How Suhráb's Mother received the Tidings of his Death
A cry rose from Túrán: "Suhráb hath fallenUpon the battlefield!" The tidings reachedThe king of Samangán, who rent his robes,The tidings reached Tahmína: "Brave SuhrábHath perished, stricken by his father's sword!"She seized her robe and rent it, and her form—That goodly gem—shone forth. She raised a cryOf wail and woe, and swooned at whiles. She coiledHer hair like twisted lassos round her fingersAnd plucked it out. The blood ran down her face.At times she sank fordone. She strewed dark dustUpon her head, gnawed pieces from her arms,Flung fire upon her head and scorched herself,And burned her musky tresses. "Where art thou,"She cried, "who wast thy mother's soul, but artNow only dust and blood? I scanned the road,I said: 'I may have tidings of SuhrábAnd Rustam.' Then I mused and said: 'AlreadyHast thou been round the world to find thy father,Hast found him, and art speeding home again.'How could I know, my son! that news would comeThat he had pierced thy liver with his sword?He had no pity for that face of thine,Thy stature, mien, and arms, he pitied notThy girdlestead but clave it with his blade.I used to nurse the body of my boyThrough days of brightness and through weary nights,And now 'tis drowned in blood! A winding-sheetIs all the cover of his stainless form.Whom shall I clasp upon my bosom now?Who is there that will rid me of my grief?Whom shall I call upon to take thy place?To whom impart my pain and misery?Woe for his soul and body, eye and lustre,That dwell in dust instead of hall and garden!O warrior, shelter of the host! thou soughtestThy sire and in his place hast found thy grave.Hope turned in thee to dolorous despair,And now thou sleepest scorned and miserableAmid the dust. Before he drew his daggerAnd gashed thy silvern side why didst not thouShow him the token that thy mother gave thee?Why didst thou not declare thyself to him?Thy mother told thee how to know thy sire:How was it that thou didst not trust her words?Without thee she is as the captives are—All travail, anguish, misery, and sighing.Why went I not with thee that wast to beThe warriors' cynosure? He would have known meThough far away and welcomed both of us,Cast down his sword and never pierced thy side."
This said she tore herself, plucked out her hair,And smote her lovely visage with her palms.She filled the eyes of all the folk with hail,So grievous were her moans and lamentations.At length while all hearts ached she fell a-swoon,Fell as one falleth dead upon the ground,And thou hadst said: "Her blood is turned to ice."She roused, thought of her son, and wailed afresh,Her very heart's blood crimsoning her tears.She fetched his crown, wept o'er it and his throne,Exclaiming in her grief: "O royal Tree!"She brought his wind-foot charger forth, that chargerWhich he had prized so in his happy days,And clasped and kissed its head, to folk's amazement,And nuzzled on its hoofs, while her blood fellAnd reddened all the ground. She took his robeAnd clasped it to her body like her son,She fetched his jerkin, coat of mail, and bow,His spear, his falchion, and his massive mace.She fetched his saddle with the reins and buckler,And dashed her head thereon. She fetched his lasso,And flung its eighty cubits out before her.She fetched his helm and breastplate, and exclaimed:—"O warrior-lion!" drew his sword and dockedHis charger's mane and tail. She gave the poorHis goods—the silver, gold, and harnessed steeds.She locked the palace, rooted up the throne,Then brought it down and dashed it to the ground.She blacked the chambers' doors, sent up the dustFrom porch and palace, gave to desolationThe banquet-hall that he had left for battle,Assumed the weeds of woe all stained with blood,By day and night lamented him with tears,Died broken-hearted in a year, and joinedHer warrior-son.
Said eloquent Bahrám:—"Dote not upon the dead; thy proper careIs for thine own departure to prepare,Since here thou canst not stay. So dally not.
Thy father once gave up his place to thee,And thou must give up thine. Such is our lot,And 'tis a secret still, a mystery,Nor wilt thou with thy dazed mind find a key.To open that closed door may no man know.Endeavour not therefor, else wilt thou throwLife to the winds. Our summons to departIs from the God and Master of us all;Then on this Wayside Inn set not thy heart;The profit of such sojourn is but small."
Now from this history my face I turn:The tale of Siyáwush is my concern.
Words in this poem 37
- stricken p. p.
- Struck; smitten; wounded; as, the stricken deer.
- goodly a.
- Pleasant; agreeable; desirable. [OE. godlich, AS. g. See Good, and Like.]
