Page:The Bengali Book of English Verse.djvu/100

And helmets cleft, and canvas torn,
Proclaim the fighting done;
And neighing steeds, and bloody spears,
Announce the battle won.

Alas! the vision mocks my sight;
I see no gallant throng,
No trophies meet my longing eyes;
Bid cease the joyous song.

That recreant slave is not my lord;
Ne'er thus the brave return;
Go, bid the city-gates be barr'd,
And leave me lone to mourn.

I know him not, I never knew
A low, ignoble love;
My warrior sleeps upon the moor,
His soul hath soar'd above.

Upon the battle-field he lies,
His garments stain'd with gore;
With sword in hand prepared he sleeps
To fight the battle o'er.

His shiver'd shield, his broken spear,
Around him scatter'd lie;
The iron-breasted Moslems shook
To see my hero die.

Where helmets rang, where sabres smote,
He found his gory bed;
Join, mourners, join, and loudly raise
The requiem of the dead.

Expel yon vile impostor hence;
I will not trust his tale;
Our warriors on the crimson field
Their chieftain's loss bewail.