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The luxury of grief seems common to mankind all the world over, and the mourning of the Mohurrum finds its counterpart in the old lamentation for the slain Adonis, the emotional tale of Sohrab's death at the hand of his sire Rustom, and the long-drawn sorrow of the Christian Passion.
And he spake words of pride, and called forth the Shah to do battle with him, and he sware with a loud voice that the blood of Zindeh should be avenged. Now when Sohrab's voice had run throughout the camp, confusion spread within its borders, and none of those who stood about the throne would accept his challenge for the Shah.
Rustem, oppressed by Gíw's desponding thought, Amidst his Chiefs the mournful Monarch sought; To him he told Sohráb's tremendous sway, The dire misfortunes of this luckless day; Told with what grasping force he tried, in vain, To hurl the wondrous stripling to the plain: "The whispering zephyr might as well aspire To shake a mountain such his strength and fire.
"Ah!" rejoined Rustem, "can that be true?" upon which Sháh-rú showed him Sohráb's brilliant finger-ring and he was satisfied.
Wherefore should fear in Rustem's breast have birth, Káús, to me, a worthless clod of earth! Go, and thyself Sohráb's invasion stay, Go, seize the plunderers growling o'er their prey! Wherefore to others give the base command? Go, break him on the tree with thine own hand. Know, thou hast roused a warrior, great and free, Who never bends to tyrant Kings like thee!
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