Now the monarch must surrender
All his golden state,
Yet the mockeries of splendour
On the pageant wait
That attends him to the tomb.
Music on the air is swelling,
’Tis the funeral song,
As to his ancestral dwelling,
Is he borne along.
They must share life’s common doom,
The kings of fair Golconda,
Golconda’s ancient kings.
What are now the chiefs that gather?
What their diamond mines?
What the heron’s snowy feather
On their crest that shines?
What their valleys of the rose?
For another is their glory,
And their state, and gold;
They are a forgotten story,
Faint and feebly told—
Breaking not the still repose
Of the kings of fair Golconda,
Of Golconda’s ancient kings.
Glorious is their place of sleeping,
Gold with azure wrought,
And embroidered silk is sweeping,
Silk from Persia brought,
Round the carved marble walls.*
Not the less the night-owl’s pinion
Stirs the dusky air,
Not the less is the dominion
Of the earth-worm there.
Not less deep the shadow falls
O’er the kings of fair Golconda,
O’er Golconda's ancient kings.
13