- whiles conj.
- During the time that; while. Chaucer. Fuller.
- fordone a.
- Undone; ruined. [See Fordo.]
- wast
- The second person singular of the verb be, in the indicative mood, imperfect tense; -- now used only in solemn or poetical style.
- hast
- , 2d pers. sing. pres. of. Fave, contr. of havest.
- girdlestead n.
- That part of the body where the girdle is worn. [Girdle + stead place.]
- stainless a.
- Free from stain; immaculate.
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- lustre n.
- A period of five years; a lustrum. [L. lustrum: cf. F. lustre.]
- dwell v. i.
- To delay; to linger. [OE. dwellen, dwelien, to err, linger, AS. dwellan to deceive, hinder, delay, dwelian to err; akin to Icel. dvelja to delay, tarry, Sw. dväljas to dwell, Dan. dv]
- sire n.
- A lord, master, or other person in authority. See Sir. [F. sire, originally, an older person. See Sir.]
- dolorous a.
- Full of grief; sad; sorrowful; doleful; dismal; as, a dolorous object; dolorous discourses. [L. dolorosus, from dolor: cf. F. douloureux. See Dolor.]
- amid prep.
- In the midst or middle of; surrounded or encompassed by; among. [OE. amidde, amiddes, on midden, AS. on middan, in the middle, fr. midde the middle. The s is an adverbial ending, originally marking the genitive; the t is a la]
- silvern a.
- Made of silver. Wyclif (Acts xix. 24). [AS. seolfern, sylfren.]
- didst
- , the 2d pers. sing. imp. of Do.
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- cynosure n.
- The constellation of the Lesser Bear, to which, as containing the polar star, the eyes of mariners and travelers were often directed. [L. Cynosura theconstellation Cynosure, Gr. Cynic.]
- tore n.
- The dead grass that remains on mowing land in winter and spring. Mortimer. [Probably from the root of tear; cf. W. tór a break, cut, tóri to break, cut.]
- visage n.
- The face, countenance, or look of a person or an animal; -- chiefly applied to the human face. [F. visage, from L. visus a seeing, a look, fr. videre, visum, to see. See Vision.]
- folk n.
- In Anglo-Saxon times, the people of a group of townships or villages; a community; a tribe. [AS. folc; akin to D. volk, OS. & OHG. folk, G. volk, Icel. f, Sw. & Dan. folk, Lith. pulkas crowd, and perh. to E. follow.]
- afresh adv.
- Anew; again; once more; newly. [Pref. a- + fresh.]
- charger n.
- One who, or that which charges.
- amazement n.
- The condition of being amazed; bewilderment ; overwhelming wonder, as from surprise, sudden fear, horror, or admiration.
- jerkin n.
- A jacket or short coat; a close waistcoat. [Dim. of D. jurk a frock.]
- falchion n.
- A broad-bladed sword, slightly curved, shorter and lighter than the ordinary sword; -- used in the Middle Ages. [OE. fauchon, OF. fauchon, LL. fälcio, fr. L. falx, falcis, a sickle, cf. Gr. falcon; cf. It. falcione. Cf. Defalcation.]
- thereon adv.
- On that or this. [AS. . See There, and On.]
- desolation n.
- The act of desolating or laying waste; destruction of inhabitants; depopulation. [F. désolation, L. desolatio.]
- lamented a.
- Mourned for; bewailed.
- dote n.
- A marriage portion. See 1st Dot, n. Wyatt. [See Dot dowry.]
- departure n.
- Division; separation; putting away. [From Depart.]
- dally v. i.
- To waste time in effeminate or voluptuous pleasures, or in idleness; to fool away time; to delay unnecessarily; to tarry; to trifle. [OE. , dailien; cf. Icel. pylja to talk, G. dallen, dalen, dahlen, to trifle, talk nonsense, OSw. tule a droll or funny man; or AS. dol foolish, E. dull.]
- endeavour v. t.
- To exert physical or intellectual strength for the attainment of; to use efforts to effect; to strive to achieve or reach; to try; to attempt. [OE. endevor; pref. en- + dever, devoir, duty, F. devoir: cf. F. se mettre en devoir de faire quelque chose to try to do a thing, to go about it. See Devoir, Deb]
- therefor adv.
- For that, or this; for it. [There + for. Cf. Therefore.]
- depart v. i.
