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Updated: May 7, 2025
Afrásiyáb now hears with ardent joy, The bold ambition of the warrior-boy, Of him who, perfumed with the milky breath Of infancy, was threatening war and death, And bursting sudden from his mother's side, Had launched his bark upon the perilous tide.
"I boast no station of exalted birth, No proud pretensions to distinguished worth; To him inferior, no such powers are mine, No offspring I of Nírum's glorious line!" The prompt denial dampt his filial joy, All hope at once forsook the Warrior-boy, His opening day of pleasure, and the bloom Of cherished life, immersed in shadowy gloom.
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