37
"The Persian Satrap, and the Tartar Khan
"The temples of your gods shall overthrow,
"And all the hundred thrones of Hindostan
"Before the west's pale warriors shall bow,
"Crouching where'er the banners of the brave
"The silver crescent, and the red cross wave!"
Her song has ceased—but that bright eye
Still with prophetic frenzy glares,
And struggling with her agony
Dries with its fires the springing tears.
She waves away the Bramin band
And mounts the funeral pile alone;
And the Mussaul's enkindling brand
Is on the heaped-up fagots thrown—
One long wild shriek, amid the crash
Of gongs and drums and cymbals, drowned—
One burst of flame, a ruddy flash
Gilding the green hill's distant mound—