- To part; to divide; to separate. [OE. departen to divide, part, depart, F. départir to divide, distribute, se départir to separate one's self, depart; pref. dé- (L. de) + partir to part, depart,]
- wayside n.
- The side of the way; the edge or border of a road or path.
- sojourn v. i.
- To dwell for a time; to dwell or live in a place as a temporary resident or as a stranger, not considering the place as a permanent habitation; to delay; to tarry. [OE. sojornen, sojournen, OF. sojorner, sejorner, F. séjourner, fr. L. sub under, about + diurnus belonging to the day. See Journal, Diurnal.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
How Suhráb's Mother received the Tidings of his Death is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Shahnama of Firdausi, done into English by Arthur George Warner and Edmond Warner, vol. II (Trübner’s Oriental Series), London, 1906; Part III, Suhráb (sections 1 to 25), Internet Archive, the Arthur George Warner and Edmond Warner translation; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Ferdowsi, How Suhráb's Mother received the Tidings of his Death, in Rustam and Sohrab (from the Shahnama) (1906), text of Internet Archive, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/ferdowsi-rustam-and-sohrab/25.html, id L29123.
Form and metre
How Suhráb's Mother received the Tidings of his Death is 102 lines in 5 stanzas. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 89%).
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 -----------------------------------------------AA-- fallen · reached · robes · suhráb · sword · form · cry · coiled · fingers · face · dust · arms · herself · thou · art · road · suhráb · already · father · again · come · sword · thine · not · blade · boy · nights · sheet · form · now · grief · place · misery · lustre · garden · soughtest · grave · despair · miserable · dagger · thou · thee · him · sire · words · are · sighing · beA · meA · us · side
- 2 --------------------------A--A----- hair · palms · hail · lamentations · swoon · ground · ice · afresh · tears · throne · tree · charger · days · amazement · fell · robe · son · bow · mace · buckler · lasso · her · exclaimed · docked · poor · steeds · throneA · ground · dust · desolationA · battle · blood · tears · joined · son
- 3 -AA- bahrám · careA · prepareA · not
- 4 A--ABBCDCD theeA · lot · mystery · keyA · knowB · throwB · departC · allD · heartC · smallD
- 5 AA turnA · concernA
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| A cry rose from Túrán: "Suhráb hath fallen | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| Upon the battlefield!" The tidings reached | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| The king of Samangán, who rent his robes, | 10 | ·········· |
| The tidings reached Tahmína: "Brave Suhráb | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Hath perished, stricken by his father's sword!" | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| She seized her robe and rent it, and her form— | 10 | ·········· |
| That goodly gem—shone forth. She raised a cry | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Of wail and woe, and swooned at whiles. She coiled | 10 | ·········· |
| Her hair like twisted lassos round her fingers | 11 | ···/˘/˘··/˘ |
| And plucked it out. The blood ran down her face. | 10 | ·········· |
| At times she sank fordone. She strewed dark dust | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| Upon her head, gnawed pieces from her arms, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Flung fire upon her head and scorched herself, | 10 | ·/······˘/ |
| And burned her musky tresses. "Where art thou," | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| She cried, "who wast thy mother's soul, but art | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Now only dust and blood? I scanned the road, | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| I said: 'I may have tidings of Suhráb | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| And Rustam.' Then I mused and said: 'Already | 11 | ········˘/˘ |
| Hast thou been round the world to find thy father, | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| Hast found him, and art speeding home again.' | 10 | ·····/˘·˘/ |
| How could I know, my son! that news would come | 10 | ·········· |
| That he had pierced thy liver with his sword? | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| He had no pity for that face of thine, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Thy stature, mien, and arms, he pitied not | 10 | ·/˘····/·· |
| Thy girdlestead but clave it with his blade. | 10 | ·/˘˘······ |
| I used to nurse the body of my boy | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Through days of brightness and through weary nights, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| And now 'tis drowned in blood! A winding-sheet | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Is all the cover of his stainless form. | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Whom shall I clasp upon my bosom now? | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Who is there that will rid me of my grief? | 10 | ·········· |
| Whom shall I call upon to take thy place? | 10 | ·········· |
| To whom impart my pain and misery? | 10 | ··˘/···/˘˘ |
| Woe for his soul and body, eye and lustre, | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| That dwell in dust instead of hall and garden! | 11 | ····˘/···/˘ |
