort; but that was fallen, and now

The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent,
A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread.
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood
Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent,
And found the old man sleeping on his bed
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms.
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step
Was dulled; for he slept light, an old man's sleep:
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:

"Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?"

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:
"Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I.
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe
Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee.
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son,
In Samarcand, before the army marched;
And I will tell thee what my heart desires.
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first
I came among the Tartars and bore arms,
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown,
At my boy's years, the courage of a man.
This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world,
And beat the Persians back on every field,

I seek one man, one man, and one alone.
Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet,
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field,
His not unworthy, not inglorious son.

So I long hoped, but him I never find.

Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask.
Let the two armies rest to-day; but I

Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords
To meet me, man to man: if I prevail,

Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall.

Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin.

Dim is the rumor of a common fight,

Where host meets host, and many names are sunk; But of a single combat fame speaks clear."

He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand Of the young man in his, and sighed, and said: "O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine! Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs,