Mark where the nut-wreathed castors grow,
Or spreads the vagrant indigo,
Those rich productions of the soil,
Which yield their wealth with little toil.
But to my tale—with gentle hand
Nour Juffeir Khan the district swayed,
And plenty smiled upon the land
Which the mild Omrah's rule obeyed.
From fierce ambition's paths afar
No cares disturbed the hill-crowned fort,
And only waged in mimic war,
Or flung in some adventurous sport,
'Gainst sylvan enemies alone
The sharp and well-aimed spears were thrown.
And truly 'twas a gallant sight
When issued forth the hunter's train,
Urging their coursers' rapid flight,
Or wheeling round the rugged plain,
Or speeding to the lovely haunts
The nyl ghau loves mid bushy dells,
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