| O warrior, shelter of the host! thou soughtest | 11 | ·/˘/˘····/˘ |
| Thy sire and in his place hast found thy grave. | 10 | ·/········ |
| Hope turned in thee to dolorous despair, | 10 | ·····/˘˘˘/ |
| And now thou sleepest scorned and miserable | 11 | ···/˘··/˘˘˘ |
| Amid the dust. Before he drew his dagger | 11 | ˘/·······/˘ |
| And gashed thy silvern side why didst not thou | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Show him the token that thy mother gave thee? | 11 | ···/˘··/˘·· |
| Why didst thou not declare thyself to him? | 10 | ····˘/˘/·· |
| Thy mother told thee how to know thy sire: | 11 | ·/˘······/˘ |
| How was it that thou didst not trust her words? | 10 | ·········· |
| Without thee she is as the captives are— | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| All travail, anguish, misery, and sighing. | 11 | ·˘//˘/˘˘·/˘ |
| Why went I not with thee that wast to be | 10 | ·········· |
| The warriors' cynosure? He would have known me | 11 | ·/˘/˘˘····· |
| Though far away and welcomed both of us, | 10 | ··˘/·/˘··· |
| Cast down his sword and never pierced thy side." | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| This said she tore herself, plucked out her hair, | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| And smote her lovely visage with her palms. | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| She filled the eyes of all the folk with hail, | 10 | ·········· |
| So grievous were her moans and lamentations. | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| At length while all hearts ached she fell a-swoon, | 10 | ·········· |
| Fell as one falleth dead upon the ground, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| And thou hadst said: "Her blood is turned to ice." | 10 | ·········· |
| She roused, thought of her son, and wailed afresh, | 10 | ········˘/ |
| Her very heart's blood crimsoning her tears. | 10 | ·/˘··/˘˘·· |
| She fetched his crown, wept o'er it and his throne, | 10 | ·········· |
| Exclaiming in her grief: "O royal Tree!" | 10 | ˘/˘····/˘· |
| She brought his wind-foot charger forth, that charger | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| Which he had prized so in his happy days, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| And clasped and kissed its head, to folk's amazement, | 11 | ········˘/˘ |
| And nuzzled on its hoofs, while her blood fell | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| And reddened all the ground. She took his robe | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| And clasped it to her body like her son, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| She fetched his jerkin, coat of mail, and bow, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| His spear, his falchion, and his massive mace. | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| She fetched his saddle with the reins and buckler, | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| And dashed her head thereon. She fetched his lasso, | 11 | ····˘/···/˘ |
| And flung its eighty cubits out before her. | 11 | ···/˘/˘···· |
| She fetched his helm and breastplate, and exclaimed:— | 10 | ·····/··˘/ |
| "O warrior-lion!" drew his sword and docked | 10 | ·/˘˘/····· |
| His charger's mane and tail. She gave the poor | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| His goods—the silver, gold, and harnessed steeds. | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| She locked the palace, rooted up the throne, | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Then brought it down and dashed it to the ground. | 10 | ·········· |
| She blacked the chambers' doors, sent up the dust | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| From porch and palace, gave to desolation | 11 | ···/˘···˘/˘ |
| The banquet-hall that he had left for battle, | 11 | ·/˘······/˘ |
| Assumed the weeds of woe all stained with blood, | 10 | ˘/········ |
| By day and night lamented him with tears, | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| Died broken-hearted in a year, and joined | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| Her warrior-son. | 5 | ·/˘˘· |
| Said eloquent Bahrám:— | 6 | ·/˘˘·· |
| "Dote not upon the dead; thy proper care | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Is for thine own departure to prepare, | 10 | ····˘/˘·˘/ |
| Since here thou canst not stay. So dally not. | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Thy father once gave up his place to thee, | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| And thou must give up thine. Such is our lot, | 10 | ········/· |
| And 'tis a secret still, a mystery, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘˘ |
| Nor wilt thou with thy dazed mind find a key. | 10 | ·········· |
| To open that closed door may no man know. | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Endeavour not therefor, else wilt thou throw | 10 | ˘/˘·˘/···· |
| Life to the winds. Our summons to depart | 10 | ····//˘·˘/ |
| Is from the God and Master of us all; | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Then on this Wayside Inn set not thy heart; | 10 | ···/······ |
| The profit of such sojourn is but small." | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Now from this history my face I turn: | 10 | ···/˘˘···· |
| The tale of Siyáwush is my concern. | 9 | ·······˘/ |
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